Noble House

"One day I'll own this house," Quillan Gornt had hissed at him, then turned and called out to the others, "If any of you want jobs, come to us. Soon you'll all be out of work. Your Noble House won't be noble much longer." Andrew Gavallan had been there, Jacques deVille, Alastair Struan, Lechie and David MacStruan, Phillip Chen, even John Chen.
Dunross remembered how his father had raged that night, and blamed treachery and nominees and bad joss, knowing all the time that he himself had warned him, many times, and that his warnings had been shoved aside. Christ, how we lost face! All Hong Kong laughed at us that time—the Noble House peed on from a great height by the Gornts and their Shanghainese interlopers.
Yes. But that night finalized Colin Dunross's downfall. That was the night I decided that he had to go before the Noble House was lost forever. I used Alastair Struan. I helped him to shove my father aside. Alastair Struan had to become tai-pan. Until I was wise enough and strong enough to shove him aside. Am I wise enough now?
I don't know, Dunross thought, concentrating on Quillan Gornt now, listening to his pleasantries, hearing himself react with equal charm, while his mind said, I haven't forgotten South Orient, or that we had to merge our airline with yours at a fire-sale price and lose control of the new line renamed All Asia Airways. Nothing's forgotten. We lost that time but this time we'll win. We'll win everything, by God.
Casey was watching both men with fascination. She had noticed Quillan Gornt from the first moment, recognizing him from the photographs of the dossier. She had sensed his strength and masculinity even from across the room and had been uneasily excited by him. As she watched, she could almost touch the tension between the two men squaring off—two bulls in challenge.
Andrew Gavallan had told her at once who Gornt was. She had volunteered nothing, just asked Gavallan and Linbar Struan why they were so shocked at Gornt's arrival. And then, as they were alone now, the four of them—Casey, Gavallan, deVille and Linbar Struan—they told her about the "Happy Christmas" and "One day I'll own this house."
"What did the tai-pan . . . what did Ian do?" she asked.
Gavallan said, "He just looked at Gornt. You knew if he had a gun or a knife or a cudgel he'd've used it, you just knew it, and as he hadn't a weapon you knew any moment he was going to use his hands or teeth…. He just stood rock still and looked at Gornt and Gornt went back a pace, out of range—literally. But that bugger Gornt's got cojones. He sort of gathered himself together and stared back at Ian for a moment. Then, without saying a word he went around him slowly, very cautiously, his eyes never leaving Ian, and he left."
"What's that bastard doing here tonight?" Linbar muttered.
Gavallan said, "It's got to be important."
"Which one?" Linbar asked. "Which important?"
Casey looked at him and at the edge of her peripheral vision she saw Jacques deVille shake his head warningly and at once the shades came down on Linbar and on Gavallan. Even so she asked, "What is Gornt doing here?"
"I don't know," Gavallan told her, and she believed him.
"Have they met since that Christmas?"
"Oh yes, many times, all the time," Gavallan told her. "Socially of course. Then, too, they're on the boards of companies, committees, councils together." Uneasily he added, "But.. . well I'm sure they're both just waiting."
She saw their eyes wander back to the two enemies and her eyes followed. Her heart was beating strongly. They saw Penelope move away to talk to Claudia Chen. In a moment, Dunross glanced across at them. She knew he was signaling Gavallan in some way. Then his eyes were on her. Gornt followed his glance. Now both men were looking at her. She felt their magnetism. It intoxicated her. A devil in her pushed her feet toward them. She was glad now that she had dressed as she had, more provocatively than she had planned, but Line had told her this was a night to be less businesslike.
As she walked she felt the brush of the silk, and her nipples hardened. She felt their eyes flow over her, undressing her, and this time, strangely, she did not mind. Her walk became imperceptibly more feline.
"Hello, tai-pan," she said with pretended innocence. "You wanted me to join you?"
"Yes," he replied at once. "I believe you two know each other."
She shook her head and smiled at both of them, not noticing the trap. "No. We've never met. But of course I know who Mr. Gornt is. Andrew told me."
"Ah, then let me introduce you formally. Mr. Quillan Gornt, tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt. Miss Tcholok—Ciranoush Tcholok— from America."
She held out her hand, knowing the danger of getting between the two men, half her mind warmed by the danger, the other half shouting, Jesus, what're you doing here.
"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Gornt," she said, pleased that her voice was controlled, pleased by the touch of his hand—different from Dunross's, rougher and not as strong. "I believe the rivalry of your firms goes back generations?"
"Only three. It was my grandfather who first felt the not so tender mercies of the Struans," Gornt said easily. "One day I'd enjoy telling you our side of the legends."
"Perhaps you two should smoke a pipe of peace," she said. "Surely Asia's wide enough for both of you."
"The whole world isn't," Dunross said affably.
"No," Gornt agreed, and if she had not heard the real story she would have presumed from their tone and manner they were just friendly rivals.
"In the States we've many huge companies—and they live together peacefully. In competition."
"This isn't America," Gornt said calmly. "How long will you be here, Miss Tcholok?"
"That depends on Line—Line Bartlett—I'm with Par-Con Industries."
"Yes, yes I know. Didn't he tell you we're having dinner on Tuesday?"
The danger signals poured through her. "Tuesday?"
"Yes. We arranged it this morning. At our meeting. Didn't he mention it?"
"No," she said, momentarily in shock. Both men were watching her intently and she wished she could back off and come back in five minutes when she had thought this through. Jesus, she thought and fought to retain her poise as all the implications swamped her. "No," she said again, "Line didn't mention any meeting. What did you arrange?"
Gornt glanced at Dunross who still listened expressionlessly. "Just to have dinner next Tuesday. Mr. Bartlett and yourself—if you're free."
"That would be nice—thank you."
"Where's your Mr. Bartlett now?" he asked.
"In—in the garden, I think."
Dunross said, "Last time I saw him he was on the terrace. Ad-ryon was with him. Why?"
Gornt took out a gold cigarette case and offered it to her.
"No thank you," she said. "I don't smoke."
"Does it bother you if I do?"
She shook her head.
Gornt lit a cigarette and looked at Dunross. "I'd just like to say hello to him, before I leave," he said pleasantly. "I hope you don't mind me coming for just a few minutes—if you'll excuse me I won't stay for dinner. I have some pressing business to attend to … you understand."
"Of course." Dunross added, "Sorry you can't stay."
Neither man showed anything in his face. Except the eyes. It was in their eyes. Hatred. Fury. The depth shocked her. "Ask Ian
Dunross to show you the Long Gallery," Gornt was saying to her. "I hear there're some fine portraits there. I've never been in the Long Gallery—only the billiard room." A chill went down her spine as he looked again at Dunross who watched him back.
"This meeting this morning," Casey said, thinking clearly now, judging it wise to bring everything out in front of Dunross at once. "When was it arranged?"