Mr. Tony Stark was, as usual, off duty.
An uncapped bottle of whiskey stood on the glass coffee-table; the ice bucket held only water.
Lingerie, jackets, and shoes littered the floor from the living-room door to the bedroom, the air thick with sharp scents.
The man's hair stood like a haystack, eyes puffy with sleep.
Bare-chested, he walked out, poured two fingers of whiskey, knocked it back, then slumped onto the sofa rubbing his temples.
Clearly, last night's party had been first-rate.
Fragments of the scenery flashed back; he began picking his next target from the girls.
Suddenly cool hands settled on his shoulders, sliding lower.
Blond hair brushed his chest; her cheek still carried the warm scent of bed.
She kissed his jaw.
"My darling Mr. Popular, still thirsty after last night's madness?"
She massaged his temples, padded to the open kitchen, poured two glasses of ice water, and handed them to the reviving man.
"Not enough." Tony raised a brow, openly appraising the model's body; she beamed, proudly displaying the figure she always flaunted.
"You train too hard." The cold water washed the fog away. "I could sponsor your gym, spruce the place up."
"We?" The blonde plopped onto the sofa, pressing against Tony, her fingers trailing down from his Adam's apple.
"Sure, you lot." Tony leaned back, eyes closed. "Can't be helped, right?"
She giggled. "So you're saying I seduced you, Mr. Irresistible?"
Tony opened his eyes and nodded innocently.
Pop.
She kissed him.
"Overtime round, little tumbler? Think you're up to it?"
Naked, she looped her arms round his neck, rolled into his lap, and laughed.
"My body?" Tony pinched her playfully. "As impressive as my bank balance and my company."
"All hail Stark!"
He spread his arms while she clung to his neck, arrogance and delight plain on his face. He tossed the empty glass aside, scooped her up, and headed for the bedroom.
She giggled.
At the bar, a phone chimed on the marble.
"Hold that thought—warm up for me," he said, tossing her onto the bed. "Yoga—Hanuman split."
He strutted out and answered impatiently.
"Say what?!"
The torrent of news cooled his ardor.
"Got it. Send them up—and get someone to tidy the living room first."
Tony Stark, owner of Stark Industries. Count the five richest men on one hand and his name is on at least one finger.
The living room looked nothing like a palace; it screamed tech.
Wrenches, screws, cables snaking from the walls—any old-school noble would hate it.
Jack and Rose, however, felt right at home.
Wrinkled Jack gently supported Rose as they stepped into Mr. Stark's home.
The butler, dressed in a black suit, escorted the two near-centenarians as they shuffled in unsteadily.
The old woman was fiercely stubborn, flatly refusing the wheelchair he offered.
'I was riding horses on the beach before you were even born.'
Her cloudy eyes glared at the butler; then her husband, nodding approval, chimed in, 'A real fiery mare.'
Whether he meant his wife or the horse, no one could tell.
Mr. Stark slipped on a shirt, tidied his hair, and waited for the pair whose combined age neared two centuries. Had it not been for that name woven through their story, he'd never have sent the model home early.
He was rather fond of the Hanuman pose.
'What would you like to drink? At your age, soda's probably out, right?'
Tony raised an eyebrow and set two bottles of iced water on the table.
The two old-timers sat opposite him, still hand-in-hand on the sofa, as affectionate as ever.
'Tony Stark, I presume?' The old man's bony fingers drummed on his knee. 'Jack Dawson, and this is Rose Dawson.'
Having introduced them, he added, 'I knew your father.'
Yes, Howard Stark… and 'Sen Getsusa.'
Tony chuckled. 'So the answer's about to surface?'
'No, young man. For you, the dive has only just begun.' The one called Rose smiled, mischievous even in old age. 'You're still far from the bottom, and we're not telling.'
'Whatever Howard's boy told you, we're only here to ask a favor.'
Jack recited an address; then Rose drew a folder from her bag and handed it to Tony.
'These are every painting we collected in our lifetime. Keep them safe, and when—well—when she returns, give them all to her.'
'We also funded many orphanages. If you could continue that, it would mean far more than pouring money into models' backsides.'
Old Rose's tongue was as sharp as ever.
Though bent with age and furrowed with wrinkles, she remained fearless at heart, speaking with the blunt courage of a girl.
Tony shrugged, skimmed the file—and his eyes went wide.
'This many Picassos? Don't tell me they're real.'
'Of course.' Jack lifted his head and gave Rose a tender glance. 'We always loved his work, and my sister once told us to gather as many as we could.'
'And, within our means, to sponsor more orphanages.'
'We did both.'
The two elders looked at each other and clasped hands, content.
Tony set the file aside in silence, hesitating.
'Speak freely,' Jack said, his wrinkled face still youthful in spirit as he gestured grandly.
'I just… do you truly believe that girl is still alive?'
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