“It’ll be on the table in forty minutes,” she said. “Starting from when we finish this glass of champagne.”

“I take it we should drink a red?”

“A full-bodied red, preferably a cabernet.”

“I have just the thing,” Stone said, going to the bar and bringing back a bottle. “I brought it up from the cellar in anticipation of your request.”

She peered at the label. “Phelps Insignia ’94; that should do nicely.”

“Can I help you do anything?”

She downed the rest of her champagne. “You can best help by keeping my glass full and otherwise staying out of my way.”

Stone refilled their glasses and sat down on a bar stool. “Proceed,” he said, retrieving a decanter for the wine.

And she did.

Forty minutes later they were dining on something she called poulet au porto, chicken in port with sliced green apples, saffron rice and haricot verts.

“God, this is good!” Stone enthused. “I can’t remember when anyone cooked for me, and I can’t remember ever eating anything as wonderful as this.”

“You say all the right things,” she replied. “You keep doing that.”

“I intend to.”

“You get to do the dishes,” she said, putting a last bite into her mouth and taking a sip of the wine.

“My housekeeper gets to do that in the morning,” Stone said.

“Does she serve breakfast in bed?” Celia asked.

“She does, on request.”

Celia smiled at him. “Good,” she said. “But first, we have to find the bed.”

Stone showed her where it was.

18

The night passed in a fog of champagne and mad love, with mouths employed voraciously and plenty of good, straight sex: sitting, standing, kneeling and reclining. Stone woke, exhausted, with a hand on his penis, and to his alarm, it was responding yet again.

“This time I’ll die,” he said.

“There are worse ways to go,” she replied, then used her tongue to help her hand. She threw a leg over him and settled down, guiding him in.

Stone emitted a pitifully gratified noise.

“Why didn’t they print the pictures?” she asked offhandedly.

“Huh?”

“I saw the mention of Bernie and Marilyn on Page Six, but they didn’t use the photographs. Why?”

Stone stopped helping, but Celia continued to slowly move up and down on him. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Stone. Don’t be coy. When I told you about the penthouse exhibitionism I expected you to use the information, but didn’t you give the Post the pictures your man took?”

“You flabbergast me,” Stone said.

“It doesn’t seem to be affecting your erection,” she said, giggling.

“How on earth do you know…what you think you know?”

“Didn’t you used to be a detective?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then figure it out.”

Stone thought for a minute. “Okay, you got me. I can’t figure it out.”