“It’s not you, Stone. You’re a lovely man, and I’ve enjoyed our time together. I hope . . .”
“That we’ll always be friends? Of course.”
“I’m glad you understand,” she said, sounding relieved. She put her feet on the floor and started reaching for clothes. “I can’t stay over—early start tomorrow, and I have to be fresh.”
A moment later, after a quick hug and kiss, she was gone.
Really gone, Stone thought. He looked at the bedside clock. Nine-thirty, and he wasn’t even sleepy. He reached for the TV remote control.
—
When Stone awoke, it was nearly seven A.M. and Morning Joe was on the TV. His phone rang. “Hello?”
“Are you really awake?” an English-accented voice inquired.
“I really am,” he replied. “Good morning, Felicity.” Felicity Devonshire was an old friend and lover who, after a long career in British intelligence, had risen to be the head of MI-6, the foreign arm of their intel services, code name: architect.
“It appears that I will be attending the opening of your new hotel, The Arrington, in Bel-Air.”
“Then I’m looking forward to seeing you. Business or pleasure?”
“I’m anticipating a bit of both,” she said.
“I’ll do what I can to help out with the pleasure side.”
“I knew you would, Stone.”
“What else is new in your life, Felicity?”
“Everything is always new in my line of work, except when it’s old.”
“I’m curious as to what business would bring you to The Arrington. Is there something I should know about? I am, after all, an investor and a director.”
“Nothing I can mention at the moment,” she said. “Not on this line. Perhaps later.”
“I’ll be all ears,” Stone replied.
“And I’ll be tugging them.”
Stone remembered on what occasions and in what position she liked to tug his ears. He laughed. “What day are you arriving?”
“The same day as President Lee.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come to New York a day or two earlier and lay over with me?”
“If I can lay over with you, I shall certainly come earlier,” she said with a low chuckle.
“I and my party are flying to L.A. on a Gulfstream 550, supplied by Strategic Services. You can travel with us, if you like.”
“A fetching thought,” she said. “I’ll try and do that. I must go now. I’ll be in touch.” She hung up without further ado.
Stone hung up, too, his spirits lifted by the sound of her voice. Then he remembered that Holly Barker would be in Bel-Air, too. This might get hairy, he thought.
19
Holly hung around London for another three days with-out hearing anything from Hamish McCallister. Finally, after having toured the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery and seeing the Degas exhibit at the Royal Academy of Art, and having gained two pounds on Connaught room service, she called the pilot who had flown her to London.
“Hello?”