Too Damn Rich Read Free Page A

bed—to protect the
antique lace sheets and keep her hands slathered with moisturizing
lotion.
    Amazingly, last night she had gone to bed the
same Dina Goldsmith as usual—the beautiful, Dutch-born wife of
Robert A. Goldsmith, billionaire owner of GoldMart, Inc., the
second-largest chain of (loathesome to her) discount department
stores in the nation.
    But now, eight short hours later, she had
awakened a different Dina Goldsmith—the glorious wife of the new
owner (or, at least, the single-largest shareholder and chairman)
of Burghley's, Inc., the world's oldest, greatest, and undeniably
most important purveyor of world-class art, furnishings, jewelry,
postage stamps, porcelains, carpets—not to mention God only knows
what other staggering treasures.
    Burghley's! The very name galvanized,
imbued every item that passed through its venerated doors with
instant value, provenance, and prestige.
    Burghley's! Where every auction during
the late great eighties had broken one world record after
another—whether for the most expensive Picasso or van Gogh ever
sold, to the highest-priced Meissen dinner service or Ansel Adams
photograph.
    Burghley's! With its
three-hundred-year-old headquarters in Bond Street in London, its
own block-long palace right here on Madison Avenue, plus
twenty-three smaller satellite galleries scattered throughout the
world.
    Burghley's! Which ranked right up
there alongside Christie's and Sotheby's, and whose board of
directors and advisory board read like a veritable Who's Who of the
filthy rich and the titled, many of whom had, until now, looked
down their patrician noses at her, Dina Goldsmith, dismissing her
out-of-hand as the wife of a mere five-and-dime peddler!
    Well ...
    Her lips curved into a scimitar of a
steel-bladed smile. Things had certainly changed—and
overnight at that!
    Now it was time to act the part.
    "Darlene!" she screamed.
    Her flustered maid, who had been waiting
right outside her bedroom, came rushing in at once. One look at the
trembling woman, and Dina could tell that even the servants had
gotten the news.
    "Run my bath," she ordered imperiously. "And
see that the water's precisely twenty-six degrees. That's Celsius,"
she ordered.
    "Yes, ma'am!" Chin down, Darlene scuttled off
to the ensuite marble bathroom.
    "But before you do that, get a bowl of hot
water, untie my mitts, and wash this goddamn goop off my
hands!"
    "Yes, ma'am!" Darlene was back in a jiffy,
with soap, a steaming bowl of water, a box of Kleenex, and stacks
of washcloths.
    Dina held out both hands, arms extended, like
a surgeon. She waited impatiently while Darlene untied the thick
terry-cloth mittens and used Kleenex, soap, and water. When her
hands were finally clean, Dina said, " Now go run my
bath."
    "Yes, ma'am!" Darlene vanished, along with
the debris of Kleenex, water, and washcloths.
    Dina activated her bedside speakerphone—not
the one with the eight outside lines, but the intra-apartment
model. Hearing the dial tone, she stabbed one of the twenty-four
preprogrammed numbers.
    The majordomo answered on the first ring.
"Yes, madame?" His amplified voice came out hollow and
tinny-sounding.
    "Tell Cook I'll be breakfasting in exactly
one hour," she commanded. "I want hot fresh decaf. Half a cup of
plain, no-fat yogurt. And a single slice of low-cal toast. On the
light side. No butter."
    "I'll relay your instruc—"
    "Is my husband still here?" she
interrupted.
    "I regret that he—"
    She broke the connection, then immediately
reactivated the speaker and called her private secretary down the
hall.
    One ring ... two ... three ...
    "Yeah, yeah?" rasped a gravelly female
voice.
    "Gaby, have my car and driver waiting
downstairs in exactly an hour and a half. And call Burghley's. I
want the three highest ranking executives waiting at the front
entrance to give us the grand tour."
    "Guess that means I'm coming along," came the
sour reply.
    "You guess correctly."
    "I'll get on it." Gabriella Morton's voice
echoed