"That's right."
"Don't call me Mr. Spinelli. I like people to call me Phil," he said,
and gestured toward the car. The chauffeur opened the door again,
and Laura got in. The back of the car was enormously roomy, and the
upholstery was luxurious. A sliding glass panel separated the rear
compartment from the driver's cabin.
"Hungry?" Spinelli asked, grinning.
"Some," Laura said.
"What about the Henri IX? Or don't you like French cuisine?"
Laura almost said, _I don't know, I've never tried it_. But she
checked herself in time. Settling back against the wonderfully buoyant
upholstery, she smiled and said, "I love it."
"Henri IX," Spinelli said to the chauffeur, and slid the glass panel
shut.
As the car pulled away and swung eastward in a big, arrogant U-turn,
Laura turned slightly to eye Spinelli. He was younger than she had
expected--no more than thirty-five at the very most, and possibly even
a few years younger. He was a medium height, extremely well-dressed,
with a relaxed, cosmopolitan manner. His face was tanned, his dark
hair thick and curly, and he wore a neat little clipped mustache. He
was, Laura thought, one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.
He positively radiated wealth, power, animal magnetism, strength. An
enormous sapphire glinted from a massive gold ring on one hand. Even
his wristwatch was formidable, a sleek oval face with all manner of
smaller dials on it.
He was looking her over thoroughly, too. And, so far as Laura could
tell, he seemed to be pleased.
As they reached the corner he said, "Would you care for a drink,
Laura?"