STONE ARRIVED on time and ordered a drink in the bar. Tiffany, who was reliably late by nature, joined him twenty minutes later, and he had a second drink with her. The bourbon in his veins led him to appreciate her appearance more than he might have when sober. She was a tall woman, slim, with long blond hair and a particularly fetching shape, including impressive breasts, which were on display this evening, barely contained by a tight black dress with a precipitous décolletage.

“How is the fighting of crime going?” Stone asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep his gaze at eye level.

Tiffany leaned in on her elbows, which allowed her breasts to pretty much roam free. “Tough, but we’re winning.” They sat at a small table, which allowed her to run a fingernail up his inner thigh.

“That’s encouraging to hear,” Stone replied, crossing his legs in self-defense. This was a voracious woman, and he knew he was not going to make it through the evening without feeding her pleasure.

The maître d’ materialized and led them toward the main dining room, pausing long enough to palm the C-note that Stone dangled in his fingers for the man to snag.

“I’m impressed that you could get this table on short notice,” Tiffany said, arranging herself so that she could cast an eye over the room for familiar faces.

“So am I,” Stone said.

Menus arrived, and they ordered dinner.

“May we have champagne?” Tiffany sort of requested.

“Of course,” Stone said, opening the wine list and running an eye over the right-hand column, the one with the prices. He chose one that was only $250.

The next hour and a half were spent in hyper-expensive gorging, and then they stumbled out into the street and lucked into a quick cab. It took less than ten minutes to drive to Stone’s house, go upstairs, strip, and dive into the sack.

“I trust there are no cameras present this time,” she said from her perch atop him. She alluded to an occasion when, without Stone’s knowledge, a bad person had wired his bedroom for both video and audio, then sent a copy of a tryst between himself and Tiffany to Page Six at the New York Post. Fortunately, the angle of the camera’s view had made it impossible to entirely identify either of them, though some accurate guessing took place.

“We are entirely alone,” Stone said, lying back and letting her do the work. He waited until she had come three times and exhausted herself before rolling her off him and sitting up on one elbow. “Now to business,” he whispered in her ear.

“I released the account this afternoon,” she said. “Your client is now three and a half million dollars richer. Oh, and you can thank your friend Mike Freeman, who called the attorney general on your client’s behalf.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that at dinner?” he asked.

“Because if your wish had been granted too early, you might have been less interested in the latter part of the evening,” she said. “And I’m staying the night.”