He began to get up, but she pushed him back into a sitting position and straddled him. She pulled his head forward, and her scent filled his nostrils.
“First installment,” she said huskily.
Stone paid up. For a moment, he wondered what he was getting himself into. Then he stopped worrying about it.
37
THE ROOM-SERVICE WAITER SET UP THE table, opened the two bottles of wine, and left. “Dinner’s ready,” Stone called toward the bathroom, where Dolce was repairing her makeup.
She came out of the bathroom, still having not dressed, and sat down at the table.
Stone tasted the wine, then poured it. “I believe,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever dined with a woman who was wearing only stockings, a garter belt, and high heels.”
She raised her glass to him. “To the first of many new experiences to come.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Stone replied, raising his glass. They began their dinner with a first course of pasta with a lobster sauce. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I’ve been told that often enough to know that it’s true. Perhaps it won’ always be, but…”
“Yes, it will,” Stone said. “When you finally get around to aging, many years from now, you will do it well.”
“Why don’t you take off the robe?” she asked. “I enjoy seeing you naked.”
“I’m afraid I’ll spill the pasta sauce,” he said. “It’s hot.”
“Coward.”
“Absolutely, where hot food and tender areas are concerned.”
“I suppose you’re right; I wouldn’t want you wounded.”
“Why do you want me any way at all?” he asked. “I’m not fishing for compliments; I’m just curious.”
“To begin with,” she said, “you are as beautiful as I am, in your way. Beautiful men are not exactly scarce, but beautiful, interesting men are. Why did you want me?”
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
She laughed, a pleasant sound. “I suppose you didn’t. Are you put off by my assertiveness?”
“Did I seem put off?”
She laughed again. “No, not in the least. To continue, I liked what I’ve heard about you from Mary Ann over the years. Dino wouldn’t talk much, and he definitely wouldn’t introduce us.”
“I think Dino wanted to avoid complications.”
“It is un-Italian to avoid complications,” she said. “No, he just likes to keep his life, and his friends, as far from my father and me as possible. He disapproves of us.”
“A difference in philosophies, as your father put it.”
“Papa liked you,” she said.
“He made me believe he did. I liked him, too.”
“It is impossible not to like Papa, if he wants you to.”
“A family trait.”
“What are your ethnic origins?” she asked.
“English on both sides, if you can call that ethnic.”
“Ah, yes, Barrington sounds very English.” She cocked her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever a cop.”
“The NYPD found it difficult to believe, too. I didn’t exactly fit in. Dino once told me that the NYPD was a fraternal lodge, and I never joined.”
“Tell me about your family history.”
“Both sides of my family, the Barringtons and the Stones, came from English Midlands to Massachusetts in the early eighteenth century and established themselves in the weaving trade. In the nineteenth century, that grew into the textiles business. They were quite prosperous. My father had no wish to enter the family business; he loved woodworking, and it was all he wanted to do. His father, however, insisted that he go to Yale. My mother was sent to Mount Holyoke, to study art. When the stock market crash came, in twenty-nine, both families pretty well crashed with it. My father left Yale and moved to New York, where he met my mother, who was living in Greenwich Village, painting.
“They had known each other as children, and when they met again, they fell in love. My father began going house to house with his tools, looking for handyman’s work. Eventually, he was able to open a small woodworking shop, and over the years he established a reputation as a maker of fine furniture. They had many left-wing friends, and my father actually joined the Communist Party during the Depression.”
“I’m doing the math; they must have been quite late in life when you were born.”
“Yes; I came as something of a surprise.”
“Whatever happened to the family in Massachusetts?”
“It petered out, I suppose. My father was disowned for being a Communist; my mother was disowned for marrying my father. The only family member I ever had any real contact with was a great-aunt, on my mother’s side, who, when she died, was kind enough to leave me her house in Turtle Bay.”
“This is an honorable background,” she said, “except for that business about Communism. But many good people were hoodwinked into joining in the thirties, I suppose.”
“He never regretted holding Communist views. He regretted what the Party turned out to be.” Stone looked at her narrowly. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being interviewed for some position?”
“Perhaps you are, but not the one you are thinking of. I am a Catholic, and my father is a devout Catholic; I’m allowed only one husband.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine you with a husband,”
“Neither could my husband, after we’d been married a while.”
“So what position am I being interviewed for?”
“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me any questions about my family?”
“I told you, I’m psychic; I already know what I need to.”
“You mustn’t joke about such things with an Italian girl; we take them seriously.”
“I will always know more about you than you will want me to know,” Stone said, and he hoped she would believe it, even if it weren’t true. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Please,” she said.
They finished their first course, and Stone took their entrée, a crown roast of lamb, from the hot box under the table. Stone tasted the red wine and poured it.
“It’s not Italian,” she said, sniffing her glass.
“It’s a California wine, perhaps made by Italians; it’s called Far Niente.”
“Dolce far niente,” she said. “Sweet nothings.” She sipped it. “It’s delicious, and it’s not even Italian.”
“Does everything have to be Italian?”
“Not everything, but Papa believes that Italy is the most important country in the world, even though we have been here for four generations. He tends to think of anything not Italian as slight, of little weight.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“I am more American, but I understand his feelings.”
“There is nothing Italian about me; what does your father think about that?”
“You are not wine or food or art or architecture.”
“I’m not Catholic, either.”
“He is not so concerned about that. In a strange way, he feels the family is protected by my divorce.”
“Widowhood would free you, would it not?”
She smiled a little. “You are clever. The only reason my former husband is still alive is that my father does not want me to be free to marry again.”
“I see.”
“Why did you telephone today?”
“Your father gave me the number, in case I needed his help.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes.”
“Does Dino know?”
“Dino doesn’t want to know.”
“Your call was precipitated by the incident of last evening?”
“Yes.”
“And where is the beautiful painter?”
“She has returned to her native England. She will not be back.”
“Are you sad?”
“Less so than I was this morning.”
“What help do you want from my father?”
“You know that this Mitteldorfer has disappeared?”