“Stone, do you have any idea how hard it would be for an insurance executive ever to sign such a document? It would turn his liver to rock candy.”

“Maybe a million dollars would melt it.”

“Where can I reach you?”

Stone gave him the cell phone number. “I’m in Florida,” he said.

Stendahl groaned and hung up.

Stone called his office again and dictated a release. “Type that up, leaving the amount blank, and have it ready to fax to Stendahl,” he said.

“Will do,” Joan replied.

Stone pulled back into traffic. On the way back to the yacht, he passed West Indies Drive, where Elizabeth Harding’s house was. He was going to have to get used to that name.

“Liz,” he said aloud. “Liz, Liz, Liz.” He thought about the nights he had spent with her aboard the yacht in St. Marks, and the memory stirred more in him than he was comfortable with. After all, he was pimping- well, that was too strong a word-representing Thad Shames in the matter of Liz Harding, and sleeping with the woman his client was chasing would probably violate some canon of legal ethics.

He was back on board Toscana, sipping a rum and tonic on the after-deck, when his cell phone rang.

“Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Stendahl. I’m with our CEO and CFO, and I’m going to put you on the speakerphone.”

“Okay.”

Stendahl’s voice became hollow. “Now, Stone, our people are not willing to enter into this transaction without knowing more about your client and his reasons for making this offer.”

“Frank, gentlemen, client-attorney confidentiality prevents me from telling you any more than I already have about my client’s identity or motives. This is a very simple proposition: I will wire-transfer one million dollars into Boston Mutual’s account, in return for a release of criminal and civil liability in the matter of the Paul Manning policy for anyone who ever had anything to do with it.”

Another voice spoke. “This is Morrison, CFO of the company,” it said. “Five million, and that’s our best offer.”

“Mr. Morrison,” Stone said, “I’m doing the offering, and while I’m at it, I’ll give you our last, best offer to settle this matter. One million, five hundred thousand dollars, and that’s it. You have only to accept or reject, but I must tell you, that if you reject this offer, when this phone call is over, you will never hear of this matter again. You simply have to decide whether you’d rather be out twelve million dollars or ten million, five.” Stone stopped talking and waited.

“Hang on,” Stendahl said, and the call went on hold.

Stone waited, tapping his fingers against his glass. If they stood firm, he could always come back with five million later. After all, that’s what Liz Harding had said she would pay.

“We’re back,” Stendahl said.

“This is Shanklin, the CEO of the company,” a new voice said. “We accept, pending a legal review of the form of the release.”

“Give me a fax number,” Stone said, then wrote it down. “Gentlemen, you’ll have the release in five minutes. Sign and fax it to my office, along with your bank account number, and FedEx the original. Upon receipt of the original, I will wire-transfer the funds to your account.”

“We’re waiting,” Stendahl said.

Stone punched off and speed-dialed his office. When Joan answered, he said, “Insert the amount of one million five hundred thousand dollars in the document, print it out and fax it to Stendahl pronto; he’s waiting for it.” He gave her the number, then hung up.

Stone sat and sipped his drink, watching the afternoon grow later. Half an hour later, his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Joan. They signed the document and faxed it back to us.”

“Great,” Stone said. He found Juanito, got the yacht’s fax number, gave it to Joan and asked her to fax the document to him, then he called Liz Harding.

“It’s Stone,” he said when she had answered. “I have news.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Boston Mutual has accepted an offer of one point five million to settle the matter and release you from any civil or criminal liability.”

“Oh, Stone,” she gushed. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to hear that.”

“Now listen,” he said. “It’s three-thirty. I want you to call or fax your bank right this minute and instruct them to wire-transfer the funds to my firm’s trust account in New York. It’s too late for them to do it today, but instruct them to wire the funds immediately upon opening on Monday morning. That way, I can have the funds wired to Boston the same day, and this transaction will be complete.”

“Then I’m a free woman?”

“I’ve no doubt that you’re a very expensive woman, but you’ll be free when that money hits their bank account. I have a copy of the release being faxed to me, and I’ll give it to you tomorrow night, when I pick you up. And I want you to fax a copy of the instructions to your bank to me aboard the yacht.” He gave her the fax number. “Now get moving.”

“Okay!”

Half an hour later, he had both faxes in hand. He took a long swig of his drink and reflected on a good day’s work. There was some small doubt tickling the back of his brain, but before he could summon it up, the rum flushed it away.

Stone was taking a nap in his cabin when there was a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called out.

The door opened and Callie Hodges stuck her head in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Stone sat up on his elbows. “It’s all right. How are you?”

“I’m good. You free for dinner?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll cook for you, then.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Find the galley when you’re awake,” she said. “I’ll be the one in the apron.”

“Be there shortly,” he said. “I’d like to grab a shower.”

“Half an hour is fine,” she said, then closed the door.

Stone went into the bathroom, a little groggy, and inspected his face. The shave was okay. He stripped and got into the shower, and by the time he emerged, he was awake again. He dried his hair, slipped into a polo shirt and chinos and made his way forward. He found the galley a deck below the bridge, off the dining room. Callie was, indeed, wearing an apron, and, it appeared, nothing else.

“Hi,” she said. “Make us a drink?” She pointed to the butler’s pantry, and when she turned back to the stove he was a little disappointed to see that she was wearing a strapless top and shorts under her apron.

“What would you like?” Stone asked.

“You were drinking vodka gimlets last night, weren’t you?”

“That’s right. Would you like to try one?”

“Love to.”

Stone measured the vodka and Rose’s sweetened lime juice into a shaker, shook the liquid cold and strained it into two martini glasses. He took them back into the galley and handed one to Callie. “Try that.”

She sipped the icy drink. “Mmmm… perfect!”

“What are you cooking?”

“Risotto,” she said, stirring a pot with her free hand. “It has to be constantly stirred until it’s done.”

“I love risotto,” he said.

“Any kind of food you don’t love?”

“I never eat raw animals,” he said, “or anything that might still be alive, like an oyster.”

“You don’t like oysters? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Last time I saw somebody eat oysters, he squeezed some lemon juice onto them, and they flinched. I never eat anything that can still flinch.”

“Anything else?”

Stone thought. “Celery and green peppers. I think that’s it.”

“There’s a bottle of chardonnay in the little wine fridge, there,” she said, nodding. “Will you open it? This is almost ready.”

Stone found a bottle of Ferarri-Carano Reserve and opened it. “Where are we dining?”

She was spooning risotto onto two large plates. “Follow me,” she said, picking them up. She led the way through a swinging door into a small dining room, where a table was set for two. “The big dining room is through that door,” she said. “We can seat up to sixteen in there.”