Chapter 7

LATE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE BORROWED Callie’s Jaguar, drove downtown and found a parking space on Worth Avenue. He arrived at Renato’s five minutes early and presented himself to the headwaiter. “I’m meeting a Mrs. Harding,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” the man replied. “We have you in the garden.” He led Stone to a table under overhanging bougainvillea and left a pair of menus. Stone sipped some mineral water and waited for Mrs. Winston Harding to appear. When she arrived, Stone choked on his mineral water. This, he had not been expecting.

She was only fashionably late, wearing blue slacks and a matching cashmere sweater, pearls at the neck, the very picture of the fashionable young matron. He tended to remember her in short shorts, with a shirt tied below her breasts, revealing an enticing midsection, and he tried to make the adjustment.

Stone stood to greet her. “Hello, Allison,” he said.

“Shhh,” she whispered, hugging him, her breasts pressing against him for an extra moment. “We don’t use that name here.”

He held her chair and ordered a cosmopolitan for her. “Brad,” she said to the headwaiter, “this is Stone Barrington. I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of him.”

The headwaiter shook Stone’s hand, then went to get her drink.

“So what is this Mrs. Winston Harding business?”

“That, my love, is my name these days. It’s good to see you.” She smiled, leaning forward to allow her breasts to be seen down the V-necked sweater.

“And you,” he said. “You disappeared over the horizon in that rented yacht, and I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve often wondered where you got to.”

“Oh, all over,” she said, smiling. “I’ve seen the world since last I saw you. I started with a cruise in the Pacific and the Far East, and I just kept going. A year later, I met Winston Harding in London, and a few weeks later we were married in Houston, his home. Winston was a property developer.”

“Was?”

“I’m a widow now.”

“My condolences. Was there insurance involved?”

She blushed a little. “That was an evil thing to say. He died of a heart attack. He was fifty-five.”

“My apologies.”

“But there was insurance involved, and a great deal else. Let’s order.”

She chose the poached salmon, and Stone the rigatoni with a sauce of wild boar sausage and cream. He ordered a bottle of Frascati.

“Well, Palm Beach must be the perfect spot for a wealthy widow,” Stone said.

“We bought the house the year after we were married,” she replied. “I hardly chose it for widowhood; it just worked out that way. Funny, it’s worth three times what Winston paid for it.”

“I’ve heard the market is hot.”