Stone Barrington 06-11

For a while he was in a nearly semiconscious state, driving by instinct, un-caring of his direction.
    When his head cleared he found himself at a traffic light in Malibu. He dug his notebook out of his pocket, looked up the number and dialed the hands-free phone.
    “Hello?” she said, her voice low and inviting.
    “It’s Stone; I’m in Malibu. Are you alone?”
    “I sure am,” she replied.
    “Not for long.” He headed for the Colony.

Forty-five

    C HARLENE MET HIM AT THE DOOR, WEARING NOTHING but a short silk robe. Neither of them said a word. He kissed her, then, without stopping, lifted her off her feet.
    She climbed him like a tree and locked her legs around him. “Straight ahead,” she said, removing her lips from his just long enough to speak. “Hang a right at the end of the hall.”
    He followed her directions and came into a large bedroom only steps from the sand. The sliding doors to the beach were open, and a breeze billowed the sheer curtains. She unlocked her legs and dropped to the floor, tearing at his clothes. Together they got him undressed and her robe disappeared. They dived at the bed.
    Stone had been erect since she’d answered the phone, and Charlene wasn’t interested in foreplay. He was inside her before they were fully on the bed, and she was already wet. They made love hungrily, rolling about on the king-size bed, he on top, then she. There were no words, only sounds—yells, bleats, cries, moans. The breeze from the Pacific blew over their bodies, drying their sweat, keeping them going. She came slowly to a climax, and Stone followed her more swiftly, penetrating her fully. More sounds, followed by gasps for breath, then they were both lying on their backs, sucking in wind.
    “Good God!” she managed to say finally. “I’ve done a lot of fucking in my time, but I don’t think I ever had a running start before.”
    “I was in a hurry,” he panted.
    “Oh, I’m not complaining, sugar.”
    He turned and reached for her. “Again,” he said.
    She pushed him onto his back. “Now you take it easy,” she said. “My call for tomorrow isn’t until eleven, and you’ve got to last until then. I don’t want you to leave in an ambulance.”
    Stone burst out laughing. “Oh, I feel wonderful,” he laughed. “First time in I don’t know how long.”
    “You’ve been wound a little tight, haven’t you?”
    “You wouldn’t believe how tight.”
    “Well, I think I’ve just had a demonstration, and if it took you that long to start unwinding …”
    “I think I may live now, if Dolce doesn’t shoot me.”
    “Dolce? Is there somebody I don’t know about?”
    “My wife , God help me.”
    “Sugar, I believe we’ve skipped a part of your bio,” she said, rising onto one elbow and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
    “Paper marriage,” he said. “Piece of paper, nothing more. Trouble is, it’s an Italian piece of paper.”
    “Baby, you’re not making any sense. Did you get drunk in Vegas, or something?”
    “Happened in Venice,” he panted. “The real one, not the Vegas one. Glorious place to get married.”
    “Did she Shanghai you?”
    “I went voluntarily, I’m afraid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
    “So, what’s the next level of that relationship?”
    “The next level is divorce, and I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy, since it has to happen in Italy.”
    “I don’t understand how … wait a minute; you came out here just to help Arrington, didn’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you in Venice when you heard about Vance?”
    “Yes. We’d had the civil ceremony; we were due for the big one, in St. Mark’s, the next day. When I heard about Vance, I dropped everything.”
    “Including Dolce?”
    “Turned out that way.”
    “How did she take it?”
    “Badly.”
    “And now you think she wants to shoot you?”
    “Oh, no; she’d rather have me drawn and quartered and the pieces barbecued.”
    “What does she want ?”
    “Me, dead or alive.”
    “You mean she still wants to be married to you?”
    “Apparently so. She’s been introducing herself to the world as Mrs. Stone Barrington.”
    “Oops.”
    “Yeah, oops.”
    “Who is this girl?”
    “Her last name is Bianchi.”
    “Wait a minute: at Vance’s funeral I saw you talking to …”
    “Her father.”
    “I’ve heard a little about him,” she said. “Sounds like this could be tricky.”
    “Well put. Tricky.”
    She pushed his hair off his forehead with her