Wild Card (Stone Barrington #49)(3)

“Stone,” Felicity said, a little reprovingly, since she had lost steerage of the conversation, “I understand your big story ended in tears.”

“Not my tears,” Stone said, “nor Jamie’s. The subjects of the investigation shed a few, though. One of them committed suicide, and another was injured in an explosion that the FBI thinks may have been of his own making.”

“Sounds like there’s a film in there somewhere,” Calvert said. “I’d love to read your manuscript, Jamie.”

With his head in her lap, Stone thought.

“I’ll have my agent send you a copy,” Jamie replied. “We have to go through channels, you know.”

“Craig might be very good as the villain,” Stone said. “A very nasty character. He should be fun to play. Don’t actors all say that villains are the best parts?”

“Some do,” Calvert replied. “Is there a hero?”

“Well, there are two choices, I think,” Jamie said. “One is a nineteen-year-old computer whiz, and the other is Stone.”

Calvert’s face fell a bit.

“Oh, come now, Jamie,” Stone said. “Bystanders can’t be heroes, unless CPR or the Heimlich maneuver is involved.”

“Perhaps you should play yourself, Stone,” Felicity offered.

“I’m not an actor, Felicity,” Stone replied. “And if I tried, I’d be a very bad one. I don’t have that certain twinkle that a leading man must display.” He smiled at Calvert, who kept his dental work to himself.

Kevin entered and announced dinner, indicating a table set at the other end of the library.

“We’re not enough for the dining room,” Stone said.

“I love this room,” Felicity said, gathering herself for the trek. “I’ve spent so many lovely evenings here.” That one was aimed directly at Jamie.

“I’m sure you’ve spent lovely evenings everywhere,” Jamie replied, without quite adding on your back.

Stone seated everyone, with himself facing the door.

“The gunfighter’s seat,” Calvert said.

“Facing the butler,” Stone replied. “It saves ringing a bell.”

Jamie quickly fell into conversation with Calvert, who seemed to have rung her bell, while Felicity commandeered Stone.

Stone turned his attention to tasting the wine.

“What is it, old chap?” Calvert asked, sniffing his glass.

“A Mouton-Rothschild ’78,” Stone replied, glancing at the label. “Sir Charles left me some very nice bottles when he sold me the house.”

“Ah,” Calvert said, nodding. “One doesn’t see much of that anymore.”

“A case turns up at auction now and then,” Stone said.

“I don’t like auctions,” Calvert said. “One ends up paying what things are worth.”

“Oh, Craig,” Felicity said, “you’re a film star. You can splurge.”

“Stardom doesn’t last a lifetime,” Calvert said, “but the money must. I’ll turn forty this year, so I have to start thinking more about investing and less about drinking.”

“You’re a wise man, Craig,” Felicity said. She turned toward Stone. “So, what’s this I hear about your villain leaving hospital this morning?”

“I heard that, too,” Stone said.

“You’re not going to have people shooting up the neighborhood, are you?”

“I hope not.”

“Well, it’s happened before,” Felicity said.

“Your hearing is too sharp,” Stone said. “And your memory, too. Tell me, Felicity, how are things in the Muddle East these days?”

That diverted her long enough for Stone to breathe more easily.



* * *



? ? ?

Dinner finally ended, and cognacs were downed. “Oh, by the way, Stone,” Felicity said, “I wonder if Craig could make use of your gym for a few days. He has to be in top form for the new film.”

“Of course,” Stone said reluctantly. “Just present yourself to Kevin, and he’ll show you the way.”

Kevin drove them back to the dock.





3


Stone and Jamie crawled into bed, too tired to make love. Jamie, however, was not too tired to talk about it.

“You’ve fucked Felicity Devonshire, haven’t you—and often?”

Stone sighed. “I recall that, early in our relationship, you placed your past sex life out of bounds.”

“I did,” she admitted.

“Is that not a two-way street?”

“I suppose it is. I apologize.”

“Thank you.”

“How many times, approximately, have you fucked Felicity?” she asked, enjoying the alliteration.

“I decline to answer that, on contractual grounds.”

“‘Contractual’? We don’t have a contract.”

“Certainly we do,” Stone replied. “We have a spoken agreement limiting our areas of discussion, and you have crossed the lines of that agreement.”

“Oh, come on, Stone, this is just pillow talk.”

“It encompasses the whole bedroom, including the furniture.”