Page 27 of Stuart Woods' Golden Hour

He took it. On the front was written BILLY BARNETT, but nothing else. “Who’s it from?”

“No idea.”

“Then how did you get it?”

“A motorcycle courier brought it to the party entrance. The staff sent someone to find you but saw me first.”

“What did the courier look like?”

“Like a courier,” she said, as if it were the most obvious answer.

“Did you see his or her face?”

“His, and no. He kept his helmet on the whole time, and its visor was tinted.”

Billy slipped the envelope in his pocket. “Thank you, Stacy.”

“Doyouknow who it’s from?”

“I have an idea.”

She waited, but when he didn’t elaborate, she said, “Another detail about your life I don’t need to know?”

He smiled and said, “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Stacy headed down the hallway, and Billy called the car service the Centurion team was using in Rome. While he and Bianca waited, he opened the envelope and pulled out the message.

Written on the paper was a Rome address and five a.m. There was no name, but Billy didn’t need it. The sender had to be Samuel Rogers.

The car pulled up a few moments later. Billy opened the back door and let Bianca get in. Instead of climbing in after her, he leaned inside and said, “Give the driver your address and he’ll take you home.”

She looked at him, confused. “I thought we were going to your hotel.”

“As did I.” He held up the envelope. “I have some business to take care of, I’m afraid. So, I’ll have to take a rain check.”

The early morning meeting meant tomorrow was going to be even busier for Billy than originally planned.

Bianca’s mood darkened. “It is another woman, I assume. You men, you are all the same.”

“You assume incorrectly.”

Her eyes locked on his. “You are telling me the truth?”

“I am.” He flashed the envelope again. “Purely business.No pleasure involved. If you are free tomorrow evening, might I suggest dinner alone in my suite?”

“Are you sure you will not find more business to keep you away from me?”

“I cannot promise that, but I will do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Give me your phone.”

Billy did so. She called her own phone on his, hung up both, and handed his cell back.

“There. Now you have my number. Text me what time we will meet.”

“It may be a little late. We have a lot of press to do tomorrow.”

She shrugged. “I’m Italian. Your idea of late is still early forme.”

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