Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [112]
Her cubicle was tiny with just a brocade-covered divan, a low table with a flask of rice wine, and a carved wooden chair. The red-glass lantern shed a fiery glow and the rice wine sent a matching fire through Harry as it mixed with the champagne and Scotch already flowing in his veins.
The girl took his jacket and hung it carefully over the chair. She unfastened his bowtie and removed his shoes. Harry took another slug of rice wine and she lifted her head and looked up at him knowingly. Then she stood up and slowly unfastened her cheongsam. It slid to her feet with a silken swish and she stood naked before him. She was young and graceful and knowledgeable in sex; she knew how to please a man and Harry knew what he wanted. He wanted her to tantalize him, to tease him, to stretch his nerves and his resistance like a taut, singing wire. He wanted to experience everything and resist the final moment as long as possible, and this willing little Chinese girl knew every game in the book.
And when he was finally finished and lay exhausted on the divan she brought a bowl of warm, scented water and washed his body. Then she brought in a pipe and a little spirit lamp. Harry watched lazily as she scraped up a tiny bead of opium, heated it over the lamp and put it in the bowl of the pipe. Then she offered it to him, saying, “This is the very finest and most costly Chinese opium, master. The poppies were cut at sunrise when the juices flow at their best, and its flavor and power will bring you much pleasure.”
She lay on her side next to him and showed him how to smoke it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in her lungs. “Try,” she whispered, smiling persuasively, “just try it, master.”
They shared a pipe of opium and then another, and more rice wine and finally Harry lay back on the divan while she pleasured him again, and he knew he never wanted this night to end.
And the next day, back in his wonderful mansion, if he remembered seeing Francie at all, he thought he must have dreamed it.
Harry’s friends slept late and he took his breakfast alone in the big dining hall. No trace of the previous night’s party remained except for a bouquet of crimson roses in the center of the table. And no trace of last night’s debauchery showed on Harry’s face; he looked as fresh and clear-eyed as a baby as he downed fried eggs with deviled kidneys and toast, while he glanced swiftly through the morning editions of the newspapers.
He smiled as he saw photographs of his own handsome face and his wonderful house and beautiful guests splashed across the social pages of every newspaper, THE HARRISONS ARE BACK, the headlines trumpeted over a picture of him standing at the top of his red-carpeted steps with the shiny limousines lined up outside. It went on to tell the story of his father and his tragic death. “But now Harry Harrison is all set to repeat his father’s stunning performance, both socially and in business,” it continued. “When young Harry graduates from Princeton, in a year’s time, he will take his father’s place as head of the multimillion-dollar Harrison business empire. You are looking at a picture of a young man at the pinnacle of life. He has everything life has to offer, youth, looks, money, and assured success. What more can any man want?”
Harry smiled with satisfaction as he sipped his coffee. And then he saw the photograph in the San Francisco Examiner. The picture was blurred and slightly out of focus, but there in the crowd was Francie. Her hat was pulled down over her eyes, but still he could swear it was her.
Pushing back his chair he strode from the dining room to his study. He picked up the phone and called the Examiner’s office and told them to get a copy