Allison dug out a bottle of red wine. “You do the honors,” she said, holding it out with the corkscrew for him.

“Opus One, ’89,” he said, reading the label. “I’m impressed.”

“It’s the best bottle on the boat.”

“And it will need decanting. You have a seat.” He poured the wine gently into a decanter, watching for the sediment to creep up the bottle’s neck, stopping when it did. Then he sat down and poured them both some.

Allison raised her glass. “To the best last meal a girl ever had,” she said.

Stone raised his glass. “To the last meal’s arriving about seventy years from now.”

She laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

They ate hungrily, wolfing down the tender beef and taking the marvelous wine in large sips, then served themselves seconds of everything.

“I won’t have room for dessert,” Stone said.

“I’m dessert,” she replied. “And you’d better have room.”

They lay together in the aft cabin, kissing and stroking each other tenderly. They both had things to forget, Stone thought—he, Arrington; she, that he might be the last man she’d ever have. There was a moon filtering through the portholes, and in its light, with her fair hair and skin, she was as white as marble. Stone bent over her and his tongue found its way through the soft, blond pubic hair into the warm sweetness beneath. He was gentle, not pressing her, and she ran her fingers through his hair, encouraging and directing him until she shuddered and came quietly.

Then she reversed their positions, taking him into her mouth, caressing him with her tongue and fingers, drawing him to his fullest—teasing, tempting, but never allowing him to climax. Finally, when he was nearly mad, she mounted him and pulled him into a sitting position. They were mouth to mouth, nipple to nipple, he deeply into her. She brought her feet behind him so that she could pull him even farther inside her.

They stayed that way for what seemed like hours, then Allison began moving more rapidly. Stone moved with her, and, locked tightly together, they came noisily, finally toppling over onto the sheets.

“If that has to be my last time,” she panted, “I won’t have any complaints as to how well it went. I honestly don’t think sex can be any better than that.”

“You won’t get an argument from me,” Stone panted back.

They lay in each other’s arms for a while, then she surprised him by bounding out of bed. “Come with me!” she cried.

He followed her into the saloon, then up the companionway and into the cockpit, oblivious of the two startled guards on the dock. She flung herself over the lifelines and into English Harbour, with Stone right behind her, matching her stroke for stroke.