Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“Palm Beach’s most desirable club, or the snottiest, depending on your point of view.”

“And what is your point of view?”

“It’s the snottiest. Not only are Jews not allowed as members, they can’t even visit as guests, and I’m half-Jewish.”

“I didn’t know that sort of thing still existed in this country.”

“You’ve led a sheltered life,” she said. She turned left and began driving through a series of quiet streets lined with large houses and sheltered by tropical vegetation.

“This is beautiful,” he said.

“Certainly is. The most desirable houses are either on the beach or on the Inland Waterway, which in Palm Beach is called Lake Worth. Thad’s place is on Lake Worth. It’s more sheltered for the boat.” Shortly, she turned the Jaguar through a large gate into a circular drive and stopped before a palazzo that seemed to have been airlifted from Venice. “Here we are. Leave the luggage. Somebody will get it.”

Stone followed her to the huge double front doors. She pushed and a door swung back to reveal a central hallway that ran straight through the house. The hall was a gallery, hung with large oils. Stone recognized a Turner.

“Oh, good,” she said. “They’ve finished redoing the hall.” She led Stone out the back door and into gorgeously planted gardens.

Stone looked back. “You’d never know the house was under construction,” he said.

“The outside is all finished, now, so all the equipment and tools are inside.” They passed through the gardens and onto a broad lawn, beyond which Lake Worth gleamed in the sunlight.

Blocking most of the view, however, was a very large, very beautiful old yacht.

“That’s Toscana,” Callie said.

“She’s glorious.”

“She was built in Italy in the thirties. Thad spent two years both restoring her to her original condition and almost invisibly modernizing every system on board.”

“How big is she?”

“Two hundred and twenty-two feet, but with only seven cabins, so everyone aboard can be comfortable. Thad gives me the smallest one, but that’s bigger than the big cabins on lesser yachts.”

A small Hispanic young man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt and shorts came down the gangplank to meet them.

“Stone, this is Juanito, Toscana’s chief steward. Juanito, this is Mr. Barrington.”

“Welc

ome aboard,” Juanito said. “Mr. Barrington is in cabin number two. Mr. Thad phoned to say he was coming.”

“I’ll show him aboard,” Callie said. “Our luggage is in the Jag.”

Juanito found a handcart and ran off toward the house.

Stone followed Callie into the main saloon, and it was as if they had stepped into a much earlier decade. “My God,” he said, “it might have been launched yesterday.”

“Yes, Thad did a really good job on the restoration. Come on, I’ll show you to your cabin. Thad has given you the best one, after the master stateroom.” She led the way down a central passage off the saloon and opened a heavy mahogany door on the starboard side. “Here you are.”

Stone stepped into a cabin paneled in mahogany, with white painted trim. There was a carved marble fireplace on one side of the room, with a sofa and a pair of chairs facing it, and behind them, a large bed with a canopy, trimmed in nautical-looking fabric. Out the large porthole was a view of the water. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Your bath is in here,” Callie said, switching on a light.

More marble, with a large tub and a separate shower stall. “I’ve never seen anything like this vessel,” Stone said, “although I once sank a yacht nearly as large.”

“Run her on the rocks?”

“No, I was just angry with her owner.”