then had moved on to their parked cars. Henri and Kelly joined in the general exodus.
“My God, we nearly had them,” Kelly said.
“Yes, we did, but never mind,” Henri told him. “There will be other times.”
A s they passed the Tower of London on the way back, Holley said, “Are you sure that you’re all right, Sara?”
“Of course I am. It could have turned nasty, it didn’t. I wouldn’t say no to a drink.” She looked at her watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. Can we drop in at the Dorchester Bar?”
“Of course we can.”
“What an evening,” she said. “It was fun. I liked the Salters.”
“And Dora’s hot pot.”
“Was bloody marvelous. She should patent it.”
He pulled in at the front of the Dorchester, handed his keys over, and they went in. It was busy, but there was nothing surprising in that. The problem was, the bar was packed, and so was the concourse, with the late-supper trade.
“It would appear to be just one of those nights,” he said. “I can only apologize.”
“What for? I’m sure you have an absolutely wonderful suite waiting upstairs. Can we take a look?”
T he maids had dimmed the lights and left the French windows in the sitting room open to the night air, because that was the way Holley liked it. The white gossamer curtains stirred constantly, like living things, giving the whole room an eerie feeling.
“This is extraordinary,” Sara told him.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Champagne, please.”
The curtains were like cobwebs to be brushed aside as she went through, but the view from the terrace high up above Mayfair and Hyde Park, the splendor of the city at night, lights stretching into the distance, was incredible.
Holley came out with a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket with two glasses. He filled them and offered her one. She ran the ice-cold glass against her forehead.
“That’s lovely,” she said.
“What do we drink to?”
“Oh, to love in spite of war, and to this incredibly wonderful place we’re in now, which is not the real world and never could be. Out there, one way or the other, it’s all Afghanistan, where the beast rules.”
“I think I see where you’re coming from,” Holley told her. “But what exactly are you saying?”
“You pointed out that you never had much time for relationships in your line of work, because although you were here today, you were very possibly gone tomorrow, and you meant permanently.”
“Which is true.”
“What would you say if I said I’d like you to take me to bed?”
“I’d say no.”
“But why?” She looked genuinely bewildered. “I know how you feel about me. It’s been obvious from the moment we met. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a woman. We know about these things.”
He took her empty glass from her hand and refilled it. “Would you just listen to me? In the old days, I ran guns out of Algiers to the Mafia, so I was familiar with the part of Sicilian folklore that speaks of the thunderbolt that strikes a man when he meets the special woman, the
only
woman.”
She stopped drinking, just stared at him. “What are you trying to say?”
“That I always thought it was nonsense until I saw the most desirable and endearing woman I’d ever set eyes on limping around that dance floor at the Pierre.”
“So why won’t you take me to bed?”
“Well, God help anyone who tries to do you harm, but regarding anything else . . . Sara, I fear I’m carrying too much baggage. And as you may have noticed, I’m too old for you.”
Her expression was unreadable, though there was a touch of triumph there. “Oh, you poor old boy.” She emptied her glass and dropped it into the champagne bucket. “You can take me home now.”
She was smiling as they went down in the lift, smiled at the doorman when he got the Mercedes for them, was
“My God, we nearly had them,” Kelly said.
“Yes, we did, but never mind,” Henri told him. “There will be other times.”
A s they passed the Tower of London on the way back, Holley said, “Are you sure that you’re all right, Sara?”
“Of course I am. It could have turned nasty, it didn’t. I wouldn’t say no to a drink.” She looked at her watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. Can we drop in at the Dorchester Bar?”
“Of course we can.”
“What an evening,” she said. “It was fun. I liked the Salters.”
“And Dora’s hot pot.”
“Was bloody marvelous. She should patent it.”
He pulled in at the front of the Dorchester, handed his keys over, and they went in. It was busy, but there was nothing surprising in that. The problem was, the bar was packed, and so was the concourse, with the late-supper trade.
“It would appear to be just one of those nights,” he said. “I can only apologize.”
“What for? I’m sure you have an absolutely wonderful suite waiting upstairs. Can we take a look?”
T he maids had dimmed the lights and left the French windows in the sitting room open to the night air, because that was the way Holley liked it. The white gossamer curtains stirred constantly, like living things, giving the whole room an eerie feeling.
“This is extraordinary,” Sara told him.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Champagne, please.”
The curtains were like cobwebs to be brushed aside as she went through, but the view from the terrace high up above Mayfair and Hyde Park, the splendor of the city at night, lights stretching into the distance, was incredible.
Holley came out with a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket with two glasses. He filled them and offered her one. She ran the ice-cold glass against her forehead.
“That’s lovely,” she said.
“What do we drink to?”
“Oh, to love in spite of war, and to this incredibly wonderful place we’re in now, which is not the real world and never could be. Out there, one way or the other, it’s all Afghanistan, where the beast rules.”
“I think I see where you’re coming from,” Holley told her. “But what exactly are you saying?”
“You pointed out that you never had much time for relationships in your line of work, because although you were here today, you were very possibly gone tomorrow, and you meant permanently.”
“Which is true.”
“What would you say if I said I’d like you to take me to bed?”
“I’d say no.”
“But why?” She looked genuinely bewildered. “I know how you feel about me. It’s been obvious from the moment we met. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a woman. We know about these things.”
He took her empty glass from her hand and refilled it. “Would you just listen to me? In the old days, I ran guns out of Algiers to the Mafia, so I was familiar with the part of Sicilian folklore that speaks of the thunderbolt that strikes a man when he meets the special woman, the
only
woman.”
She stopped drinking, just stared at him. “What are you trying to say?”
“That I always thought it was nonsense until I saw the most desirable and endearing woman I’d ever set eyes on limping around that dance floor at the Pierre.”
“So why won’t you take me to bed?”
“Well, God help anyone who tries to do you harm, but regarding anything else . . . Sara, I fear I’m carrying too much baggage. And as you may have noticed, I’m too old for you.”
Her expression was unreadable, though there was a touch of triumph there. “Oh, you poor old boy.” She emptied her glass and dropped it into the champagne bucket. “You can take me home now.”
She was smiling as they went down in the lift, smiled at the doorman when he got the Mercedes for them, was
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