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out?”
    “Didn’t you know? I picked it up in the airport bookstore.”
    “I knew it was coming—the pub date must have slipped my mind.” Now he had at least one reason for leaving New York for Paris: so no one could find him.
    “My condolences on the death of your wife.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Did you duck out of town because of the book’s publication?”
    “That may have had something to do with it.”
    “It got a very good write-up in
The New York Times Book Review
,
Wall Street Journal
,
too.”
    “Well, that means that everybody I know has read or is reading it.”
    “And a great many other people, too—looks like it’s going to be a bestseller.”
    “Ah, fame.”
    “Are you upset about this?”
    “Not exactly—after all, I cooperated with the author. I wanted to be certain she had her facts straight.”
    “If it matters, she treated you sympathetically.”
    “I suppose that’s better than getting slammed.”
    “At all times. Did you have a publicist representing you?”
    “No.”
    “How many times did you speak with her?”
    “Four or five, I suppose, an hour or two at a time.”
    “You were lucky to get out with your skin. One should always have representation in such situations.”
    “Sounds like you’ve had some experience.”
    “Not personally, I’ve seen friends go through it. They didn’t always fare as well as you, especially the ones without professional help.”
    “I hope that by the time I get home people will have forgotten about it.”
    “I wouldn’t count on that.”
    They ordered, and Stone redirected the conversation away from him. “Give me your concise bio,” he said.
    “All right. Born in a small town in Georgia called Delano—you’ve never heard of it.”
    He had, but he let it pass.
    “Moved to Atlanta as a child, did well in school, scholarship to Harvard, where I stretched the experience to three degrees. I loved it there. Got an entry-level job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, left there for Sotheby’s, worked as a freelance adviser to people with a lot of money and no taste, got a corporate client, then another, and here I am.”
    “Ever married?”
    “Once, foolishly. The divorce was more fun.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “At Park and Sixty-third. I bought a little co-op with a big commission on an important sale. I do quite well, actually.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “Tell me, since your wife’s death have you been attracting flies?”
    “Flies?” He was baffled.
    “Young things with ambitions to marrying money without benefit of prenup.”
    “Oh, those. No, not really.”
    “Things will change in that regard because of the book.”
    “I’ll have to get some bug spray.”
    “Yes, you will.”
    “What else did we talk about on the airplane before I dozed off?”
    “Not all that much. You asked me to dinner and told me where you were staying. I was just across the aisle, and after you slipped into the land of nod, I read the book. I was first off the airplane, so I didn’t see you again.”
    “Question: who served me the drink?”
    She looked at him oddly. “A stewardess, I guess. Excuse me, flight attendant. I don’t know why they’d rather be called that.”
    “Neither do I. Did the, ah, flight attendant pay special attention to me?”
    “You’re an attractive man, Stone, what do you think?”
    “Was there anything about her that caught your attention?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like anything unusual?”
    She cocked her head and gazed at him. “Are you asking me if she put something in your glass besides bourbon?”
    “I suppose I am.” He returned her level gaze. “The second choice seems to be you.”
    Her mouth fell open. “Do you really think you were drugged?”
    “I’m certain of it.”
    “And you think
I
drugged you?”
    “From your own account, it had to be the attendant or you. Or was there another alternative?”
    She furrowed her brow. “There was that woman.”
    “What woman?”
    “She came down the