Noble House

"Yes," she said. "They're also the original builders." She hesitated. "Jason Plumm and Quillan are good friends. Quillan still owns the penthouse though he sublet it when we broke up."
Bartlett put his arm around her. "I'm glad you did."
"So'm I." Her smile was tender and her wide-eyed innocence tore at him. "Now I am."
They reached the eighth floor and he noticed her fingers tremble slightly as she put the key into her lock. "Come in, Line. Tea, coffee, beer or a cocktail?" She slipped off her shoes and looked up at him. His heart was pounding and his senses reached out to feel whether the apartment was empty. "We're alone," she said simply.
"How do you know what I'm thinking?"
She shrugged a little shrug. "It's only some things."
He put his hands on her waist. "Orlanda . . ."
"I know, my darling."
Her voice was husky and it sent a tremor through him. When he kissed her, her lips welcomed him, her loins soft and unresisting. His hands traced her. He felt her nipples harden and the throb of her heart equal his. Then her hands left his neck and pressed against his chest but this time he held her against him, his kiss more urgent. The pressure of her hands ceased and once more the hands slid around his neck, her loins closer now. They broke from the kiss but held each other.
"I love you, Line."
"I love you, Orlanda," he replied, and the sudden truth of it consumed him. Again they kissed, her hands tender but strong, his own hands wandering and in their wake, fire. For him and for her. More of her weight rested on his arms as her knees weakened and he lifted her easily and carried her through the open door into the bedroom. The gossamer curtains that hung from the ceiling to form the four-poster moved gently in the cool sweet breeze from the open windows.
The coverlet was soft and down-filled.
"Be kind to me, my darling," she whispered huskily. "Oh how I love you."
From the stern of the Sea Witch, Casey waved good-bye to Dun-stan Barre, Plumm and Pugmire who stood on the wharf, Hong Kong side, where they had just been dropped, the late afternoon pleasant but still overcast. The boat was heading back across the harbor again—Peter Marlowe and the girls had already been dropped off at Kowloon—Gornt having persuaded her to stay on board for the extra trip. "I've got to come back to Kowloon again," he had told her. "I've an appointment at the Nine Dragons. Keep me company. Please?"
"Why not?" she had agreed happily, in no hurry, still in plenty of time to change for the cocktail party to which Plumm had invited her this afternoon. She had decided to postpone her dinner with Lando Mata for one day next week.
On the way back from Sha Tin this afternoon she had dozed part of the time, wrapped up warm against a stiff breeze, curled up on the wide, comfortable cushions that circled the stem, the other guests scattered, sometimes Gornt there at the conn, tall, strong and captain of the ship, Peter Marlowe alone in a deck chair dozing at the bow. Later they had had tea and cakes, he and Casey and Barre. During tea, Pugmire and Plumm had appeared, tousled and content, their girls in tow.
"Sleep well?" Gornt had asked with a smile.
"Very," Plumm had said.
I'll bet, she had thought, watching him and his girl, liking her— big, dark eyes, svelte, a happy soul called Wei-wei who stayed with him like his shadow.
Earlier, when she and Gornt had been alone on deck, he had told her that none of these were casual friends, all of them special.
"Does everyone here have a mistress?"
"Good lord no. But, well, sorry, but men and women age differently and after a certain age it's difficult. Bluntly, pillowing and love and marriage aren't the same."
"There's no such thing as faithfulness?"
"Of course. Absolutely. For a woman it means one thing, for a man another."
Casey had sighed. "That's terrible. Terrible and so unfair."
"Yes. But only if you wish it to be."
"That's not right! Think .of the millions of women who work and slave all their lives, looking after the man, scrubbing and cleaning and nowadays helping to support their children, to be shoved aside just because they're old."
"You can't blame men, that's the way society is."
"And who runs society? Men! Jesus, Quillan, you've got to admit men are responsible!"
"I already agree it's unfair, but it's unfair on men too. What about the millions of men who work themselves to death to provide—that jolly word—to provide the money for others to spend, mostly women. Face it, Ciranoush, men have to go on working until they are dead, to support others, and more than frequently at the end of their lives, a hacking, shrewish wife—look at Pug's wife for God's sake! I could point out fifty who are unnecessarily fat, ugly and stink —literally. Then there's the other neat little female trick of the women who use their sex to trap, get pregnant to ensnare, then cry havoc and scream for a highly paid divorce. What about Line Bartlett, eh? What sort of a wringer did that wonderful wife of his put him through, eh?"
"You know about that?"
"Of course. You ran a tape on me, I ran one on both of you. Are your divorce laws fair? Fifty percent of everything and then the poor bloody American male has to go to court to decide what proportion of his fifty percent he can retain."
"It's true Line's wife and her attorney almost put him away. But not every wife's like that. But God, we're not chattel and most women need protection. Women throughout the world still get a raw deal."
"I've never known a real woman to get a raw deal," he said. "I mean a woman like you or Orlanda who understands what femininity means." Suddenly he had beamed at her. "Of course, en route she has to give us poor weak bastards what we want to stay healthy."
She had laughed with him, also wanting to change the subject— too difficult to solve now.
"Ah, Quillan, you're one of the bad ones all right."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
He had turned away to search the sky ahead. She watched him and he looked fine to her, standing there, swaying slightly, the wind ruffling the hairs on his strong forearms, his sea cap jaunty. I'm glad he trusts me and considers me a woman, she had thought, lulled by the wine and the food and by his desire. Ever since she had come aboard she had felt it strongly and she had wondered again how she would deal with it when it manifested itself, as it would, inevitably. Would it be yes or no? Or maybe? Or maybe next week?
Will there be a next week?
"What's going to happen tomorrow, Quillan? At the stock market?"
"Tomorrow can take care of tomorrow," he had said, the wind whipping him.
"Seriously?"
"I will win or I will not win." Gornt shrugged. "Either way I'm covered. Tomorrow I buy. With joss I have him by the shorts."
"And then?"
He had laughed. "Have you any doubt? I take him over, lock, stock and box at the races."
"Ah, you really want that, don't you?"
"Oh yes. Oh yes, that represents victory. He and his forebears have kept me and mine out. Of course I want that."
I wonder if I could make a deal with Ian, she had thought absently. Wonder if I could get the tai-pan to allow Quillan a box, his own box, and help make him a steward. Crazy for these two to be like bulls in a china shop-—there's more than enough room for both. Ian owes me a favor if Murtagh delivers.
Her heart fluttered and she wondered what had happened with Murtagh and the bank, and if the answer was yes, what Quillan would do.
And where is Line? Is he with Orlanda, in her arms, dreaming the afternoon away?
She curled up again on the stern and closed her eyes. The salt air and the throb of the engines and the motion through the sea put her to sleep. Her sleep was dreamless, womblike, and in a few minutes she awoke refreshed. Gornt was sitting opposite her now, watching her. They were alone again, the Cantonese captain at the wheel.