“Good morning, Mademoiselle Chance,” he said.
“Are you free for breakfast?”
“I am, if we can do it here.”
“At l’Arrington?”
“In the penthouse suite.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour. Au revoir.” She hung up.
Stone called down to room service to collect the tray and to double the order, then he got out of bed and into a shower and a shave.
6
Stone’s doorbell rang, and he opened it to find standing there Mirabelle Chance, dressed to the gills. Cheeks were kissed.
“Do you always dress so beautifully for breakfast?” he asked, admitting her to the suite.
“Of course,” she replied. “I am my own best advertising. Do you like it?”
“You make that dress look gorgeous,” he said.
“I’m not sure that I understand your language well enough to know if that is a criticism of the dress.”
“Not at all,” Stone replied. “The dress would make any other woman look beautiful.”
“Again, I’m not sure . . .”
“I compliment the beauty of both you and the dress,” he said. “Without reservation.”
She blinked, then smiled. “Have you coffee?” she asked.
The doorbell rang. “I do now.” He admitted the waiter, who set up the table on Stone’s terrace. Shortly, they were seated, and Mirabelle had her coffee.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Stone said.
“That is the Luxembourg Palace,” she said, pointing, “and surrounding it are the Luxembourg Gardens. And they are both very beautiful. How well do you know Paris?”
“Not as well as I expect to in a couple of weeks. What I need is a personal guide.”
She leaned forward on her elbows. “Is that all you require?”
“The river of my needs is broad and deep,” he said.
“So, then, it takes more than one woman to meet them?”
“Not necessarily. It just takes more than a personal guide.”
“A multitasker, then?”
“If you want to be technical.”
“Do you?”
“I would prefer not.” The waiter, who had been rearranging the silverware, brought two plates of eggs Benedict from the hotbox below, set them in place, and whisked away the covers.
“Bon appétit,” he said, then vanished.
“Now we are alone,” she said.
“No, we have eggs Benedict.”
“Ah, yes.” She dug in. “Tell me,” she said after a moment’s chewing, “what is your connection to the CIA?”
“I am a consultant to the Agency,” Stone said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that sometimes they ask for my advice, and I give it. At other times they don’t, and I don’t.”