The Rich Shall Inherit (22 page)

“Claudia Galli?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Orlando?” she said, her bright blue eyes lighting up interestedly. My God, he was a hunk! What had Bibi laid on her tonight! She certainly owed her a favor for this one … “I apologize for being so late,” she said in her husky drawl, “but maybe Bibi told you it’s my failing. I simply have no conception of time.”

“Not at all,” Orlando replied courteously. It was nine twenty-five and he was so relieved she was here that he discounted the anxious minutes spent nursing his drink, wondering if she was coming.

“I always love the Ritz bar,” she said, snuggling into a chair and letting her fur fall from her shoulders becomingly. “It’s a sort of home from home.”

Orlando smiled. “And where is your real home, Claudia?” he asked, signaling the waiter.

“My real home?” She heaved a sigh. “There have been so many, too many to think about… it’s depressing. But I suppose the Villa Velata is ‘home’—at least it’s where I was born and I own it, along with my brother. Not that I’ve any great love for it. And, of course, I also have my apartment on the rue des Arbers. And you, Orlando?”

“Madame?” the waiter asked.

“Oh, a champagne cocktail, please,” she ordered.

“And m’sieur?”

“Make that two,” he said. “There’s a house in the country where I spent most of my childhood. It’s mine, now my father’s dead, but I rarely go there. I have a small apartment in London—a studio, where I do my work.”

“But you’re an
artist?
How fascinating. What sort of an artist are you, Orlando?”

“Oh, right now, portraits, landscapes.” He shrugged modestly. “A bit of everything really. But next year I plan to specialize more.”

“Portraits,” Claudia breathed excitedly. “How
interesting.
I’ve always meant to have my portrait painted, before it’s too late.” “Too late?” he asked with a smile.

“A woman must be painted
before
she has her face lifted,” she told him seriously. “Afterward she’ll have lost that youthful flexibility of expression. She’ll be stiff and … unlined … without character. Not that we need
too much
character—no ugly lines or crow’s feet, but enough for the real person to shine through.”

Their drinks arrived and he picked up his glass. “To you, Claudia,” he said, “and your character shines through beautifully, without the need of any lines—or any face-lifts.”

She smiled as she raised her glass. “To a very happy chance meeting, Orlando,” she murmured.

Dinner at Jamin, where Claudia had thoughtfully managed to secure a table, was exquisite and expensive. As he paid the bill Orlando thought that it was the price of one of his small paintings, but he didn’t regret it. Claudia was a bonus; she was beautiful, she was charming, she was sexy as hell, and she was a talker. Words spilled from her pretty, pouting lips as easily as breathing, and among the gossip and the chitchat were small nuggets of information. She had already hinted twice about the fact that she expected to be very rich, very shortly, without his
even mentioning Poppy Mallory; and now he was biding his time.

“Would you like to go dancing?” she asked, snuggling her fur collar prettily under her chin and gazing into his eyes as they waited outside for a taxi. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to come back to my place … for a nightcap?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I’d like that, Claudia.”

“It’s just a small apartment,” she said as the cab dropped them on the rue des Arbres, “a pied-à-terre … as I said, I live in so many places, I’m always on the move. But this is where I keep my clothes!”

The curtains were drawn, shutting out the view of the garbage cans, and the apartment looked cozy and elegantly cluttered with a hundred expensive knickknacks and soft-shaded lamps.

“Brandy, darling?” she drawled, tossing her fur over a chair. Pouring two glasses she sat beside him on the sofa. “Of course, when I get my inheritance,” she said, gazing at him dreamily, “I shall buy a bigger place, just so I can have more closets for my things. Personally I take up very little space, but it’s my possessions that need a larger home.” She laughed. “Pierluigi will be furious, of course, he hates it when I spend money. But he’s so rich anyway, sometimes I tell him he’s just a miser. He gets so terribly angry with me, Orlando.” She gazed at him with perplexed blue eyes. “Can you understand that?”

“No,” he said, reaching over and smoothing out the frown between her brows with his finger. “I can’t imagine anyone getting angry with you, Claudia. But will he inherit the money, too, then?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “He will. It’s a strange story … you may have seen the advertisement in the newspapers. ‘Search for the missing heiress … Poppy Mallory …’? Well, that’s me—and Pierluigi. We are twins, you see, and our father was Poppy Mallory’s son.”

“Your father was Poppy Mallory’s son!”

She laughed at his shocked expression. “I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it? But it’s true, you know. Papa’s real name was Aleksandr Rinardi—the Barone Aleksandr Rinardi, only he hated the Rinardis so much that he dropped the name and the title. My grandmother wasn’t his real mother—Poppy was. And so of course Grandmother’s husband always hated him because he wasn’t his own son. It’s all so logical when you think it out … that’s why Aleksandr was alienated from the rest of the family and was
always a loner. The real mystery is why Poppy never came back for him.”

“I suppose you must have evidence to back up your story,” Orlando asked casually, sipping his brandy.

“Oh, I think there’s enough evidence to be found at the Villa Velata and the Villa d’Oro to confirm it all,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “There’s no doubt the money is ours.” She laughed huskily. “And this time I’m not going to let Pierluigi get his hands on any of my share. I intend to go on one, long, glorious spending spree!”

“How much is the estate, then?” he asked curiously.

“Millions,” she said dreamily, “hundreds of millions, Orlando. Can you just imagine it?” Leaning forward, she kissed him lightly on the mouth. “When I’m rich,” she said, smiling, “I’ll commission you to paint my portrait. As an odalisque, an exotic nude.”

“I see you as a Goya,” he murmured, putting his hand under her chin and tilting her face to the light, “cream and chocolate and blue … you’re a very beautiful woman, Claudia.”

“And soon to be a very rich one,” she murmured, smiling as he kissed her.

Claudia was one of those rare women who are more beautiful unclothed than clothed, and Orlando’s artistic eye appreciated every delicious curve, as much as his body appreciated her lustful enjoyment of their lovemaking. It was a long, languorous night and he almost regretted when morning came and he had to leave.

“Shall we meet again?” Claudia asked drowsily as he dressed quickly and kissed her good-bye.

“Of course we shall,” he assured her, “do you think now I’ve found you, I’m going to let you go?”

She smiled impishly. “As long as it’s not my money you’re after.”

“No, Claudia,” he replied, kissing her again, “it’s not your money. I’ll be back in Paris next week. I’ll call you.”

“I may go to Italy, to the Villa Velata,” she said. “I’ll leave a message on the answering machine for you.”

“Promise?” he asked, straightening his tie.

“I promise.” She smiled. “See you soon, Orlando.”

Mike read the postcard Lauren had sent him for the fifth time. The picture was one of Hockney’s swimming pools, aquamarine and white and filled with ripples of golden sunshine. On the back she had written, …
My mother always said it was polite to write and say thank you, but anyway, I really wanted to. It was really nice meeting you. Good luck on your trip to Europe, and I hope you find the missing heiress.
She’d signed it
Love, Lauren
, and for some silly reason Mike found himself touched.

Picking up the telephone, he dialed her number. It rang and rang but no one answered, and disconnecting, he dialed Madison, Wisconsin. This time the phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, Aunt Martha,” he called, “how’re things?”

“About the same, Michael, though no doubt you’d be able to see that for yourself if you ever managed to get off that social merry-go-round you’re on and come home.”

Her tone was sharp and he grinned; Aunt Martha always got that off her chest first, and then—like now—she’d go on to tell him the faults of the new preacher at the church, and about Joanna Handspacher’s outrageous new hat, and that Mary Griffith’s daughter had just made her a grandmother for the third time—and so when was he going to find himself some nice respectable woman and make her a great-aunt? Then at least she’d have something to boast about at the next Ladies’ Lunch Circle, instead of everybody always asking her to get his autograph. In her opinion, autographs were ridiculous and why anybody should want his, she didn’t know …

“Come on now, Aunt Martha,” he protested, laughing, “you know you’re proud of me.”

“Proud? Of course I’m proud … what’s that got to do with your getting married? Everyone keeps reminding me you’re thirty-seven years old now—as if I need reminding!”

He could just imagine her smiling as she talked to him; her short dark hair would be smooth and softly curled, the silvery wings at her temples proudly displayed—though she was even prouder that the color was real. Most of her friends were already completely gray, or, as she’d said caustically, were wasting their money at the beauty parlor tinting it some ridiculous blue color. “Age is a state of mind,” she’d always told Mike, “it’s got nothing to do with the way you look.” He remembered that now, thinking of Lauren.

“What’s on the stove, Aunt Martha?” he interrupted her. “It sure smells good.”

She laughed, a robust, jolly sound that always made those around her join in. “Silly boy,” she said indulgently, “as a matter of fact it’s your favorite—pot roast.”

“Aunt Martha, I haven’t had pot roast in years, be sure to make it next time I’m home, okay?”

“I miss you,” she said quietly. “When will that be?”

Mike sighed. “Sorry, sweetheart, it’ll be a while yet. I’ve got to fly to New York this afternoon and from there to London and Geneva, and then Venice. It’s business.”

“Hummph, some business, all those wonderful cities. It must be a new book then?”

He explained, “It’s a strange story and I’m just getting to grips with it—or at least the beginning of it. I’m on the trail of the missing heir, or heiress, to a mysterious fortune.”

“What’s so mysterious about a fortune?” she demanded. “It’s either a fortune—or it’s not.”

“It’s the story of how she made the fortune that’s still a mystery,” he said, laughing. “I’m going to Europe to try and track it down.”

“Well, good luck then, son. Come and see me when you get back, will you?”

Mike hesitated. “Aunt Martha?”

“Yes? What is it, Michael? I can see Millie Hutchins coming up the path; she’s coming for supper … never mind, the door’s open, she’ll let herself in.”

“Aunt Martha, I’ve met this girl … here in L.A.” There was silence at the other end of the phone and he hurried on quickly.
“I mean, I scarcely know her, I’ve only met her once, but, well … there’s something about her …”

“Well, thank the Lord for that,” she said, laughing, “bring her home with you when you come.”

He grinned in relief; he didn’t know why he’d told her but somehow he felt better for putting what he felt into words. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said cheerfully as she hung up.

Still smiling, he glanced at the suitcase on the bed, waiting to be packed; his plane left in two hours, he’d better hurry. His notes on Poppy Mallory’s life, composed with the help of Rosalia’s and Angel’s journals, lay on the desk and he walked across, staring down at them thoughtfully. It was funny, but he had the same feeling of tenderness for Poppy as he did for Lauren, and, God knew, both were deserving of compassion.

1886, CALIFORNIA

Nik studied the little red-haired girl browsing along the counter in Mrs. Price’s Candy Store, biting her lip in concentration, contemplating the shiny glass jars of aniseed balls and gobstoppers. There was no mistaking she was Jeb’s daughter, she looked exactly like him.

“Two twists of licorice, please, and one gobstopper,” the child decided, holding out her two cents anxiously.

“You’re short one cent, little girl,” Mrs. Price replied kindly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to choose again.”

“Allow me.” Nik placed the extra cent on the counter and Poppy glanced up at him in surprise.

“But how can I pay you back?” she asked doubtfully. “I don’t know you.”

“But I know you—and I knew your mother,” Nik replied, smiling. “It’s Poppy, isn’t it?”

She smiled back at him.
“How
did you know?”

“You
look exactly like …” Nik hesitated; he didn’t want to mention Jeb. “You have your mother’s red hair,” he said finally.

“Do I really?” Her eyes were round with pleased astonishment. “No one ever told me my mother had red hair!” Nik frowned, surprised by what she had said, as Poppy licked her gobstopper. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m Nik Konstant.”

She burst into peals of laughter. “But I’ve got a rocking horse called Nik. Papa named him that because he had a friend who—” She clapped a hand over her mouth suddenly; after all, she couldn’t tell him he was a horse’s ass, could she? “Oh, well,
he’s a beautiful horse,” she added lamely, “and I love him. He’s in San Francisco, though.” She hung over the counter companionably, watching while Nik made several purchases and Mrs. Price wrapped them in a paper bag. “Who’s the candy for?” she asked, licking her sticky fingers with a pointed pink tongue.

“It’s a present for my daughter, Angel.”

“Angel!” She frowned. “What a funny name. How old is she?”

“Just your age, six.” He smiled, pocketing the candy.

“I don’t know any little girls my age,” Poppy said importantly. “I just know grown-up ladies.”

Nik sighed. “Well, there are lots of little girls in Santa Barbara, maybe you’ll meet some.”

“Maybe I’ll get to meet Angel,” Poppy said hopefully, and then her face fell. “But I know I won’t. There are no children at the Arlington Hotel and I don’t expect there’ll be any at the Mallory House. Anyway, Papa says he’s going to buy me a real pony of my very own.”