“I’m going to wash my hands,” she whispered. “You relax, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

He heard her close the bathroom door. He sat up and slipped into his robe. What was going on here? He’d never experienced anything quite like this. He supposed she would expect a very generous tip, and it seemed the least he could do. He got down from the table to get his wallet; then the bathroom door opened, and she came out.

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?”

“I sensed it,” he said.

She laughed. “For a moment, you had me believing you.” She sipped her champagne again, leaned toward him, and kissed him. “I believe you are in my debt,” she said.

“I suppose I am, at that,” he replied.

“I am not accustomed to waiting to be paid; and I always insist on interest.”

“That seems only fair.”

She stood up, reached behind her, and unzipped her dress. It fell at her feet, and she stepped out of it. She was wearing no bra, only stockings and a garter belt, with panties over them. She shucked off the panties and walked toward him.

He began to get up, but she pushed him back into a sitting position and straddled him. She pulled his head forward, and her scent filled his nostrils.

“First installment,” she said huskily.

Stone paid up. For a moment, he wondered what he was getting himself into. Then he stopped worrying about it.

THE ROOM-SERVICE WAITER SET UP THE table, opened the two bottles of wine, and left. “Dinner’s ready,” Stone called toward the bathroom, where Dolce was repairing her makeup.

She came out of the bathroom, still having not dressed, and sat down at the table.

Stone tasted the wine, then poured it. “I believe,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever dined with a woman who was wearing only stockings, a garter belt, and high heels.”

She raised her glass to him. “To the first of many new experiences to come.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Stone replied, raising his glass. They began their dinner with a first course of pasta with a lobster sauce. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I’ve been told that often enough to know that it’s true. Perhaps it won’ always be, but…”

“Yes, it will,” Stone said. “When you finally get around to aging, many years from now, you will do it well.”

“Why don’t you take off the robe?” she asked. “I enjoy seeing you naked.”

“I’m afraid I’ll spill the pasta sauce,” he said. “It’s hot.”

“Coward.”

“Absolutely, where hot food and tender areas are concerned.”

“I suppose you’re right; I wouldn’t want you wounded.”

“Why do you want me any way at all?” he asked. “I’m not fishing for compliments; I’m just curious.”

“To begin with,” she said, “you are as beautiful as I am, in your way. Beautiful men are not exactly scarce, but beautiful, interesting men are. Why did you want me?”

“I didn’t know I had a choice.”

She laughed, a pleasant sound. “I suppose you didn’t. Are you put off by my assertiveness?”

“Did I seem put off?”

She laughed again. “No, not in the least. To continue, I liked what I’ve heard about you from Mary Ann over the years. Dino wouldn’t talk much, and he definitely wouldn’t introduce us.”

“I think Dino wanted to avoid complications.”

“It is un-Italian to avoid complications,” she said. “No, he just likes to keep his life, and his friends, as far from my father and me as possible. He disapproves of us.”

“A difference in philosophies, as your father put it.”

“Papa liked you,” she said.

“He made me believe he did. I liked him, too.”

“It is impossible not to like Papa, if he wants you to.”

“A family trait.”

“What are your ethnic origins?” she asked.

“English on both sides, if you can call that ethnic.”

“Ah, yes, Barrington sounds very English.” She cocked her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever a cop.”

“The NYPD found it difficult to believe, too. I didn’t exactly fit in. Dino once told me that the NYPD was a fraternal lodge, and I never joined.”

“Tell me about your family history.”

“Both sides of my family, the Barringtons and the Stones, came from English Midlands to Massachusetts in the early eighteenth century and established themselves in the weaving trade. In the nineteenth century, that grew into the textiles business. They were quite prosperous. My father had no wish to enter the family business; he loved woodworking, and it was all he wanted to do. His father, however, insisted that he go to Yale. My mother was sent to Mount Holyoke, to study art. When the stock market crash came, in twenty-nine, both families pretty well crashed with it. My father left Yale and moved to New York, where he met my mother, who was living in Greenwich Village, painting.

“They had known each other as children, and when they met again, they fell in love. My father began going house to house with his tools, looking for handyman’s work. Eventually, he was able to open a small woodworking shop, and over the years he established a reputation as a maker of fine furniture. They had many left-wing friends, and my father actually joined the Communist Party during the Depression.”