Herbie began to protest, but Stone held up a hand like a traffic cop and then waved him back to his own table and the clutches of the perfidious Sheila.

Felicity watched him go. “Isn’t that the awful little twit who gave you so much trouble a couple of years ago?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What was in the carrier bag?”

“A million dollars in cash.”

“Oh.” There were sounds of the sweeping up of glass from the front of the room, and a waiter appeared.

“Would the lady like a drink?” he asked.

“Thank you,” Felicity said. “The lady would like a Rob Roy with ice.”

Dino came back through the front door, holstering his weapon. “Felicity!” he said. “I thought that was you getting out of the Rolls.”

“Hello, Dino,” Felicity said warmly, for a member of the British upper class. She allowed herself to be pecked on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Pretty good,” Dino said. “Sorry about the excitement; somebody put a couple rounds through the front window.”

“Of course,” Felicity replied.

Elaine came and stood by the table. “So,” she said, “who’s paying for the window?”

Stone jerked a thumb toward the rear of the room. “Herbie Fisher, and he’s got the cash on him.”

Elaine walked back to Herbie’s table and slapped him on the back of the head. Stone could not hear what she was saying to him, but Herbie dipped into Sheila’s handbag and came up with a thick slice of hundreds. Elaine tucked the money into her bosom without a word and moved on to the table of another regular.

“This has always been such an interesting place,” Felicity said, sipping her Rob Roy.

Stone gazed with heartfelt lust at her pale red hair, her unblemished skin, and her very English but nevertheless sexy clothes. “You make it even more interesting,” he said.