by July Hall
“Not at all. You are Charles Magister’s representative in this business?”
That was overstating it a little bit. “Mr. Magister represents himself,” Sandra said. She longed to glance at Meiling for reassurance or backup, but controlled herself. Was it rude to keep looking into his eyes like this? “I’m redecorating his house. My employer got in touch with Ms. Yu’s firm and together we facilitated the meeting.”
“I see. And how is it that you came to work for him?”
Sandra had prepared herself for this one. She couldn’t very well go around telling people that she’d met Charles because she’d been dating Bradley at the time. That opened the door to all kinds of unpleasant speculation. So she limited it to, “We met through his nephew, Bradley Cliffe. Mr. Cliffe introduced us, and Mr. Magister liked the design aesthetic of my firm.”
“I hadn’t heard he was concerned with aesthetics,” Mr. Zhou said. “I’m looking forward to our meeting. He has quite a reputation.” He tilted his head to the side. “What’s it like to work with him?”
Next to Sandra, Meiling shifted uncomfortably. This was unexpected. Was Meiling getting a chilly vibe from Mr. Zhou, too?
“Mr. Magister is a wonderful client,” Sandra said. “He’s very clear in his expectations and goals.” It was true. Charles had been very clear that he expected Sandra to meet his goals and bother him as little as possible with wallpaper. “It’s a pleasure to work with him.”
Yeah, that it was. She forced away the memory of his large, warm hands gently rubbing oil into her skin the night before.
“Good,” Mr. Zhou said. “I like dealing with direct people. I will be direct as well.” He gave Sandra another polite smile. She kept her own smile on and prayed that he couldn’t see her case of the heebie-jeebies.
This man was geared up for a contest, all right. She hoped Charles won it fast.
Her phone pinged. “Please excuse me,” Sandra said, and glanced at the display. “That’s Mr. Magister. He’s on his way up.” In fact, he was a little early. Meiling had told her that was proper etiquette.
Mr. Zhou folded his hands behind his back. “Ah, good. What do you think of the dish, Ms. Dane?”
“It’s lovely,” Sandra said, gripping her phone. “And in such perfect condition. What an incredible find.”
“Yes,” Mr. Zhou said. “I feel like quite the traitor for even having this meeting. Surely such a priceless treasure should remain in its homeland.”
Sandra’s heart stopped.
“But we shall see,” he continued. “That list is impressive. A real Renoir.”
Arnaud had learned that Mr. Zhou was a fan of Impressionism. Sandra nodded eagerly. Meiling said, “And of course its authenticity will be verified, Mr. Zhou, if you are interested in it.”
“I wouldn’t presume Charles Magister would offer me a fake,” Zhou said. “What an insult that would be.”
Meiling’s cheeks went pink.
“As I said—we shall see what happens.” He gestured at Sandra’s chest. “By the way, that’s a pretty peony. Our national flower.”
Sandra blushed. She’d taken it out of the bouquet Charles had given her, trimmed it, and fastened it to her jacket as a boutonnière. “Thank you.”
Just then, Sandra heard steps outside the library door. The maid who’d let in Sandra and Meiling entered and said, “Mr. Magister, sir.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Zhou said, and Charles stepped in. He was wearing more casual clothing as well. And yet, Sandra felt that she and Meiling were more honestly clad in their business suits.
Still, Charles had on a deep green shirt that brought out his eyes, and it made Sandra’s palms sweat. Maybe she really should have woken him up early this morning to make love.
He’d just seemed so peaceful. She didn’t get many chances to look at him while he was asleep—he was always up and about before she was. And once she started looking at Charles, it was easy to keep going. He hadn’t been awake to tease her or glare at her. Just this one time, she’d been able to sit on the edge of the bed and look her fill, as if she were trying to commit every inch of him to memory.
Charles glanced at her, and her cheeks grew warm. Sandra made sure to paste on her most polite smile. Then she realized she had no idea who the point person was; Meiling and Mr. Zhou had never met Charles. She was the least senior person in the room, but she still had to step up to the plate.
“Mr. Magister,” she said, nodding toward Mr. Zhou, “this is Mr. Zhou. Mr. Zhou, Charles Magister.”
Nobody bowed this time. Richard Zhou stepped forward and extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to our discussion.”
“So have I.” Charles shook his hand. Sandra watched in fascination as the two men sized each other up. Mr. Zhou was the first person she’d ever seen who did not defer to Charles Magister—probably because he was the first person she’d ever seen who had no reason to.
“May I offer you anything to drink?” Mr. Zhou asked. “Water, tea, coffee? I’m afraid I don’t keep alcohol in the house.”
“It’s too early in the day for me anyway,” Charles said. “Thank you, but no.” He glanced again at Sandra, and then at Meiling. “I take it you are Miss Dane’s liaison.” He held out his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Meiling shook his hand. “My firm hopes that everyone will find today’s meeting satisfactory.”
“I’m sure.” Charles briefly met Sandra’s gaze again before turning to Mr. Zhou. “Speaking of which, shall we begin? I’m sure you have many demands on your time.”
“Yes, as do you.” Mr. Zhou tilted his head to the side. “But don’t you want to see the bowl first?”
Charles looked slightly taken aback. “Well, yes, of course.”
Mr. Zhou gestured at the glass display case.
Sandra watched as Charles leaned in toward the case, his brow furrowing as he looked at the Ru ware bowl. “For washing brushes, I heard?” he said.
“Calligraphy brushes, yes,” Mr. Zhou said. He put his hands in his pockets. “This would have been restricted completely to imperial use. We would have had no hope of touching it.”
For a second, Charles got a sour look on his face. Thankfully, Mr. Zhou would not have been able to see it. “I have no intention of touching it,” he said. Sandra wondered if he was remembering his eight-year-old self dropping the cup. He glanced at Sandra again. “I haven’t been keeping up with my calligraphy, anyway.”
Mr. Zhou smiled. “Who has the time?” When Charles turned to look at him, he added, “Would you object very much to discussing this in private?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Charles replied.
“Excellent. Ms. Yu, I believe you have in your possession Mr. Magister’s list?” He held out his hand. Meiling gave him the folder that contained the list of Charles’s stuff, plus photos and information about the value of said stuff. “Thank you. Ladies, please excuse us. Ask the maid if you need anything.”
He turned away, which gave Charles a chance to nod briefly at Sandra. Since Meiling was watching, Sandra contented herself with a return nod and the same polite smile she’d give any other client.
Meiling shut the library door behind them. Mr. Zhou’s maid hovered politely but pointedly in the hallway. The message was clear: Sandra and Meiling were not to go wandering around by themselves in Mr. Zhou’s home.
Sandra didn’t want to do that anyway. Mr. Zhou was an unpleasant surprise all on his own—she didn’t want to discover anything else about him. She wanted to get on that private jet with Charles and have sex across an ocean and a continent, and maybe come back to Hong Kong for pleasure someday.
Meiling spoke to the maid in Chinese. The maid laughed softly and gestured down the hallway.
“What is it?” Sandra asked.
Meiling gave her a mischievous smile. “Want to check out John Lennon’s tooth? I guarantee you, you’ll never have another chance.”
Well…maybe Sandra cou
ld wander around a little bit.
* * *
Richard Zhou was untouchable. Charles had known that going in. Their businesses didn’t affect each other unless some Magister executive got in over his head rolling the dice in Macau. In which case, Charles would fire him anyway.
However, Zhou was part of a vast network of five old Hong Kong families, each with their own holdings and interests. Charles would never deal with Richard Zhou, but he had dealt often enough with his relatives. The Zhous, Lis, Hos, Huis, and Los had their hands in government, banking, law, philanthropy, and other, smaller concerns. It was impossible for Magister Enterprises to run an office out of Hong Kong and not encounter them.
Charles had maintained civil relations with everyone to date. If Richard Zhou wanted to rattle his cage a little, Charles would allow it. Nobody had to know the reason.
Now Zhou flipped through the notebook containing information about the items Charles was willing to trade in exchange for the Ru ware. He couldn’t possibly care about any of them.
“Napoleon’s chess set,” he said, pausing at the picture. “Now that really is something. That little French emperor. Do you suppose he admired Genghis Khan?”
So the chess set was out. “I really couldn’t say,” Charles sighed.
Zhou turned the page. “The Renoir,” he murmured. He traced his fingertip over the details. “I enjoy Impressionism. The vivid use of color. Look at how he has brought her to life.” His fingertip lingered at the edge of a young woman garbed in white, holding a parasol while she reclined on a grassy hill. “It’s nothing like a photograph, but she’s more real than my wife.” He gave Charles a wry look. “I apologize that she’s not here to meet you, by the way.”
“Not at all,” Charles said. To his own astonishment, he added, “I’m not married, myself.”
Zhou blinked at him. “So I’d heard. You’ve never considered marrying again?”
“Never,” Charles said, trying not to think of a girl he’d known less than a month. Surely there had to be limits to his stupidity where Sandra was concerned.
Zhou hummed and looked back at the notebook before turning another page. “A Bugatti Royale,” he said, pausing over the picture of the car. “I love vintage cars. My own father owned a Lamborghini 350 GT that I absolutely coveted. This is far rarer, of course. Have you ever driven it?”
“No, but we keep it fully functional.” Or so Warrick had assured him. “Drive it anywhere you want.” Zhou could drive it into the ocean, as far as Charles was concerned.
“I’m sure that would be very interesting.” Zhou didn’t look up. “Why a Ru ware bowl? And why go to all this trouble for it?”
“I was here for a business trip,” Charles reminded him. “I shook up my Hong Kong office weeks ago and needed to check on things. This is pure serendipity.”
Zhou gave him a cool smile. He was enjoying this, all right. Charles felt his patience running out. It had been years since he’d let anyone else force him to dance to their tune.
“That doesn’t answer the first half of my question,” Zhou said. “Why do you want it?”
“It’s a long story,” Charles said. He had prepared for this. “Suffice to say, it was something my mother would have wanted. I’m doing it in her memory.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Zhou raised his eyebrows. “You’re a dutiful son. I hope someday my own boys will take after you.”
Charles’s annoyance vanished. In its place, he felt the cold fingers of anger creeping over him. It was no secret that he had dethroned his father. In America, that was bad enough, but in China, it had been seen as the height of disrespect. Commercially speaking, Magister Enterprises’ Chinese partners had been relieved to see someone competent at the helm. Culturally, it was another matter.
“I hope they will too,” he said.
Zhou gave him a quick glance that conveyed no particular emotion. He turned back to the notebook, and flipped back to the page with the Renoir. He traced the girl’s white skirts again. “She’s very beautiful,” he said.
Charles held on to his patience with his fingernails. He decided that Zhou had about two minutes’ worth of posturing left. “She is.”
“Forgive me, but you don’t seem particularly attached to anything…” Zhou tapped the notebook. “Here. I see nothing of equal value to what you want from me.”
Oh, wonderful. Charles ground his jaw. “You might have decided that before I came here and saved us both some time.”
Zhou shook his head. “I don’t intend for this to be a waste. What if I asked for something not on this list? Something I saw elsewhere?”
Warrick had sent Zhou a list of Charles’s assets. The notebook contained only the items Zhou himself had shown interest in. Perhaps he’d changed his mind about an item he’d ignored before. “Such as?” Charles asked.
Zhou cocked his head to the side. His mouth quirked in a faint half smile.
“She’s beautiful,” he repeated. “That girl of yours.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Yep,” Sandra said. “That was a cavity, all right.”
“Somehow you never think of rock stars getting cavities,” Meiling said. She chuckled. “Even British ones.”
Sandra grinned, but she wasn’t totally at ease. When she’d first heard about Mr. Zhou buying the tooth, it had seemed like the act of an amusing eccentric.
Now that she’d met him, it didn’t seem all that funny anymore. He wasn’t a funny guy.
At least the Ru ware bowl was a lot prettier than a rock star’s tooth, and it would matter to Charles. Mr. Zhou just had to agree to trade something. Sandra wondered how long it would take.
“You’re flying out at eight?” Meiling asked. She checked her watch. “It’s three fifteen. Depending on when they’re done negotiating, perhaps you could stick around and see how we handle the transfer—arranging for security, transport, valuation, all the rest.”
“I think that’d be really interesting,” Sandra said sincerely. “But of course it all depends on whether Mr. Magister—”
“Miss Dane!”
Charles’s voice boomed down the hallway, echoing through the entire apartment. Sandra gasped, and she and Meiling stared at each other with their mouths open. Then, as one, they raced back toward the library, where Charles was storming through the door.
He looked at Sandra, and she gasped again. She’d never seen him so angry. Even after their ill-advised encounter in his office, when she’d still been dating Bradley—then, Charles had been confused and frustrated. He hadn’t been angry.
She knew that now, because now she was looking at Charles Magister consumed with cold, controlled fury. The sight made her wrap her arms around herself in instinctive terror. She made a little whimpering sound, and it wasn’t the sexy kind.
He was staring at her. His face looked like stone, and now his eyes were as icy as Zhou’s. Was he mad at her? Had she done something? Made a mistake in the negotiations, the list? Had she overstepped her bounds, had she—?
Charles raised his right hand to smooth back his hair. His knuckles were bloody.
“Oh,” she said, nearly breathless with horror. “Wh-what…”
“We’re leaving,” Charles growled. “Get your things.”
“Mr. Magister,” Meiling said, “whatever has happened, perhaps my firm can help?”
Mr. Zhou followed Charles out of the library. He seemed perfectly calm; his posture was relaxed, and he had one hand in one of his pockets. But the other hand was holding a white handkerchief against his nose. Sandra saw spots of ruby-red blood on the cloth.
She felt frozen to the spot. Somehow, it was even worse when Zhou said mildly (if nasally), “This seems like an overreaction.”
“You could not possibly have insulted me more,” Charles said. His tone was frigid, but the rasp in it suggested imminent violence. Sandra felt her knees turning to jelly. “And you know it. You are lucky I am a civilized man.”
Zhou lifted the handkerchief fr
om his face so they could all see the blood streaming from his nose and the split in his upper lip. “Are you?” he asked.
“I could have done worse,” Charles said.
He reached into his back pocket to pull out his own handkerchief and began to wipe the blood off his knuckles, never breaking eye contact with Zhou.
In return, Zhou narrowed his eyes. “I could press charges,” he said.
“Go ahead,” Charles replied. “I’d welcome to chance to explain everything.” He gave Zhou a thin, wintry smile. “To everyone.”
“No,” Sandra heard herself gasp. Charles twitched and stared at her, as if waking up from a dream. “I-I mean, Mr. Magister, we should just go.” She gave Meiling a pleading look. “Okay?”
“I think I’ll stay behind,” Meiling said. She glanced at Mr. Zhou. “I’m not sure what happened, but maybe my firm…”
“No,” Charles snapped at her. “Both of you, come with me.”
Zhou raised his eyebrows. “Ah,” he said. “So that’s how it is.”
“That’s what you’ve proven yourself to be.” Charles turned his glare on Sandra again. “Have you gone deaf or something?”
Sandra’s purse and briefcase were both resting against a wall in the foyer. She darted forward to get them with shaking hands, refusing to look at either Charles or Mr. Zhou. When she turned around, she met Meiling’s stunned gaze. The maid rushed past them both and held the front door open.
“Go on,” Charles said.
“I really think…” Meiling began.
Charles took a deep breath. Sandra grabbed Meiling by the elbow and hustled her through the door without another word. She heard Charles’s heavy tread following them.
“I understand your nephew is your only heir,” Mr. Zhou called.
At that, they all stopped in their tracks and turned around. Mr. Zhou remained in place, imperturbable, still stanching his blood with the handkerchief.
He tilted his head to the side. “Magister Enterprises won’t stay privately held forever. Not in his hands. I don’t expect I’ll live to see it, but…” He smiled. “I’ll make sure my sons know, when the time comes, that the Zhous should get a piece.”