Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“That would be great.”

“Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“No, I’m on the Upper East Side—Eighty-first and Lexington Avenue. Where are you staying?”

“At the Carlyle—Seventy-sixth and Madison. What’s your favorite restaurant, Ginger?”

“Oh, I guess Orsay, at Seventy-fifth and Lex, just down from my building.”

“Will you have dinner with me there tonight?” Brett pulled out a small cell phone. “I’ll bet we can get a table if we go early.”

“Well, sure, I’d like that.”

Brett called the restaurant and secured a table. “Finish your drink, and we’re off,” she said.

At Orsay, they had another drink, then ate a three-course dinner and shared an expensive bottle of French wine. They kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about Ginger’s family and background and the sort of work she was doing.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Ginger said, but we’re representing a woman who is demanding two million dollars a year in alimony, and half a million in child support, plus five million for an apartment on Fifth Avenue. And she wants a limousine and security guards.”

“No doubt to protect her from her husband,” Brett said, laughing. She waved at a waiter for the check.

“Why don’t we share this?” Ginger asked, reaching for her briefcase.

“Oh, no, this one is on me—or my gallery,” Brett said. “You’re . . . Let’s see, you’re representing a client who has a very nice Magritte for sale.”

“Oh, all right, but can I give you a nightcap at my place?”

“You bet,” Brett said, handing the waiter one of Florence Tyler’s credit cards.

Ginger lived in a ground-floor rear apartment in a town house, with a little garden out back.

“It’s lovely,” Brett said, when Ginger switched on the garden lights.

“It’s just a year’s sublet,” Ginger said. “It belongs to a friend of the family who’s in Europe.”

“What’s that low, shed-like thing?” Brett asked, pointing.

“Oh, that’s a hotbox. It’s like a tiny greenhouse, where you can get things growing early in the season, then plant them when it gets warm enough. At least, that’s what I saw on Martha Stewart. I’m not really a gardener.”

“Me either,” Brett said, stroking Ginger’s cheek with the back of her fingers. She kissed the woman lightly, and got a warm reception. A moment later, they were working on each other’s buttons.

When they reached the bedroom, Brett lay back and let Ginger have her way with her. Brett wasn’t a lesbian, strictly speaking, but she liked this. When she had had a couple of orgasms, she rolled Ginger onto her stomach. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. She reached down and picked up a Hermès scarf where Ginger had dropped it on the floor, and quickly bound Ginger’s hands behind her.

“I’ve never done it like this,” Ginger said.

“You just leave everything to me, sweetheart,” Brett replied. She rolled the girl over on her back. “Now the feet,” she said, grabbing a belt from the pile of clothing beside the bed.

“What are you going to do to me?” Ginger asked, half anxiously, half eagerly.

Brett picked up a pad and a pencil from the bedside table. “Well, first, I’m going to need your office number.”

“What?”

“Your office number, and I’ll bet you have one of those voice mail systems. I’m going to want your boss’s extension number, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Ginger said.

Brett placed a pillow over her face and pinched her hard in a tender place. When the scream was over, she removed the pillow. “Ginger, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”