Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [109]
He smiled, pleased with himself, running his hand along the smooth black-onyx banister as he leapt two at a time up the midnight-blue carpeted stairs and along the oak-paneled upper hall to his suite of rooms. His valet had run his bath and laid out his evening clothes. A bottle of his favorite Perrier & Jouet champagne was cooling in a silver bucket and he poured himself a glass. At just twenty, he already had a taste for fine wines and gourmet food, as well as an exceptional taste in women. He smiled again as he flung off his clothes and sank into the sandalwood-scented water. He was a young man who knew exactly what he liked and exactly where he was heading. He was a millionaire and the world was his oyster and he intended to enjoy everything it had to offer.
There was just one thing that still troubled him. He had never been able to find evidence that his sister was dead. He had combed the city records a hundred times after the earthquake, but there was no mention of her name and it was assumed that she had perished in the fire along with her lover, Aysgarth, but there was still a nagging little fear at the back of his mind that one day she would reappear to blight his life and bring shame on his name again.
He frowned as he climbed from the tub and the valet handed him his towel. Tonight would be the perfect setting for the long-lost sister to stage her return. He shrugged, telling himself he was crazy, but nevertheless he sent for Fredricks and told him to put guards on every door and to admit no one without an invitation card. He reminded himself that his father would have been here tonight to see the Harrison house in all its new glory, if it were not for Francie. He remembered the vow he had made when they had brought his father home to his final resting place—that he would see his sister dead if it was the last thing he did. If she should ever return, he would keep that vow.
San Francisco’s prettiest and most eligible girls had been looking forward to Harry’s housewarming and birthday party for months, and they were not disappointed. The wonderful new house was the only private one left on Nob Hill and it glittered like an extravagant Christmas tree. Creamy gardenias in scarlet tubs lined the red carpet and the hall was a bower of velvety, dark crimson roses.
Crowds lined the sidewalks to watch the guests arrive and flashbulbs popped as reporters from all the San Francisco newspapers recorded Harry greeting his guests at the top of his steps for their society columns.
Francie felt oddly calm as she stared at the great house, risen like a phoenix from her father’s ashes. The newspapers had been full of Harry’s party and the glories of the new mansion, and though she knew she shouldn’t, she had been unable to stay away. She half-expected to see her father standing at the portals greeting his guests the way he had done at the last big Harrison party—her own coming-out ball—and she breathed a sigh of relief when he was not there. Even Harmon Harrison had not been able to return from the dead; only his house could do that. And instead, there was Harry.
Harry looked the way their father must have as a young man; tall, broad-shouldered and well-built. With a sensual curve on his lips, he scanned the crowds with light-blue eyes. He looked young and handsome and arrogantly sure of himself.
Francie pulled her hat down over her eyes, pressing closer to the strip of red carpet. The next long, shiny black limousine pulled up in front of the mansion and a silver-haired woman stepped out, her diamonds glittering