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Zusatztext Praise for Sex! Lies & Serious Money “[An] irresistible! luxury-soaked soap opera.”— Publishers Weekly “Series fans will continue to enjoy this bird’s-eye view of the high life.” — Booklist More Praise for Stuart Woods “Stuart Woods is a no-nonsense! slam-bang storyteller.”— Chicago Tribune “A world-class mystery writer...I try to put Woods’s books down and I can’t.”— Houston Chronicle “Mr. Woods! like his characters! has an appealing way of making things nice and clear.”— The New York Times “Woods certainly knows how to keep the pages turning.”— Booklist “Since 1981! readers have not been able to get their fill of Stuart Woods’ New York Times bestselling novels of suspense.”— Orlando Sentinel “Woods’s Stone Barrington is a guilty pleasure...he’s also an addiction that’s harder to kick than heroin.”— Contra Costa Times (California) Informationen zum Autor Stuart Woods is the author of more than sixty novels! including the #1 New York Times bestselling Stone Barrington series. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs ! his debut in 1981! won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot! Woods lives in Florida! Maine! and New Mexico. 1 Stone Barrington landed at Teterboro Airport, having flown nonstop from Santa Fe, with a good tailwind. He and Bob, his Labrador retriever, were met by Fred Flicker, his factotum, at the airport. Bob threw himself at Fred. After a moment’s happy reunion, they were transferred to Stone’s car. Stone had spent most of the flight trying to put Gala Wilde out of his mind after their breakup. He had not succeeded. They arrived at Stone’s house in Turtle Bay and Fred pulled into the garage. Stone got out of the car to be greeted by his secretary, Joan Robertson, but Bob got there first and did his happy dance. “There’s somebody waiting to see you,” Joan said. “Anybody I know?” “Apparently a friend of somebody you know in Palm Beach.” Stone’s circle of acquaintances in Palm Beach was not wide. “Dicky Chalmers?” “Right.” “Give me a minute, then send him in.” Stone went into his office, rummaged among the mail and messages on his desk and found a pink message slip. Stone, I’m sending you somebody you will find interesting. Dicky Stone looked up to see a young man standing in his doorway: late twenties or early thirties, unkempt hair, scraggly beard, dressed in a current style Stone thought of as “adolescent lumberjack”—checkered shirt, tail out, greasy jeans, sneakers, hoodie, top down. “Mr. Barrington?” “Come in,” Stone said, “and have a seat.” “Your friend Richard Chalmers suggested I should see you.” “How are the Chalmerses?” “Dicky and Vanessa are very well.” “Do you have a name?” “Sorry. I’m Laurence Hayward.” He spelled both names. “Larry, to your friends?” “Laurence, if you please.” He sounded vaguely English when he said that. “Laurence, it is. I’m Stone, and this is Bob.” Bob came over and sniffed the young man, accepted a scratching of the ears, then went to his bed and lay down. “How can I help you, Laurence?” “I’m being pursued,” Laurence replied. “Pursued by whom?” “Everybody.” Oh, God, Stone thought, not one of those. He took a deep breath. “Well, Laurence, why don’t we start with your telling me about -yourself?” “What would you like to know?” “Sixty-second bio.” “All right. I’m thirty years old. I was born in West Palm Beach, Florida. When I was eight, my mother, who was the manager of a small hotel in our community, was swept off her feet by an Englishman, who was an investor in the hot...
