The Short Forever (Stone Barrington 8)

Arrington Carter Calder saw him almost at the same moment and held his gaze, expressionless. And just beyond her, Stone saw a short, bald, bullet-headed man he had met before.

36

THEN ARRINGTON SMILED WARMLY, and Stone’s knees went a little weak. He experienced a series of vivid flashbacks: meeting her at a New York dinner party some years before, she in the company of America’s biggest movie star, Vance Calder; taking her away from Calder, making love to her in his house and hers, falling desperately in love with her; then setting off on a sailing trip to the Caribbean, planning to meet her there; her not showing up, but writing to say she’d married Calder. Then there was the child, of course, Peter; born slightly less than nine months later: Calder’s son, she said, and the tests had backed her up. Then, after Calder was dead, murdered, learning that the tests might have been rigged. She’d refused further testing. He’d seen her a few months before in Palm Beach, for a single evening, then he had been in the hospital with a bullet wound, then whisked back to New York. They had not spoken since.

Stone snapped back to the present and made his way down the steps toward her. She was tall, a little blonder than before, dressed in a long, emerald-green gown. Ravishing. To his surprise she met him halfway, embraced him warmly, and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, nearly laughing. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“I certainly am,” he replied; “what brings you to London?”

“Barbara Wellington and I were roommates at Mount Holyoke; she invited me over to see what she’s done with the residence. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it is.” But he wasn’t looking at the residence. “And you are more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Aren’t you sweet! I saw your name on the guest list this afternoon, and I jiggled the place cards around so we’re seated together.” She stopped and looked at him. “I’m alone in London.”

Stone was beginning to sweat a little, and he was grateful when a waiter showed up with a tray of champagne flutes. He took one and replaced hers with a full one. “I’ll look forward to catching up,” he said.

Then he remembered the other face he had recognized and looked for it. Gone. Lost in the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Arrington asked.

“I thought I saw a familiar face, but no more.”

She took his arm and led him across the room and out some French doors to a garden. “And what brings you to London?”

“A client asked me to come over and look into something for him.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is.”

“It’s always mysterious when you’re involved, Stone. Tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe when it’s over.”

“Oh.”

“How is Peter?”

“Growing,” she said. “You must come and see him sometime.”

“I’d like that very much,” he said. “Where are you spending most of your time?”

“I’ve been dividing it between LA and Mother’s house in Virginia. Peter is there for the summer with her, while I’ve been apartment hunting.”

“In London?”

“In New York.”

Stone began to sweat again and sipped the cold champagne. From inside the house a chime was being struck repeatedly.

“Sounds like dinner,” Arrington said. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do.” The thought of Arrington living in New York again thrilled and frightened him. Immediately, his life seemed in turmoil.

They sat at round tables for ten, and there were at least twenty of them. Arrington knew some of the other guests, having “jiggled the place cards,” and she chatted animatedly with them all, leaving Stone with a thousand questions and no opportunity to ask any of them. Dinner was good, for banquet food, and when dessert came, Stone excused himself and went to look for a men’s room. A staffer showed him the way, and he went inside and stepped up to a urinal. A moment later, the door opened and someone walked behind Stone and around the room, then stepped up to the neighboring urinal.