“On the contrary,” she said, “I’ll have one with you.”
She moved over to Mason’s side, the muscles of her well-developed figure sliding smoothly under the blue satin of her evening gown.
“Don’t get up,” she said.
Mason struck a match, and she steadied his hand in hers as she held the flame to the cigarette.
Bill Golding, behind the desk, husked, “Okay, what do you want?”
“Where are the stones you got from George Trent?” Mason asked.
The man behind the desk moved uneasily. The red patches of color on his cheeks intensified. “So,” he said, “you’re going to sing that song, are you?”
“Take it easy, Bill,” the woman remarked, seating herself beside Mason, her bare arm propped on the back of the davenport, her body so close that Mason could detect the faint scent of perfume behind her ears.
Golding said, “I didn’t get any stones from George Trent.”
“A couple of hours ago — perhaps three hours ago,” Mason went on, “Austin Cullens was up here.”