“You’d better not, if you want hot sex tonight.”
“This is my mouth closing,” Stone said, making a zipping motion.
Holly tossed off her martini and popped the last olive into her mouth. “I’m hungry,” she said, “and you have to feed me more than olives.”
“Where are we dining?” Stone asked.
“At an old D.C. favorite,” she replied. “Maison Blanche, next door to the White House, where the old guard goes, and some of the new guard, too. You’ll see movers and shakers.”
Stone drained his glass. “One more of these and I’ll be unable to either move or shake. I hope you’re driving.”
“We’re being driven,” she said, “courtesy of the Agency. There’s a little flap on, and we’re battening a few hatches, just in case, and mine is one of the hatches.”
“I place myself entirely in your hands,” Stone said, “except that I’m still buying dinner.”
“You talked me into it,” she said, heading for the door.
They took the elevator to the lobby and walked out to the portico, where the usual black SUV awaited.
“I’m going to ham guarve to g
ive you a leg up,” Stone said, “what with the tight dress.”
“I’ll manage,” she said, “and remember, don’t talk shop in front of the driver—not your shop or mine.”
“Didn’t I already shut up?” Stone asked, opening the door for her.
17
THE RESTAURANT WAS NOT SMALL, BUT INTIMATE NONETHELESS. They were seated at a banquette, back-to-back with another. “I’m surprised that the place is so full at this early hour,” Stone said.
“Washington, like L.A., is an early town, because everybody goes to work at the break of dawn,” Holly said.
Stone ordered a second drink for them, and they relaxed. He was vaguely aware of some people being seated behind them, but his attention was on Holly. “I like you with your hair up,” he said. “You have a lovely neck.” He leaned over and kissed it.
“Careful,” she said, “you’ll attract attention.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot we were being discreet. I guess that rules out what I was going to do with my hand.”
“Do it later,” she said. “Look across the room: see the man squeezed into the booth with that distinguished-looking couple? His name is Lyle ‘Scooter’ Hardin. He’s a social columnist, has a blog. He’ll work the room, then move on to Georgetown, and everyone will see their name online tomorrow morning.”
As Stone watched, the man left the booth and crossed the room, headed directly for them.
“Watch yourself,” Holly said, smiling at Stone.
Then the man was hovering over their table. “Good evening, folks,” he said.
“Good evenin’,” Holly replied, affecting an accent slightly more southern than her own.
“You’re at the Agency, aren’t you?” he asked Holly.
She looked blankly at him. “Which agency is that? There’s lots of them, aren’t there.”
“Oh, come on, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve seen you around.”
“Have you spent much time in Atlanta lately?” Stone asked. “That’s where we’re from.”
“Yeah, sure,” Hardin said. “May I have your names for my column?”