“All your fault,” he breathed, as she began massaging his neck and shoulders and scalp. She continued down his body for another half hour, until he thought he would explode, then she gently cupped his testicles in her hand and, with the other hand and the hot oil and, occasionally, her mouth, she rendered him limp and helpless.

“Sleep for a while,” she said, spreading a blanket over him.

His leg was throbbing where she had massaged it. “There’s a bottle of pills in the left-hand pocket of my trousers,” he said. “Give me one, please.”

She gave him the pill with a little water. “I know it’s sore, but it will feel better tomorrow. I’ll wake you in time for dinner.”

Stone drifted into a soft, fuzzy sleep.

35

Stone and Celia arrived at the Mayflower Inn for dinner. He loved the place, and always looked forward to the perfume of wood-burning fireplaces as he entered. The inn had originally been designed as a school by Erich Rossiter, the same architect who designed Stone’s house, and had been expensively converted to its new use by a local couple with deep pockets. It was handsome, gracious, welcoming, and the food was good.

They were seated in the dining room and ordered drinks. Stone was still feeling the glow from the massage, augmented by the warmth of the painkiller, when he ordered a cosmopolitan for Celia and his second bourbon of the evening.

The room was full, not unusual on a Friday evening, when the overflow spilled into the adjacent bar, where a pianist could be heard tinkling away.

“Gosh, I feel good.” Stone sighed.

“Thank you,” Celia said. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“As well you should,” Stone replied, smiling and waving at a neighbor couple a few tables away. “I’m ready to supply a written recommendation, should you ever need one.”

“For the massage or the sex?” she asked, stroking the inside of his thigh under the table.

“Both.”

They ordered, and their first course arrived. When they had finished it, Celia excused herself and departed for the ladies’ room. Stone sat sipping his wine, happy in his cocoon of well-being. Then Celia returned to the table and sat down, looking flustered.

“Something wrong?” Stone asked.

“Devlin Daltry is in the bar,” she said. “I saw him as I passed the door.”

A flush of anger swept through Stone. “Did he see you?”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t.”

“I’ll be right back,” Stone said.

She tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t make a scene,” she said. “He revels in that sort of public misbehavior.”