“You bet your sweet ass,” she said.

The two of them struggled past the two fat men. “Good riddance,” one of them said. “Move over one, George.”

Stone, followed by Hedy, walked up the aisle and was shown to the first pair of seats at the front of the cabin. “You can have the window,” he said.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t seat you sooner,” the attendant said, “but the seats were booked by someone else who didn’t show. I had to wait until we closed the door and pushed back before giving them to you.”

Hedy eased into her seat. “God, what a relief,” she said. “Do you always fly like this?”

“No, usually I fly myself in a light jet.”

“Why not tonight?”

“I had to leave on short notice for a board meeting tomorrow in Rome.”

“What kind of board?”

“A hotel group. What takes you to Rome?”

“I’m a painter. I’ve taken an apartment for a month, and I’m going to paint Rome.”

“I don’t see any canvases or paints.”

“I shipped all that ahead.”

“Where’s your apartment?”

“In the Pantheon district.”

“Nice.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Hassler Villa Medici.”

“Very nice.”

The airplane rolled onto the runway and accelerated. Shortly, the attendant brought them dinner menus.

“I’m starved,” Hedy said, opening the menu. “How about you?”

“I had a first course before my secretary called and told me I had to go to Rome.”

“No luggage?”

“Not even a briefcase. I was lucky my passport was in my jacket pocket. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Several,” she said. “I’m terrified of flying.”

“You don’t look terrified.”

“I guess you’re a calming influence,” she said. “I know bourbon is.”

Stone ordered two double bourbons.

3

The cabin lights came on, and a voice blared over the loudspeakers, first in Italian, then: “Ladies and gentlemen, we will land in Rome in approximately one hour. Breakfast will now be served.”

Stone realized there was a head on his shoulder. She made a noise and sat up. “Did she say breakfast?”

“We ordered it last night, don’t you remember?”

“I remember only bourbon, but I don’t remember how many.”

“Don’t ask.”

A flight attendant set omelets before them and they ate hungrily.

“How do you feel?” Stone asked when their plates had been taken away.

“Nearly human.”

—

They deplaned and walked toward baggage claim. She was pulling a carry-on.

“Do you have any checked luggage?” Stone asked.

“No, I sent it with the painting stuff.”

“Smart. Can I give you a lift into the city?”

“Sure.”

They walked through customs without incident, and Stone saw a man holding a sign with his name on it. A couple of minutes later they were in a large Mercedes sedan.

“You travel well,” she said. “What do you do?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“What firm?”

“Woodman & Weld.”

“They represent my stepfather,” she said.

“Who’s your stepfather?”

“His name is Arthur Steele.”

“I’m his lawyer. I represent the Steele insurance group.”

“I believe this is where I say, ‘Small world.’”

“Not yet—my mother was a painter.”

“What was her name?”

“Matilda Stone. Now you can say it.”

“Small world. I know her stuff from the American Collection at the Metropolitan.”

“Come over to my house when you get back to New York, and I’ll show you another dozen.”

“Beats etchings.” She got out her phone and made a call, then hung up. “Shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

“My apartment rental doesn’t start until the day after tomorrow. They had told me I could probably get in a couple of days early, but nooooo.”

“I’ll put you up at the Hassler, if you like. I don’t know what kind of accommodations I have yet, but there’s probably a sofa.”

“For me or for you?”

“For you.”

“Well, I guess if you’re my stepfather’s lawyer you can’t do anything terrible to me.”

“I think that was part of my oath. I can’t do anything terrible to a client’s daughter.”

“You’re on.”

—

An hour later, after fighting Roman rush-hour traffic, they pulled up in front of the Hassler. Stone presented himself at the front desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington. We got your call last night, and we’ve given you the only suite left in the hotel. Do you have any luggage?”

“Just the lady’s,” Stone said, indicating his companion. “My luggage won’t be here until tomorrow. Do you think your concierge can find me a pair of boxer shorts, size 36, a pair of black socks, and a white shirt, size 16-35?”

“Certainly, sir. There’s a shop in the hotel, and if they don’t have your sizes, I’ll send a boy down into the Via Condotti, where there are many shops. Let me show you to your suite.”

The man led them to an elevator and to the top floor. He used a key in a door and ushered them into an enormous living room.

“Are you sure this is all you have left?” Stone asked.

“This is our Presidential Suite San Pietro. It’s inadequate, I know, but I’m afraid it’s the best we can offer. We’re booked up for another ten days.”

“Well, I’ll just have to make do, I guess.”

“Look,” Hedy said, “there’s a second bedroom—my virtue is safe!”

The man handed over a key. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I’d like to have my clothes pressed, my laundry done, and my shoes polished. I have a board meeting at noon.”

“Certainly. I’ll send up the valet.” He departed, a fifty-dollar bill in his pocket.

“I’ve got to find a cash machine and get some euros,” Stone said, half to himself. “Excuse me, I have to get out of these clothes.”

“Already?” Hedy asked. “And I thought my virtue was safe.”

Stone found a robe in his bathroom and stripped off everything. When he got back to the living room the doorbell was ringing. He gave his clothes to the valet, with instructions to press his suit, shine his shoes, and launder his other things.

The man accepted the clothes and handed him a shopping bag. “See if these things are satisfactory,” he said.

Stone inspected the contents. “Perfect.” He sent the man off with another of his fifties.

Hedy had emerged from her bedroom in her own robe. “You overtip.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of Ronald Reagan’s trickledown theory?”

“Yes, I’ve just never seen it in operation. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some sleep in a real bed.”

“Of course. Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?”

“I can refuse you nothing,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“We’ll see,” Stone called after her.

The doorbell rang again, and an envelope was slid under the door. Stone opened it to find the agenda for his board meeting. There was only one item: “Consideration of a potential site for a new Arrington Hotel in Rome.” It was the first he’d heard of it.

He went to his own bedroom and left a wakeup call for eleven AM. He had two hours to sleep, and he wasted no time becoming unconscious.

4

Stone swam up out of a sound sleep and wondered where he was and what that unfamiliar sound meant. He followed it to a telephone. “Yes?” he croaked.

“Your eleven o’clock call, Mr. Barrington.”