THEY FELL EXHAUSTED INTO BED AND went immediately to sleep. Stone hadn’t felt terribly affectionate after the events of the evening, and he assumed Sarah hadn’t either. Then, sometime before dawn, he began having an erotic dream about Sarah. He was very nearly at climax when he realized that he wasn’t asleep, and that it wasn’t a dream. He opened his eyes. Sarah’s honey brown hair spilled over his belly; he was in her mouth, and his hand was stroking her buttocks.

“No, not yet,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “There’ll be nothing left for you.”

“I want a lot left for me,” she whispered, kissing him and pulling him on top of her. Stone tried to restore some calm to his body while kissing her breasts, but soon it was obvious that he could wait no longer. They came together, noisily, in less than a minute, then collapsed facing each other. She snuggled into his arms, mixing her sweat with his.

“You are so American,” she said.

“How so?”

“You’re noisy, like me. Englishmen never talk in bed, never say anything sexy.”

“Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”

“Just wham, bam.”

Stone laughed. “What about Italian men?”

“Very automotive,” she said. “There’s an old joke that an Italian man uses a sports car as an extension of his penis, whereas an Englishman uses it as a substitute.”

“It sounds as though your best interests lie in the United States,” he said. “I don’t even own a car.”

“That explains a lot.” She laughed.

“Though I’ve been meaning to buy one. I do have a garage, after all.”

“It would be a pity to have an empty garage,” she said. She took him in her hand and began kneading gently. “Perhaps I’d better have one last go at you before you start dissipating your energies in fast driving.”

“I’m older than I used to be, you know. It might not work again quite so quickly.”

“Oh, I think it will.” She squeezed. “See? It’s responding very nicely.”

“I believe you’re right,” Stone said, breathing harder.

She rolled on top of him. “I’ll drive,” she said.

Stone regained consciousness with the doorbell ringing in his ears. He rolled over and glanced at the bedside clock: 7:15. He punched the intercom button on the phone. “Yes?” he grumbled.

“This is Detective Thomas Deacon of the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office,” a deep voice said.

That had a familiar ring, Stone thought. It took him a moment to remember that Dino had pointed the man out at the party at Martin Brougham’s house. He’d disliked him on sight.

“I want to talk to you,” Deacon said.

“Did you ever hear of business hours?” Stone asked.

“Most people are up by this time.”