Nightlife by Thomas Perry Read Free Book Online

something, I’ll be happy to give it up when he comes.”
    “No need,” said Rachel Sturbridge. “I’m alone.”
    He ordered a Macallan single-malt scotch, which showed he had some standards, but he wanted the twelve-year-old instead of the eighteen, which meant he wasn’t showing off. He turned to her. “Can I get you another martini?”
    “No, thank you,” she said. “I just started this one.”
    She decided he was probably the sort of man Rachel Sturbridge would like. He was tall and manly looking, and he was friendly in his manner but polite, and he hadn’t leaned over her to talk, the way some men did when they met an attractive woman.
    He sipped his drink and looked straight ahead. She sensed that if she wanted to talk to a gentleman like him, she would have to give him a signal she was willing. “I like this place, don’t you?”
    He appeared mildly surprised, as though he wasn’t quite sure that she had intended her question for him. When he turned and she met his eyes, he seemed pleased. “So far, I like it very much. I haven’t been here before, but I’ve heard good things.” He glanced at his watch, and the gesture gave Rachel Sturbridge two competing sensations. The indication that he might be bored made her stomach feel hollow, but her heart’s tempo picked up when she recognized the watch, a Patek Philippe that sold for around six thousand dollars. She was relieved when he added, “It’s pretty crowded. I didn’t have a reservation, but they said they’d try to fit me in. It’s nine now. I have to hope somebody cancels.”
    The young maître d’ appeared beside Rachel and said, “Miss Sturbridge, we can seat you now.”
    Rachel smiled. She had favors to dispense. “Come along. You can share my table.”
    The man was delighted. “Well, thank you.” The maître d’ returned to his podium and the hostess arrived just as they were going about the awkward business of getting down from adjacent bar stools. Rachel noted that he quickly slipped off his, stood back, and held her hand to keep her from falling. They both left their barely touched drinks, but the hostess gave an invisible signal to a passing waiter, who snatched them up and followed.
    The dining room at the bottom of the stairs was bright, lit by large bowl-shaped ceiling fixtures, and the light was reflected up from bright linen tablecloths. In the light, Rachel’s companion looked a bit more attractive but a bit older, and she revised her estimate from forty to fifty. While they were getting settled at a table near the far side of the room, she held her compact in her palm to see what the lighting was doing to her, but quickly verified that her makeup had kept her from losing her color, and the new brown hair shone exactly as she had intended. She slipped the compact back into her purse.
    He said, “I’m David Larson, and I thank you for your gracious invitation. I was kicking myself for coming without a reservation, and I find that it worked out better this way. I may never call for a reservation again.” She detected a faint accent, but couldn’t quite place it—the South?
    She liked it that he was confident enough to give an exaggerated compliment, and she liked the way his blue eyes transmitted sincerity without awkwardness. She decided to encourage him. “My name is Rachel Sturbridge, and it’s a pleasure to have your company.” She delivered her words with a condescending ease, like an actress stopping on the red carpet outside a movie premiere to speak to a camera.
    Larson said, “Usually I have my assistant make all my reservations from home, but this time I didn’t have much notice. It was one of those times to throw some clothes in a bag and head for the airport.”
    “Where is ‘home’?”
    “Austin,” he said. “How about you?”
    “At the moment, I’m living in San Francisco,” she said. “I’ve only been here a short time.” If he was from Austin, the safe place to be from was the