They were received in Marcel’s home in his usual high style—butler at the door, uniformed maids to take the coats, the best champagne in Baccarat flutes served from old silver trays, delicious canapés.
Marcel broke from a group, embraced Stone, and greeted everyone warmly. “It is so good to see you,” Marcel said to Stone.
“That’s because you come to New York so infrequently,” Stone said. “And you haven’t been back to my house in England since your first brief visit when we bought the adjoining property for an Arrington hotel.”
“You are sadly correct, my friend. Paris always has such a grip on me. Everywhere else I am a foreigner.”
“That’s not such a bad thing to be,” Stone said. Across the drawing room he caught sight of a man who might be his assignment for the evening. “Marcel, who is the gentleman standing next to the large sculpture?”
“Oh, that is Peter Grant. Do you know him?”
“I know some people who do,” Stone replied.
“I’m afraid I don’t know him very well. He’s something in finance, independent, I’m told. He’s charming company, good at evenings like this. Would you like to meet him?”
“I’ll drift that way,” Stone said. Then added, “When you have an opportunity you can introduce us.”
“As you wish. I’ll mingle, as is my duty as host.” Marcel reached for another guest.
“So that’s your guy?” Dino asked. “Would you like me to run him through our databases?”
“When you get a chance,” Stone said. He took Callie’s hand, and they began meeting people, with Dino and Viv close behind. Dino was staring at his iPhone.
Callie saw someone she had once sold an airplane to and introduced Stone, whose attention was elsewhere. Stone snagged them a fresh glass of champagne, then let the current take him toward Peter Grant. The man appeared to be a couple of inches taller than Stone, something that always annoyed him about a man. A beautiful redhead in a long black dress clung to his arm.
As Stone got closer, Marcel appeared and pressed him forward. “Peter,” he said, “may I present my dear friend, Stone Barrington, and his friend Callie Stevens? Stone, this is Peter Grant and . . .”
“Tessa Martindale,” the woman said, offering her hand.
Stone shook both hers and Grant’s. “How do you do?” he asked.
“Very well,” they answered simultaneously.
“Peter is in . . .” Marcel began. “What is it, Peter?”
“I invest,” the man replied. “And you, Mr. Barrington?”
“I’m an attorney, and I serve on a couple of boards,” Stone replied.
“With what firm?”
“I’m a senior partner at Woodman & Weld, in New York.”
“Ah, yes,” Grant replied with a slight frown.
“Oh, have we sued you?” Stone asked.
“Not yet,” Grant said with a small smile.
“Peter never holds still long enough for anyone to sue him,” Tessa said.
“A good policy,” Stone replied. “In what do you invest, Peter?”
“Almost anything, if I can get a little inside knowledge.”
“Then you had better worry more about being arrested than sued.”
“I make it a point of never crossing the line of legality; it’s too much trouble. A whisper at a party such as this is better than a glimpse of a confidential report on earnings.”
“An interesting way to make a living,” Stone said.
“Oh, I do a great deal more than that.”
Cocky son of a bitch, Stone thought.
Dinner was announced, and Stone found himself seated between Tessa and a French dowager, while Callie was between Peter Grant and a man who could have been the dowager’s brother.
“Do you live in Paris?” Stone asked Tessa, after seating her.
“Paris, London, and Cap d’Antibes,” she replied. “Peter is a neighbor down there. And where do you live, Mr. Barrington?”
“It’s Stone, please. New York, Los Angeles, Paris, and the South of England.” He left out Key West and London.
“Where in the South of England?”
“Near Beaulieu, on the river.”
“How lovely, if you can stand the weather.”
“I love the weather. It was what drew me to England.”
“Then you must have a bit of duck in you.”
“Perhaps a bit. How long have you known Peter Grant?”
“Since I moved into his neighborhood in Cap d’Antibes a couple of years ago.”
“How firmly attached are you to him?”
“A bold question.”
“Being bold saves time.”
“Then the answer is not very. We’re both pretty slippery. How about you and Ms. Stevens?”
“We met only a few days ago. A business transaction.”
“Ah, good.”
“Do you work, or did you just choose the right ancestors?”
“A bit of both,” she said. “I arrange events and parties, when I can summon the clients and the energy.”
“Do you arrange events for Peter Grant?”
“Peter, I fear, is more often a guest than a host.”
“How ungenerous of him.”
“He is just a tiny bit tightfisted,” she said. “Not a quality I admire in a man.”
Stone wondered if that was a hint. “Nor a woman,” he said.
She laughed. “I take it you’re not referring to money.”
“No.”
“Then I am not ungenerous.”
“Do you ever come to New York?”
“From time to time.”
Stone gave her his card. “I’m in Paris for only a short time. Let me know if you fly across the pond.”
“I’ll do that,” Tessa replied.
“Tell me, does Peter Grant own an airplane?”
“I think he relies on the kindness of those who do. Why do you ask?”
“Because the woman sitting next to him is trying very hard to sell him one.”
“Then good luck to her,” Tessa said.