Stone Barrington 06-11

with a jerk. “I knew you’d be glad to see me!” she said, then she pulled his face to hers and kissed him softly.
    “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Stone said, when he could free his lips for a moment.
    She pulled his body toward hers. “Well, if I’m going to be arrested and carted off to jail, it seems only fair that I should have a last meal.” She bent over him and kissed the tip of his penis. “I believe I’m entitled to have anything I want to eat, isn’t that the tradition?” Then she began to concentrate on her repast.
    Stone stood it for as long as he could, which was a little while; then he pulled her up beside him. She curled a leg over his body, opening herself to him. He slid inside her and, lying face-to-face, they began to make love, slowly.
    “It’s been way, way too long,” Arrington said, moving with him and kissing his face.
    “You’re right,” Stone breathed, admitting it as much to himself as to her.
    “Tell me you’ve missed me.”
    “I’ve missed you.”
    “Tell me you’ve missed this .”
    “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this,” he moaned. “There are no words.”
    “Then show me,” she said.
    And he did.

Thirty-three

    S TONE LAY, NAKED, ON HIS BACK, DRAINED AND WEIRDLY happy, for a lawyer whose client seemed to be trying to go to jail. It was a little after ten A.M., and they had made love twice since sunup. He heard the shower go on in his bathroom and the sound of the glass door closing. He wanted to enjoy the moment, but he couldn’t; he was faced with the problem of how to get Arrington back into the Los Angeles jurisdiction without getting her arrested and himself into very deep trouble.
    A moment later, she came back, wearing his robe and rubbing her wet hair with a towel. “Good morning!” she said, as happy as if she were a free woman.
    “Good morning.” He managed a smile.
    She sat down on the bed, took his wilted penis in her hand, and kissed it. “Aw,” she said. “Did it die?”
    “For the moment,” he admitted. “Tell me, how did you get here? Exactly, I mean; I want a blow-by-blow account.”
    “Well, let’s see: First I called the airline and made a reservation, then I put a few things into that little bag over there,” she said, pointing to the top of the stairs, where she had left it, “then I left a note for Manolo, got into my car, left the house by the utility gate, which you have come to know and love, and I drove to the airport. I parked the car, walked into the terminal, gave the young lady at the ticket counter my credit card—the one that’s still in my maiden name—and she gave me a ticket. Then I got on the plane, and when I arrived in New York, I took a cab here. Did I leave out anything?”
    “Yes; your picture has been all over the L.A. and New York papers and People magazine, for Christ’s sake; why didn’t anyone recognize you?”
    “I wore a disguise,” she said. She went to her bag, unzipped it, and took out a silk Hermes scarf and a pair of dark glasses; she wrapped the scarf tightly around her head and put on the shades. “With this and no makeup, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”
    “Why so few clothes?” he asked.
    “I have a wardrobe in our apartment at the Carlyle,” she said. “I was going to send you up there to get me a few things. I thought it would be foolish to dally in baggage claim, so I traveled light.”
    Stone sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Well, you were certainly right not to do anything foolish.”
    “Was that sarcasm I heard?”
    “Irony.”
    “Oh. Shall I fix you some breakfast?”
    “Oh, no; Helene will be downstairs by now; she can fix it. I don’t want anyone to see you.”
    “Then I shall be served in bed,” she said, sitting cross-legged among the pillows.
    The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
    “Hi, it’s Betty.”
    “Good morning; you’re up early.”
    “Yep. When I got into the office, there was a message from someone named Brandy Garcia; ring a bell?”
    “Yes; what was the message?”
    “He said he’d found what you wanted, and he’d call again.”
    “If he does, tell him to call me at this number.”
    “Will do. How’s New York?”
    “It is as ever.”
    “Good; when are you coming back?”
    “As soon as …” he stopped. The Centurion airplane, he thought. “Can you switch me to Lou Regenstein’s office?”
    “I could, but he wouldn’t be in this early, and anyway, he’s in New