Worst Fears Realized

“He’s Dino Bacchetti’s father-in-law.”

“What?”

“I kid you not. The older daughter; they’ve been married, seven, eight years.”

Eggers shook his head. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

“And that goes no further.”

“As you wish.”

They finished their coffee, and Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a deposition; gotta go.”

“Thanks for coming over here.”

“Not at all. When do we get to see the Connecticut place?”

“Give me some time to get it sorted out. By the way…” Stone wrote some numbers on his card and handed it to Eggers. “Here are the phone and fax numbers. They should be working by tomorrow night, but keep them to yourself for the time being.”

“Okay, see you soon.” They shook hands, and Eggers left.

Stone pushed the tray into the hall, then sat down and picked up the Times. He read the paper thoroughly, as he always did, and in the Arts section a theater listing caught his eye. It read, “Judson Palmer presents A Poke in the Eye with a Sharp Stick, a revue.”

The name registered, and it brought Stone back to the problem at hand. What the hell, he thought, I’m not getting anywhere on my own. He fished Eduardo Bianchi’s card from his wallet and dialed a phone number. The ringing stopped, and he heard a beep, no message.

“This is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I can be reached at the Carlyle Hotel, 744-1600. I’m registered as Elijah Stone, Room 1550.” He hung up. Was this the first step on the road to perdition?

36

NOW STONE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH his day. He couldn’t go home safely, and the Connecticut house still had no furniture. He’d already read the Times; the Wall Street Journal bored him; he wasn’t about to watch soap operas; and there, were no good movies on TV. He got up and walked around; he was stiff and sore from his experience of the night before. He picked up the phone and dialed the concierge.

“Yes, Mr. Stone?”

“I wonder if you could arrange a massage for me in my suite?”

“Of course; what time?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Swedish or Japanese?”

“Swedish.”

“Please hold for a moment; I’ll check availability.” He came back after a moment. “Sheila will be with you in an hour.”

“Thank you.” Stone hung up, watched two episodes of This Old House on television, then went to the bedroom, got undressed, and put on a robe. Shortly, there was a knock on the door, and a pretty girl came into the suite and set up a massage table in the bedroom.

“Let’s start you facedown,” she said.

Stone slipped out of the robe and lay on the table; she draped a small towel over his buttocks.

“Oh, you’ve got some cuts on your back,” she said.

“An accident; can you work around them?”

“Sure; let me know if I hurt you.”

She began kneading his back, and Stone gave himself to the experience. Soon, he was in a light sleep. Then the doorbell rang. “Would you get that, please?” he asked. “It’s probably the maid; I forgot to put out the DO NOT DISTURB Sign.”

“Sure; I’ll be right back.” She left the bedroom.

Stone heard the door open and some whispering; then the door closed, and she came back. “Did you put out the sign?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, then began rubbing his back.

He fell back into a doze, waking only long enough to turn over at her request. She put some sort of bean bag over his eyes as he turned, then he resettled the towel in the appropriate place and began to doze again. She rubbed his neck and his face, then began working her way down his body. She lingered over his nipples, which he thought was a little odd, but he was too comfortable to protest. Then he felt her remove the towel. Oh, well, he thought, if she doesn’t mind, I don’t.

She rubbed his belly, then his upper thighs, and, occasionally, her hand would touch his penis, as if by accident. Then it began to be clear that it was no accident. What kind of service is the hotel running? He heard her squirt some lotion on her hands and rub them vigorously together, then she touched him in a very deliberate way. In a moment, she was massaging more than he had counted on.

He opened his eyes, but the bean bag still covered them, and he closed them again. She went at her work gently, but firmly, and in seconds he was fully erect. His instinct was to reach out for her; he resisted that, but nothing else. Within a couple of minutes she brought him to a climax, then caressed him gently as his breathing returned to normal. Then she wiped him dry and kissed him gently on the lips.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” she whispered. “You relax, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

He heard her close the bathroom door. He sat up and slipped into his robe. What was going on here? He’d never experienced anything quite like this. He supposed she would expect a very generous tip, and it seemed the least he could do. He got down from the table to get his wallet; then the bathroom door opened, and she came out.

His jaw dropped, and he was unable to say anything. Dolce Bianchi stood there, smiling at him.

“Did you enjoy your massage, sir?” she asked.

“I… I…”

“Oh, I believe you did,” she said. “I’d like a drink; may I fix you something?”

“In the kitchenette,” he said. “Whatever you’re having.”

She walked back into the living room as he tried to get his brain in gear, and he followed her. She returned with half a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

“Sit down and relax,” she said, setting down the glasses and drawing the cork from the bottle. “You shouldn’t exert yourself too soon after a massage.”

Stone sat down, and she handed him a flute of champagne. “How did you…?”

“I got your message, and I came right over,” she said. “I didn’t bother with the desk, just came right up, and when the masseuse came to the door, a couple of hundred persuaded her to leave early.”

He was recovering, now, and he raised his glass. “To unexpected pleasures,” he said.

She laughed. “Those are the best kinds.” She sipped the champagne.

“You are certainly full of surprises,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Oh, I am,” she agreed. “You must always remember that about me. I’m very forward, too. I don’t hesitate when I want something.”

“I don’t have any trouble believing that,” he said. “But how did you know I wouldn’t jump up from the table, shocked?”

“I’m psychic about these things,” she said.

“I’m a little psychic, myself,” he said. “Would you like a reading?”

“Why not?”

He set down their glasses, then took both her hands and held them palm up, gazing at the lines. “I can see that you have very talented hands,” he said.