After a brief discussion with the bartender, Stone was rewarded with a glass of Knob Creek, selected from a dozen patriotic whiskeys among the embassy’s stock. This being U.S. territory, ice was not in short supply.
He did not know a soul present, except the ambassador, who held court at the far end of the hall, surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen. The room seemed short of women, until Stone felt a breeze at his back; he turned and a tall, fairly slim redhead in a knockout green dress came straight for him, as the butler hollered, “Miz Holly Barker, of New York City.”
Holly threw her arms around his neck, and he gave her a little spin while she cuddled there. “I thought you would be dead before I had a chance to come to your rescue,” she whispered in his ear.
“I stayed alive only for you,” Stone said. She felt warm and familiar in his arms. She was slimmer than the last time he had seen her, and she had at least six inches more of the red hair. “How good to see you in Paris! How long can I keep you here?”
“Well, if you should die, my instructions are to accompany your body back to New York, but until then, I am all yours. I’m staying at the embassy.”
“Not while I have a large hotel at my disposal.”
“Oh, can you get me into l’Arrington?”
“All the rooms are booked for the opening, but there is room in my bed.”
“I accept,” she said. “The better to guard you.”
“Well,” said a voice from behind them, “I see that either you two have met, or you are getting along way too well.”
Stone turned to find the ambassador standing there. “Madame Ambassador, how good to see you again. May I present Ms. Holly Barker?”
The two women shook hands. “Ah, yes,” the ambassador said, “yet another gift from Lance Cabot’s merry band.”
“I’ve never heard it described quite that way,” Holly said, “but I’m sure Lance would take it and be happy.”
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” the butler wailed, “dinner is served.”
A pair of mahogany doors opened at one side of the hall, and the group meandered among the half-dozen round tables, looking for their place cards. Stone found himself next to Holly; the ambassador, to his relief, after Mirabelle’s comments, was at another table.
A large slab of foie gras had already been delivered to each plate, and a waiter was pouring Mondavi Reserve wines from California. “Given the new California laws,” Holly said, “I’ll bet the foie gras is from New York State.”
Introductions were exchanged with their dinner partners, and everyone fell upon the food, hardly bothering to chat.
The second course arrived, and the waiter announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the main course is Georgia fried chicken, and it is customary to eat it with your fingers, so silverware has not been provided for this dish.”
The Europeans at the table made positive noises and dug in. Stone turned to Holly, who had a mouthful of chicken. “Why are you really in Paris?”
“Tell you later,” she mumbled. “God, this is perfect fried chicken!”
After only bones remained of the chicken, the butler came into the room. “M’lords, ladies, and gentlemen, please turn over your place cards, rise, and find your new seats.”
Everyone did so and learned that they now had new tables. Stone found his card two tables over, and the ambassador was waiting for him to his left.
“Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “I’ve missed you. How was the fried chicken?”