HERBIE FISHER OWNED a very nice penthouse on Park Avenue, but the two paintings that adorned the wall of his foyer were probably worth more than the apartment itself. The Picasso and the Braque had been a gift from Eduardo Bianchi, who had left them to Herbie in his will. Eduardo had only known Herbie a short time, but had been fond of the boy, and had placed a great deal of weight in Stone Barrington’s approval. Herbie had been shocked and touched by the inheritance, and he displayed the paintings proudly. He fully intended to purchase other art objects, but never seemed to have the time.
As he stepped from the elevator, utterly exhausted from the day in court and his encounter with Mario Payday, he found Yvette standing there clad in nothing but stiletto boots, a sheer negligee, and lingerie that to his experienced eye looked like La Perla.
Yvette thrust a martini into his hand and loosened the ribbon at the neck of the negligee, which fluttered to the floor.
Herbie blinked and gawked. “What the hell.”
“Hi, honey,” Yvette said. “I was pretending I was the wife in a sitcom welcoming her husband home. Isn’t this how they do it?”
Without giving him a chance to answer, she threw her arms around his neck, spilling the martini, and kissed him on the mouth. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to bed, all thoughts of court and old gambling debts forgotten.