Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, then, I'll just work something out, find a time when she's regularly away from Winner's house, and when I have it all together, I'll call you."

"I'm not going to be at your beck and call, you son of a bitch," Sandy said.

Martindale stopped the car, then turned in his seat and stared at Sandy. "You'd better understand this right now," he said. "This is going to happen when I say it's going to happen, or you're going to suffer some terrible consequences. Do you understand me?"

Sandy gritted his teeth. "I understand you."

"I hope so," Martindale said. "You see, you're in this position because you care what happens to you. I, on the other hand, don't give a damn what happens to me, not at the moment. That gives me a very large advantage in dealing with you."

Sandy didn't reply but he knew Peter Martindale was right: he cared desperately what happened to him, and it was the only reason he was playing Martindale's game.

Martindale drove Sandy to the Ritz-Carlton and deposited him under the portico. Sandy watched him drive away. He experienced an urge to chase the car down and strangle the man to death, but he knew he was in no position to do that. He could only wait and hope for a way out.

Sandy picked up Cara Mason at her East Sixty-third Street town house for their Saturday night dinner date, and Cara asked him in for a drink. She led him past two offices to an upstairs living room, where a tall blonde woman waited for them.

"Sandy," Cara said, "I'd like you to meet my partner, Thea Morgenstern."

"How do you do," Sandy said, shaking the attractive woman's hand.

"Thea and I share the house as well as the business," Cara said.

Thea Morgenstern spoke up. "I'm sort of the house mother here; I have to meet all of Cara's dates to be sure I approve."

"Thea-" Cara began.

"And do you approve?" Sandy asked.

"Sweetheart," she said, pouring a Scotch, "with the kind of design job you've given her, I'd approve of the hunchback of Notre Dame."

"Thea!" Cara exclaimed, with comic shock. "Sandy, I apologize for my partner. She's far too interested in money."

"I have a great deal of respect for money, myself," Sandy said, laughing.

"I've seen Cara's sketches of your job," Thea said, "and I think you're going to be delighted."

"That's more than I've seen," Sandy said.

"And you won't just yet," Cara broke in. "Not until I'm ready, and that will be next week sometime."

"You're going to love it," Thea said. "So masculine, and yet, I think any woman would be very happy in it." She arched an eyebrow at Cara, who blushed.

"Sounds perfect," Sandy said. "What else are you girls- excuse me-ladies-"

"Women," Thea said.

"What else are you women working on?"

"Well, there's Cara's South Carolina job," Thea said.

"You're doing something in South Carolina?" Sandy asked. "I didn't know you ranged so far afield."

Cara looked uncomfortable. "A town house in Charleston, but don't worry, it won't interfere in the least with your project."

"I'm so glad," Sandy said, smiling to put her at ease. "And Thea, what are you working on?"

"Oh, all my stuff is so dull, compared to Cara's," she said. "I mean, making over a wine shop is something more interesting than anything I'm working on."

"We haven't gotten into the wine shop," Cara said, "so lay off, Thea."

"We should do that soon," Sandy said. "It's going to entail a trip to London."

"Take her away," Thea said.

"Not just yet," Cara exclaimed. "Thea would sell me into white slavery for a job, Sandy, and I think I'd better get you out of here before she embarrasses me further."

"Ready when you are," Sandy said. "Thea, a pleasure to meet you; I'm going to be keeping your partner very busy for a while."

"You do that, Sandy," Thea replied, shaking his hand again. "Do what you will with her."

"Thea!" Cara grabbed her handbag and led Sandy out of the house. In the car, she laughed. "Thea's something of a character, as you can see."

"I liked her," Sandy said. "Have you known her long?"

"Since we were children. We grew up together."

"In San Francisco?"

"Yep. Where are you taking me for dinner?"

"Cafe des Artistes. I know you've probably been a hundred times, but I do love the place."

"Actually, I've never been there."

"You amaze me; it's one of New York's landmarks."

"Well, I guess I've led a sheltered life," Cara said. "That, my lady, is coming to an end," Sandy proclaimed.

They were seated in a good corner of the old restaurant, and Cara handed him her menu.

"I place myself in your hands," she said.

"You're a smart woman," Sandy replied. "Let's start with a pair of Champagne fraise des bois, " he said to the waiter.

"Mmmm," she said when she had had her first sip. "It's like strawberry champagne."

"Just a little dash of wild strawberry liqueur at the bottom," Sandy said.

"And what are we going to have for dinner?"

"We'll start with the table of charcuterie behind you there."

"It all looks wonderful."

"And then, for a change of pace, I think we'll have the bourride."

"What's bourride?"

"A sort of fish stew, with lots of garlic."

"I love garlic."

"As long as we both have it, we're all right."

"And what will we drink with the bourride?"

"Something special, something I sent over this afternoon: a bottle of very old white burgundy, a Le Montrachet, '55."

"That, I've heard about," she said, "but I've never had it."

The wine arrived as she spoke, and after the ritual of tasting, a glass of golden liquid stood before each of them. Cara tasted hers.

"I've never tasted anything remotely like it," she said. "I didn't even know white wines lived that long."

"If they're very lovingly cared for," Sandy said. "This one has been in the same spot in the same cellar for about twenty years. In fact, I bought the wine with the cellar."

"You buy cellars?"

"I own several. I'm always looking for more storage space for wines, and I prefer cellars to warehouses. I'll give you a tour one of these days."

"A tour of cellars," she said, sipping her Le Montrachet. "No one has ever been so romantic."

"There's nothing more romantic than good wine growing old in a deep, dank cellar."

"I'll take your word for it."

They sat, sated, amid the ruins of an assortment of desserts, sipping another white wine.

"And what is this one?" she asked. "It tastes like honey."

"It's a Chateau Coutet, 1961; a very great white Bordeaux."

"It's the perfect ending to the evening," she said.

"No, it isn't," he replied. "There are other appetites yet to be satisfied."

She gazed across the table at him. "Yes," she said.

Sandy beckoned the waiter. "Check!" he called.

When Sandy woke, his first sensation was of pain, then of numbness; his left shoulder hurt, and the fingers on that hand were numb. He opened his eyes and his vision was filled with a tangle of auburn hair. The top of Cara Mason's head was a lovely sight, he thought.

He experimented with moving his shoulder to see if he could get the blood flowing in his fingers, but when he moved, she moaned and snuggled closer. She lifted her head and opened an amazingly green eye.

"Yes?" she asked hoarsely.

"It's just that my arm is asleep," he said.

"Oh," she said. "Just a moment." She climbed on top of him, then rolled off on the other side. Now her head was on his right shoulder. "Better?"

"Much. But I still have a problem."

"What's that?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"You don't really want to be in bed with me, do you?" she asked, digging him in the ribs.