“I’ll make it worth your while.” Stone didn’t know if anyone was watching Carla or him, but he wouldn’t put it past Harlan Deal, not to mention Bill Eggers. He got out at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance, checked Carla’s card for the room number and took the elevator to a high floor.
The door was cracked, held just open by the plastic DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the doorknob. He pushed it open and entered, finding himself in a nicely furnished living room with a spectacular southern view of the city. “Hello?” he called.
“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” she called back. “Fix us both a cognac.”
Stone went to the wet bar/kitchenette and found glasses and a bottle of Rémy Martin, then went back into the living room and set them on the coffee table. She came out of the bedroom wearing a flowing silk dressing gown that looked like something out of a 1950s movie, costumes by Edith Head. He had little doubt that she had nothing on under it.
She took the brandy, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. “I wanted to do that all evening,” she said.
“So did I,” Stone said. Sadly, he remembered the conflict of interest present here. “But I am prevented from doing what I really want to do.”
“I’m glad to know you have at least some ethics, Mr. Barrington, but I believe I can relieve your conscience.”
“How would you do that?” he asked.
“It’s quite simple,” she replied. “I have no intention whatever of marrying Harlan Deal.”
“In that case,” Stone said, taking her in his arms, “I am entirely unconflicted.”
A moment later, he found he had been right about what she was not wearing under the dressing gown.
26
Stone woke up early, a little after six. Ca
rla was inert beside him, the sheet failing to cover one breast. He slipped out of bed, went into the bathroom, showered, then dressed. He debated whether to wake her, then decided not to; he would phone her later.
The morning was crisp, and he walked downtown to his house and let himself in by the office door. He left the signed prenup on Joan’s desk with a note telling her to messenger it to Eggers ASAP, then went into the kitchen, where Helene was bustling about.
“You are up very early,” she said in her Greek-accented English, “and you are dressed, which means you slept somewhere else.”
“Stop being a detective and scramble me some eggs, please, Helene.” The Times was on the kitchen counter, and he read it while Helene cooked. The headline story on the first business page was of an acquisition by Harlan Deal of an aircraft-leasing company. He wished he’d known the day before; he wasn’t above a little insider trading. Too late, now.
The acquisition and the prenup were Deal’s good news for the day, he thought. The bad would follow when Carla broke her news.
He was at his desk when Joan arrived.
“Slept somewhere else, huh?”
“Joan…”
“You’re wearing yesterday’s suit.”
“I like the suit; why can’t I wear it two days in a row?”
“Okay, stick with that story.”
“There’s something on your desk for immediate action.”
Joan left, and he heard her calling the messenger service.
Stone finished reading the Times and had started the crossword when Joan buzzed.
“Bill Eggers on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Bill.”
“How the hell did you do it?” Eggers asked. “How did you get her to sign?”