His jaw dropped, and he was unable to say anything. Dolce Bianchi stood there, smiling at him.
“Did you enjoy your massage, sir?” she asked.
“I…I…”
“Oh, I believe you did,” she said. “I’d like a drink; may I fix you something?”
“In the kitchenette,” he said. “Whatever you’re having.”
She walked back into the living room as he tried to get his brain in gear, and he followed her. She returned with half a bottle of champagne and two flutes.
“Sit down and relax,” she said, setting down the glasses and drawing the cork from the bottle. “You shouldn’t exert yourself too soon after a massage.”
Stone sat down, and she handed him a flute of champagne. “How did you…?”
“I got your message, and I came right over,” she said. “I didn’t bother with the desk, just came right up, and when the masseuse came to the door, a couple of hundred persuaded her to leave early.”
He was recovering, now, and he raised his glass. “To unexpected pleasures,” he said.
She laughed. “Those are the best kinds.” She sipped the champagne.
“You are certainly full of surprises,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Oh, I am,” she agreed. “You must always remember that about me. I’m very forward, too. I don’t hesitate when I want something.”
“I don’t have any trouble believing that,” he said. “But how did you know I wouldn’t jump up from the table, shocked?”
“I’m psychic about these things,” she said.
“I’m a little psychic, myself,” he said. “Would you like a reading?”
“Why not?”
He set down their glasses, then took both her hands and held them palm up, gazing at the lines. “I can see that you have very talented hands,” he said.
She laughed aloud. “That’s not very psychic,” she said.
“You were foolish when you were young, but you’re smarter, now.”
“Dino told you about my marriage, no doubt.”
“I see that you do useful work,” he said. “That you are a giving person. That you give in your work.”
She looked at him oddly. “Go on.”
“Your work is somehow connected with the arts,” he said. “But you are not an artist, exactly. No, but you help an artist—more than one, I see. Money is involved, to allow them to do their work.”
Her black eyes narrowed; she seemed puzzled. “Dino couldn’t have told you that,” she said.
“There are paintings, many paintings; they are displayed in different settings—museums, perhaps. And there is a connection with television, perhaps art on television.”
She tried to pull her hands away, but he held on to them. “I get an impression of thorns,” he said. “A name that has something to do with thorns or briars.”
She snatched her hands away. “Stop it, this is spooky.”
Stone shrugged. “Merely a gift. Nothing to be superstitious about.”
“How did you know all that?”