CHAPTER 48

It was their last night before the trial. "Want to go to dinner at the inn?" Stone asked.

She shook her head. "I don't want to be on display. I would much rather cook dinner for you aboard."

"Why don't I cook dinner for you instead?" he asked.

"No, that would have too much of the condemned's last meal about it."

"Come on, I don't want you to worry about the trial."

"I am serene," she said, and she certainly seemed way. "I'd just rather do something normal, like cooking. In fact, I've already thawed a chateaubriand in anticipation."

"Sounds wonderful. Can I make a Caesar salad?"

"Oh, all right, but just the salad. There's some romaine lettuce in the supplies Thomas sent down."

"And I need fresh eggs, olive oil, garlic, some Dijon mustard, and a can of anchovies."

"All in the galley. I'll get the meat started and make some bearnaise sauce first. You can make me a martini."

"Pfft! You're a martini!"

She groaned.

"One martini, coming up." Stone mixed the drink, shook it, dropped an olive in, strained the crystal liquid into a large martini glass, and set it on the galley counter.

She sipped it. "Mmmm. Just right."

Stone mixed himself a rum and tonic and watched as she unwrapped the beef, the center of the tenderloin, pounded it to about an inch and a half of thickness with a meat mallet, dusted it liberally with salt and pepper, and laid it on the gas grill. Then she diced some shallots and sauteed them with some tarragon, vinegar, and white wine. While this mixture was reducing she separated half a dozen egg yolks, heated some butter, then put the yolks into the Cuisinart, turned it on, and poured hot butter into the chute. Moments later she had hollandaise, which, when mixed with the reduced shallots and tarragon, became bearnaise. She dipped a finger into the sauce and held it up for Stone to taste.

"Wow!" Stone said. "You made that look easy."

"It is easy," she replied, turning over the beef. "Now you can make your salad.

Stone rinsed the romaine leaves and left them to drain. He crushed a couple of garlic cloves and some anchovies into the wooden salad bowl, then separated two egg yolks and dropped them into the bowl as well. Then he whipped the mixture with a whisk while adding oil until the consistency was perfect. He added a of mustard and a little vinegar, some salt and gave her a fingerful to taste.

"Absolutely perfect," she crowed, hoisting the meat a cutting board and slicing it deftly with a sharp knife.

Stone put the lettuce into the bowl with the dressing tossed it until each leaf was thinly coated, then set on the saloon table alongside the beef.

Allison dug out a bottle of red wine. "You do the honors," she said, holding it out with the corkscrew for him.

"Opus One,'89," he said, reading the label. "I'm impressed."

"It's the best bottle on the boat."

"And it will need decanting. You have a seat." He the wine gently into a decanter, watching for the sediment to creep up the bottle's neck, stopping when it he sat down and poured them both some.

Allison raised her glass. "To the best last meal a girl had," she said.

Stone raised his glass. "To the last meal's arriving abouut seventy years from now."

She laughed. "I'll drink to that."

They ate hungrily, wolfing down the tender beef taking the marvelous wine in large sips, then served themselves seconds of everything.

"I won't have room for dessert," Stone said.

"I'm dessert," she replied. "And you'd better have room."

They lay together in the aft cabin, kissing and stroking each other tenderly. They both had things to forget, Stone thought-he, Arrington; she, that he might be the last man she'd ever have. There was a moon filtering through the portholes, and in its light, with her fair hair and skin, she was as white as marble. Stone bent over her and his tongue found its way through the soft, blond pubic hair into the warm sweetness beneath. He was gentle, not pressing her, and she ran her fingers through his hair, encouraging and directing him until she shuddered and came quietly.

Then she reversed their positions, taking him into her mouth, caressing him with her tongue and fingers, drawing him to his fullest-teasing, tempting, but never allowing him to climax. Finally, when he was nearly mad, she mounted him and pulled him into a sitting position. They were mouth to mouth, nipple to nipple, he deeply into her. She brought her feet behind him so that she could pull him even farther inside her.

They stayed that way for what seemed like hours, then Allison began moving more rapidly. Stone moved with her, and, locked tightly together, they came noisily, finally toppling over onto the sheets.

"If that has to be my last time," she panted, "I won't have any complaints as to how well it went. I honestly don't think sex can be any better than that."

"You won't get an argument from me," Stone panted back.

They lay in each other's arms for a while, then she surprised him by bounding out of bed. "Come with me!" she cried.

He followed her into the saloon, then up the companionway and into the cockpit, oblivious of the two guards on the dock. She flung herself over the lifelines and into English Harbour, with Stone right her, matching her stroke for stroke.

She stopped and treaded water. "Do you think they I'm making a break for it?" she asked.

"I think they're too astonished to think," Stone laughing.

They swam out into the harbor, the moon sparkling an their wake, then back to the yacht, climbing aboard gain. Then they went back to bed and started over.

CHAPTER 49

The drive to Government House, with Thomas at the wheel, was silent. Stone sat in the front, reading the opening statement he had written, merely for something to occupy his mind. Leslie Hewitt would probably ignore it anyway. He glanced occasionally at Allison, who sat in the backseat, gazing absently out at the St.Marks landscape, seemingly calm and self-possessed. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, at Stone's request, and she wore a mostly blue, floral-printed silk dress. She looked about twenty-one, Stone thought.

They arrived in the official parking lot nearly simultaneously with Sir Leslie Hewitt's ancient Morris Minor station wagon. Everyone got out and shook hands, smiling, attempting good spirits. With Hewitt in the lead they entered the building through the police door and climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing through a corridor to the door used by guards, lawyers, and defendants. To one side was a small robing room, and and Hewitt donned their robes and wigs. Once again, Stone felt foolish.

They entered the courtroom. Stone had forgotten Allison would have to stand in the dock, several behind the defense table; he would not be able to confer with her when court was in session. He felt very out of his element. In New York he would have at home in any courtroom and in at least partial control. Here he felt like an intruder, and he worked hard at not letting Allison know it.

Spectators were filing into the gallery, which was raised in tiers like a college lecture room or, more aptly, London's Old Bailey. The room was not paneled, simply painted, and the paint had begun to fade and peel. Stone saw Frank Stendahl, the insurance salesman, enter and take a front-row seat not far from the dock.

At the front of the room, elevated above the defense was the bench; to the judge's'right witness box, and beyond that, the jury would sit. Stone and Sir Leslie sat down at the defense table. A moment later Sir Winston Sutherland swept into the courtroom, his robes flowing, followed by his assistant.

"Leslie," Stone asked, "did you have an opportunity to study the opening and closing statements I wrote?"