Noble House

"Did you? L.A.'s my hometown—I went to high school in the Valley."
"I love California," she said. "How d'you like Hong Kong?"
"I've just arrived." Bartlett grinned. "Seems I made an explosive entrance."
She laughed. Lovely white teeth. "Hong Kong's all right—provided you can leave every month or so. You should visit Macao for a weekend—it's old worldly, very pretty, only forty miles away with good ferries. It's very different from Hong Kong." She turned back to Gornt. "Again, I'm sorry to interrupt, Quillan, just wanted to say hello. …" She started to leave.
"No, we're through—I was just going," Bartlett said, interrupting her. "Thanks again, Mr. Gornt. See you Tuesday if not before. .. . Hope to see you again, Miss Ramos."
"Yes, that would be nice. Here's my card—if you'll grant the interview I guarantee a good press." She held out her hand and he touched it and felt her warmth.
Gornt saw him to the door and then closed it and came back to his desk and took a cigarette. She lit the match for him and blew out the flame, then sat in the chair Bartlett had used.
"Nice-looking man," she said.
"Yes. But he's American, naive, and a very cocky bastard who may need taking down a peg."
"That's what you want me to do?"
"Perhaps. Did you read his dossier?"
"Oh yes. Very interesting." Orlanda smiled.
"You're not to ask him for money," Gornt said sharply.
"Ayeeyah, Quillan, am I that dumb?" she said as abrasively, her eyes flashing.
"Good."
"Why would he smuggle guns into Hong Kong?"
"Why indeed, my dear? Perhaps someone was just using him."
"That must be the answer. If I had all his money I wouldn't try something as stupid as that."
"No," Gornt said.
"Oh, did you like that bit about my being a free-lance reporter? I thought I did that very well."
"Yes, but don't underestimate him. He's no fool. He's very sharp. Very." He told her about the Casale. "That's too much of a coincidence. He must have a dossier on me too, a detailed one. Not many know of my liking for that place."
"Maybe I'm in it too."
"Perhaps. Don't let him catch you out. About the free lancing."
"Oh, come on, Quillan, who of the tai-pans except you and Dun-ross read the Chinese papers—and even then you can't read all of them. I've already done a column or two … 'by a Special Correspondent.' If he grants me an interview I can write it. Don't worry." She moved the ashtray closer for him. "It went all right, didn't it? With Bartlett?"
"Perfectly. You're wasted. You should be in the movies."
"Then talk to your friend about me, please, please, Quillan dear. Charlie Wang's the biggest producer in Hong Kong and owes you lots of favors. Charlie Wang has so many movies going that… just one chance is all I need. … I could become a star! Please?"
"Why not?" he asked dryly. "But I don't think you're his type."
"I can adapt. Didn't I act exactly as you wanted with Bartlett. Am I not dressed perfectly, American style?"
"Yes, yes you are." Gornt looked at her, then said delicately, "You could be perfect for him. I was thinking you could perhaps have something more permanent than an affair. …"
All her attention concentrated. "What?"
"You and he could fit together like a perfect Chinese puzzle. You're good-humored, the right age, beautiful, clever, educated, marvelous at the pillow, very smart in the head, with enough of an American patina to put him at ease." Gornt exhaled smoke and added, "And of all the ladies I know, you could really spend his money. Yes, you two could fit perfectly . . . he'd be very good for you and you'd brighten his life considerably. Wouldn't you?"
"Oh yes," she said at once. "Oh yes I would." She smiled then frowned. "But what about the woman he has with him? They're sharing a suite at the Vic. I heard she's gorgeous. What about her, Quillan?"
Gornt smiled thinly. "My spies say they don't sleep together though they're better than friends."
Her face fell. "He's not queer, is he?"
Gornt laughed. It was a good rich laugh. "I wouldn't do that to you, Orlanda! No, I'm sure he's not. He's just got a strange arrangement with Casey."
"What is it?"
Gornt shrugged.
After a moment she said, "What do I do about her?" "If Casey Tcholok's in your way, remove her. You've got claws." "You're . . . Sometimes I don't like you at all." "We're both realists, you and I. Aren't we." He said it very flat. She recognized the undercurrent of violence. At once she got up and leaned across the desk and kissed him lightly. "You're a devil," she said, placating him. "That's for old times."
His hand strayed to her breast and he sighed, remembering, enjoying the warmth that came through the thin material. "Ayeeyah, Orlanda, we had some good times, didn't we?"
She had been his mistress when she was seventeen. He was her first and he had kept her for almost five* years and would have continued but she went with a youth to Macao when he was away and he had been told about it. And so he had stopped. At once. Even though they had a daughter then, he and she, one year old.
"Orlanda," he had told her as she had begged for forgiveness, "there's nothing to forgive. I've told you a dozen times that youth needs youth, and there'd come a day…. Dry your tears, marry the lad—I'll give you a dowry and my blessing. . . ." And throughout all her weepings he had remained firm. "We'll be friends," he had assured her, "and I'll take care of you when you need it. . . ."
The next day he had turned the heat of his covert fury on the youth, an Englishman, a minor executive in Asian Properties and, within the month, he had broken him. "It's a matter of face," he had told her calmly. "Oh I know, I understand but… what shall I do now?" she had wailed. "He's leaving tomorrow for England and he wants me to go with him and marry him but I can't marry now, he's got no money or future or job or money. . . ." "Dry your tears, then go shopping." "What?"
"Yes. Here's a present." He had given her a first-class, return ticket to London on the same airplane that the youth was traveling tourist. And a thousand pounds in crisp, new ten-pound notes. "Buy lots of pretty clothes, and go to the theater. You're booked into the Connaught for eleven days—just sign the bill—and your return's confirmed, so have a happy time and come back fresh and without problems!"
"Oh thank you, Quillan darling, oh thank you. … I'm so sorry. You forgive me?" "There's nothing to forgive. But if you ever talk to him again, or see him privately … I won't be friendly to you or your family ever again."
She had thanked him profusely through her tears, cursing herself for her stupidity, begging for the wrath of heaven to descend upon whoever had betrayed her. The next day the youth had tried to speak to her at the airport and on the plane and in London but she just cursed him away. She knew where her rice bowl rested. The day she left London he committed suicide.
When Gornt heard about it, he lit a fine cigar and took her out to a dinner atop the Victoria and Albert with candelabra and fine linen and fine silver, and then, after he had had his Napoleon brandy and she her creme de rrlenthe, he had sent her home, alone, to the apartment he still paid for. He had ordered another brandy and stayed, watching the lights of the harbor, and the Peak, feeling the glory of vengeance, the majesty of life, his face regained.
Ayeeyah, we had some good times," Gornt said again now, still desiring her, though he had not pillowed with her from the time he had heard about Macao.
"Quillan …" she began, his hand warming her too.
"No."
Her eyes strayed to the inner door. "Please. It's three years, there's never been anyone . . ."