Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (30 page)

“Of course you did, Stone,” she replied, as if he were lying.

Manolo brought him a Wild Turkey on the rocks, and Stone sipped it. This whole thing was insane; what was Dolce doing here? He discovered that he was sweating. “How was your flight?” he asked Dino and Mary Ann.

“Pretty much the same as being moved around the Chicago Stockyards with an electric cattle prod,” Dino replied gamely, trying to hold up his end.

“Heh, heh,” Stone said, taking a big swig of the bourbon. He stole a glance at Dolce, who was smiling broadly. He hoped she wasn't armed.

Across the coffee table, on the sofa opposite, Arrington was smiling just as broadly. She emptied a martini glass and motioned to Manolo for another. “Well, isn't this fun!” she said. “Old friends together again. How long has it been?”

“A long time,” Mary Ann replied, as if it had not been long enough.

“Oh, Stone,” Dino said, standing up. “I brought you something; come out to the guesthouse for a minute.”

“Excuse me,” Stone said to Arrington.

“Hurry back, now!” she replied.

Stone followed Dino out the back door and toward the guesthouse. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.

“How should I know?” Dino replied. “I didn't know Dolce was coming until she got here, ten minutes before you did. Mary Ann must have invited her, but she didn't say a goddamned thing to me about it.” He opened the door to the guesthouse and led the way in.

“And she told Arrington we were married in Venice?”

“You bet she did, pal, and she laid it on thick. Arrington was smiling a lot, but she would have killed her, if there had been anything sharp lying around.” Dino went to his suitcase and handed Stone his little Walther automatic, in its chamois shoulder holster.

“What am I going to do with this now?” Stone asked.

“I'd wear it if I were you,” Dino replied. “You might need it before the evening is over.”

Stone shucked off his jacket and slipped into the shoulder holster.

“My thirty-two automatic wasn't on your bedside table, where you said it would be, and it wasn't in your safe, either.”

“That's weird,” Stone said. “Helene wouldn't have touched it when she was cleaning; she hates guns, and Joan wouldn't have had any reason to be upstairs.”

“I asked Joan about it, and she said she hadn't seen it.”

Stone checked the Walther; it was loaded. He put the safety on and returned it to the holster.

“You're going to need a local permit for that, aren't you?” Dino asked.

“Rick Grant got me one last year when I was out here; it's in my pocket. Can you think of some way to get Dolce out of here? I've got to explain to Arrington what's going on.”

“I thought you would have explained it to her a long time ago,” Dino said. “That girl is
really
pissed off.”

“I realize I should have,” Stone said, “but I just didn't want to bring up Dolce while Arrington is in all this trouble.”

“Well,
you're
the one who's in trouble, now, and we'd better get back in there, so you can face the music.”

They went back into the house, and found Mary Ann struggling to keep some sort of conversation going.

Manolo came into the room. “Dinner is served, Mrs. Calder,” he said.

Everyone rose and marched into the dining room.

“Now let's see,” Arrington said, surveying the beautifully laid table. “We'll have Mr. and Mrs. Bacchetti to my left, and Mr. and Mrs. Barrington, here, to my right.”

Stone winced as if lashed. Everybody sat down, and a cold soup was served.

“This is a beautiful house,” Dino said.

“Thank you, Dino; Vance let me redo the place after we were married, so I can take full credit. Stone, where are you and Dolce going to make your home?”

Stone dropped his spoon into his soup bowl, splashing gazpacho over his jacket.

Dolce took up the slack. “Papa offered to give us his Manhattan place, but Stone has insisted that we live in his house,” she said. “I'm
so
looking forward to redecorating the place. It's a little . . .
seedy
right now.”

Stone could not suppress a groan. Dolce knew that Arrington had had a big hand in decorating his house. The soup was taken away, before Arrington could throw it at Dolce.

“And how is your father?” Arrington asked solicitously. “And all those
business
associates of his? The ones with the broken noses?”

Stone stood up. “Excuse me.” He left the table.

Arrington caught up with him at the front door. “Running away, are you? You complete shit! You
married
that bitch?”

“I have a lot to explain to you,” Stone said. “Can we have lunch tomorrow?”

“Lunch? I don't ever want to see you again! Not as long as I live!”

“Arrington, you're going to have to listen to me about this.”

“The hell I do!” she hissed, then pushed him out the front door and slammed it behind him.

Stone was already in his car when he saw Dolce in his rearview mirror, coming out of the house. The gates opened for him, and he floored the accelerator.

He made a couple of quick turns, headed nowhere, just trying to be sure that Dolce wasn't following him. He made the freeway, then got off at Santa Monica Boulevard, so he could keep an eye on several blocks behind him. Sweat was pouring off him, and he was breathing rapidly. When he had to stop for a traffic light he took the opportunity to put the car's top down, and the breeze began to cool him. His breathing slowed, and he began to feel nearly normal, except that he was numb between the ears. He did his best to drive both Dolce and Arrington out of his head, tried to think of nothing. 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.

 

 

 

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 fingers and kissed him. “I could hide you here for a few months,” she said.

“I don't think I could survive that.”

She giggled. “Probably not, but you'd last a while. What made you show up here tonight? Where were you earlier this evening?”

“I went to Arrington's house for dinner. Dolce was there.”

“Well, that must have been a teensy bit awkward.”

“You could say that. You could say I'm lucky I got out of there before the two of them tore me to pieces.”

“And how did this little soiree come about?”

“I don't have the faintest idea. I arrived, and they were both there. I don't think I've ever been at such a complete loss.”

“Poor baby,” she said. “I suppose you need consoling.”

“Oh, yes. Console me.”

She swapped ends and began kissing him lightly, getting an instantaneous response.

He placed a hand on her buttocks and pulled her to his face, searching with his tongue.

She took him into her mouth.

He found her.

They remained in that position for a long time.

 

 

 

S
TONE STOOD, HIS HANDS AGAINST THE TILE WALL OF the shower, his head under the heavy stream of water. His knees were trembling. He had no idea what time it was, except that the sun was up.

The bronzed-glass door opened, and Charlene stepped in. She grabbed a bottle of something, sprayed it on his back, and began soaping his body. “How you doing, sugar?”

“I'm shattered,” he said. “I can hardly stand up.”

“I can't imagine how that happened,” she giggled. “All we did was make love.”

“How many times?”

“Several,” she replied. “Who's counting?”

He leaned back against the tile and let her soap him. “I have the strange but almost certain feeling that sometime early this morning I passed some sort of physical peak in my life, and that everything from here on is downhill.”

“Sugar,” she said, “that's the sort of peak that most men hit at eighteen. You should be pleased with yourself.”

“I'm never going to be the same again; I can hardly stand up. You may have to carry me out of here.”

She pulled him back under the shower and rinsed him, then turned off the shower. “Maybe if you hold my hand you can make it.” She led him out of the stall, dried him and herself with fat towels, and found robes for them both. “Come on, hon; breakfast is on the table.”

He followed her through the sliding doors and onto a terrace overlooking the beach. When they sat down a low wall cleverly blocked the view from the sand, but still allowed them a panorama of the sea. It was nicely private.

She removed the covers from two plates. His was eggs, home fries, sausages, and muffins; hers was a slice of melon.

“Why do I have so much and you so little?” he asked, digging in.