Paris Match(19)

            “Listen carefully,” he said.

            “I’m listening.”

            “I am not a spy.”

            “So you say.”

            “I am an attorney. I am a partner in a New York law firm. As such, I sometimes consult for the Agency.”

            “You said that before, but it doesn’t make any sense. Why would the CIA consult with anybody?”

            “Sometimes they need an opinion or information from outside the Langley bubble. At least, that’s my view: I’ve never asked them why they wanted me under contract.”

            “So you’re a contractor?”

            “Not in the sense of someone who does black bag jobs and shoots people in the head. I’m an attorney under contract.”

            “That’s your cover story, isn’t it?”

            “There’s the phone,” he said, pointing. He gave her the Woodman & Weld phone number. “Call it and ask for me.”

            “Well, of course they would back up your story. It wouldn’t be much of a cover if they didn’t.”

            “What else can I do to convince you?” he asked.

            She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think you can,” she said at length.

            Stone refilled their glasses. “Google me,” he said. “You won’t find a word about the CIA in the results.”

            “Oh, please.”

            Stone made a strangled noise.

            “Tell me,” she said, “what does it take to get an American spy into bed?”

            Stone took her face in his hands and kissed her. “A kind word,” he said, “that doesn’t refer to the CIA.”

            “Please?”

            “That will do nicely.” He took their glasses in one hand and her in the other and headed for the bedroom.





                     11


            A shaft of sunlight struck Stone’s face as he slept. He threw up an arm, as if to protect himself from the paparazzi, but a check revealed the light to be coming across the neighboring rooftops. The bed next to him was empty; Mirabelle had snuck out early.

            Stone staggered toward the bathroom, blinking to recover his full vision. The sound of the shower struck his ears. He walked into the bathroom and saw the lovely form of Mirabelle through the mist on the shower glass.

            “Good morning!” she shouted over the roar of the water. “Please join me!”

            Stone did so, and the rush swept away his sleepiness. Mirabelle had him in her hand, squeezing gently. “Is it awake?” she asked, biting him on a nipple.

            He started. “It is now!”

            “Ah, yes, I can feel it returning to consciousness.” She bit him on the other nipple. “It’s awake!” She put both arms around his neck and hoisted herself to him.

            Stone cupped his hands under her cheeks to support her weight, freeing her hand to guide him inside her. “There,” she said, nibbling on an earlobe. “There is where it belongs.”

            Stone pressed her against the tiles, then pressed home their union  . He couldn’t think of anything to say.

            “Good, good,” she was saying rhythmically. “All the way in. Yes!”