Read Never Too Rich for Free Online Page B

got busy snipping, crimping, teasing, and
combing.
    Anouk sat back and smiled coolly. She enjoyed the
resulting silence and his pouting discomfiture equally. As the
acknowledged queen bee of New York society, she wielded a great
deal of influence: one word from her could make or break far more
important men and women than Wilhelm St. Guillaume, and she did not
suffer fools gladly. Nor was she an enemy to be taken lightly. If
need required, she thoroughly enjoyed dragging out every
considerable weapon in her arsenal.
    Once again she idly wondered why she bothered to put
up with Wilhelm. But of course, she knew very well. What Mozart was
to music and Van Gogh was to paints, Wilhelm St. Guillaume was to
hair dye. He alone, of the legions of hairdressers she had summoned
over the years to her vast apartment, was so gifted at dye jobs
that her hair came out a pure, rich, gleaming raven black that even
in the brightest sunshine never reflected so much as the slightest
hint of telltale red or purple.
    That was why she put up with him. Because in his
field he was the absolute best there was.
    A malicious smile hovered at the corners of her
full, sensuous lips. Of course, that still didn’t make him
indispensable. No one knew better than she how stars rose and fell
daily in New York: Manhattan was a shooting-star gallery, with
destinies rising and falling constantly. Today’s “in” florist or
hairstylist could easily become yesterday’s news and be totally
forgotten. It happened all the time. And invariably, she was the
one who first discovered these little treasures, just as she would
be the first to discard them in favor of someone new. After all,
what was the use in having power if you never wielded it?
    Deep down, hidden by all the laughter and wit,
surgery and dye, Anouk de Riscal had the heart of a street fighter
and the soul of a drug pusher.
    Anouk was five feet, ten inches in her stocking feet
and her beauty was breathtaking—and timeless. Her profile was that
of a classic South American beauty, and head-on, with those
alluring eyes the color of smoky, tiger-striped topaz, and the
complexion which seemed carved from splendid honey-stained ivory,
she put many a younger beauty queen to shame. Her hair was thick,
glossy, and no matter how she wore it—in a severe chignon, or loose
and straight, or, as had become her latest rage, in a big wispy
Belle Epoque Gibson-girl style—it was invariably stuck with
scintillating antique diamond pins, one of her trademarks. And her
thin-boned, 110-pound body made her the perfect mannequin for her
husband’s extravagant creations.
    She was also perpetually thirty-nine years old, had
never celebrated birthdays, and kept even her zodiac sign a secret
worthy of the KGB. Let other women blow out candles and hanker for
gifts. She, Anouk de Riscal, had wanted only one present—ever—and
that was one which she had given herself, a girl’s real best
friend, a passport in which her age had been doctored and which
had, so far, passed scrutiny at every major border. In fact, she
had lied so proficiently and for so long about her real age that
reality had blurred around the edges and she had honestly forgotten
how old she really was.
    Anouk believed in many things—money, power, and even
the tooth fairy—but she did not believe in growing old
gracefully. She fought it every inch of the way, and saw nothing
wrong in doing everything conceivable to stay as young-looking as
possible, as long as she didn’t end up with a perpetual ear-to-ear
grin like some women she could name. Which was why, when it
came to plastic surgery, it was so important to choose the very
best surgeon available.
    Last month’s visit to the famous Dr. Ivo Pitanguy
had been her sixteenth.
    You name it—over the years, Anouk had had it.
    Rhytidectomies, the normal face lifts which included
tightening the slackening jowl and neck muscles.
    Malar implants, which helped dramatize her
cheekbones.
    Blepharoplasty, in which