“I’d be delighted.”

“I hear it won’t be necessary to send a car for you.”

“Rick has seen to that.”

“Lance Cabot spends money on the oddest things and seems to get away with it.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She stood. “Until tomorrow evening, then?”

“Until then. May I ask, what is the occasion?”

“I forget,” she said. “The dinners all run together. Someone will hand me a one-page memo and a guest list a quarter of an hour before my entrance, so I’ll know whom I’m talking to and why.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said. He shook her hand again and made his exit.

13

Mirabelle arrived at l’Arrington on time. “May I have a martini before we go?” she asked. “It will make the ride go faster.”

“Of course.” Stone went to the ice maker where he had stored the bottle of pre-mixed martinis and poured one into a crystal glass. He handed it to her and poured himself a Knob Creek.

“You should pack a toothbrush,” she said, sipping her drink. “We won’t be back tonight.”

“What sort of restaurant is this?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

He went and threw some things into a small duffel—a favor of the hotel—and returned. She knocked off the last sip of her martini. “We’re off,” she said.

THEY GOT into the waiting van, Mirabelle spoke to the driver in rapid French, and he tapped an address into the GPS navigator. “Saves me having to give him directions,” she said, leaning back into the comfortable seat.

“Tell me where we’re going,” he said.

“No.” She looked out the window. “I promise you a good dinner and, if you play your cards right, as you Americans say, perhaps me.”

“What more could I ask?” he said. He watched the city change into forest. “We’re in the Bois de Boulogne, aren’t we?”

“Shut up.”

They had been driving for only half an hour when the van turned into a narrow, winding lane with thickly planted trees on each side. They stopped in front of an old cottage with a thatched roof and window boxes filled with flowers.

Mirabelle spoke to the driver again and got an argument back. “We’ll be at the other end of the lane,” he said in English.

She swore under her breath and got out of the van.

Stone grabbed his duffel and followed her. The van drove back down the lane. “What was the argument about?”

“He didn’t want to leave us alone. I told him we weren’t going back tonight, but it didn’t seem to matter to him.”

She opened the unlocked front door, and they walked into a cozy living room, where a small fire blazed in the hearth. There didn’t seem to be a right angle in the room, but somehow, it looked like home.

“Hallo!” a woman’s voice called from another room, then a plump, motherly woman came into the room and conducted a brief conversation with Mirabelle in their native tongue, and she left again.

“Was that your mother?” Stone asked.

“No, but she thinks she is. That was Marie, who has been the family cook for centuries.”

“So this is a family cottage?”

“It is my cottage, bought with my money. My family has never been here, just Marie, and she is sworn to secrecy. It is my hideaway.”

“Why do you need a hideaway?”

“My life is frenetic. Here is peace.” She went to a corner bar and came back with a martini and a glass of bourbon for Stone. They sipped.

“This is Knob Creek,” he said. “How did you know, and where did you get it?”

“I’ve seen you drink it, and I know a spirits shop that stocks it.”

“You are good to me,” he said, and kissed her.

“Tomorrow night I will take you to a grand restaurant.”

“Tomorrow night, I’m afraid, I have to have dinner at the residence of our ambassador, and I was asked to come alone.”

“Ah,” she said, “the odd man.”

“Exactly.”

“She wants you for herself.”

“No, she just wants an odd man. We met only today, in her office at the embassy.”

“You wait—you will find yourself seated next to her, and there will be hanky-panky.”

Stone laughed.

“This is an American expression, is it not?”

“It is a universal expression, I think.”

“You will see, the woman has a reputation. She consumes men.”

“I am shocked, shocked that you would speak of our top diplomat in France in such a way.”

“And you are easy,” she said. “Madame Flournoy will have her way with you.”

“You make me sound helpless.”

“She will render you helpless. She knows what she is doing.”

“Where do you hear these things?”

“I’ve told you—my clients tell me everything. The ambassador is my client. She has spent much money with me and had many fittings. Women need to talk when they are being fitted.”

“And it is men who have the reputation of talking about their affairs. Women are much worse.”

“I will give you that, because it has been my experience. She will have your virtue, you will see.”

Stone laughed loudly. “My virtue! Am I so maidenly?”

Mirabelle reached over and squeezed his crotch. “Before dessert, she will have this in her hand.”

“I tend to be a one-woman-at-a-time man,” he said.

“Why? You should have as many women as you want, who want you.”

“I tire easily.”

“Hah! You tire me, and that is not easy.”

Marie entered the room as Mirabelle withdrew her hand. “Dinner,” she said.

They got up and went into a kitchen, where a big La Cornue range rested against a wall. A table was set before another fireplace, and candles burned on the table.

Bon soir,” Marie said, and left the room.

“Where is she going?” Stone asked.

“Home. She will come back tomorrow. I will serve us.” She pointed at a chair. “Sit.”

Stone sat. There was an open bottle of Château Palmer 1978, a favorite of Stone’s, on the table.

“Decant the wine, please.”

The cork had already been withdrawn. Stone stood, took the bottle and held it near one of the candles; as he poured, the neck of the bottle was backlit, and he could see when the dregs began to creep up the side of the bottle, so he could stop in time.

“Done,” he said.

She took their plates to the stove and served them from the pots, then sat down. “Did you taste the wine?”

Stone poured himself a little and tasted it.

“Yes? No?”

“We’ll drink it,” Stone said. He poured them both a glass and they tucked into a dinner of boeuf bourguignon.

AN HOUR LATER they were upstairs in a feather bed, sated and a little drunk.

“I will wear you out,” she said, “so there will be nothing left for the ambassador.”

And she did.

14

Stone was wakened by a puff of chilly air; he got up groggily and closed the bedroom window. He was halfway back to the bed before he realized that Mirabelle was not there. She was not in the bathroom, either. A weak light from below was showing on the stairs, so, curious, he walked to the top of the stairway and looked down. The light was coming from the kitchen, and he could hear Mirabelle’s voice, though he could not understand her French.

Still groggy from the dinner, the wine, and sleep, he tiptoed down the stairs and peeked into the kitchen. Mirabelle was standing there, naked, holding what appeared to be an antique shotgun, engraved, with exposed hammers. Both were cocked, and the shotgun was pointed at someone out of his view. He approached the door and peeked around the jamb. A man wearing black clothes and a black mask pulled over his head stood, his arms raised from his sides. Mirabelle was speaking to him in French that sounded hostile.

“What is going on?” Stone asked, stepping into the kitchen, and as he spoke he remembered that he, too, was naked. A low chuckle came from behind the man’s mask.


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