shuhaige
Chapter 23
After we said our goodbyes to Chef Silvestri, I had the limo driver take us to Mei-ling’s apartment building in the hills above the city.
The last leg of the trip was along a heavily forested two-lane road. The trees to our left were so thick that they occasionally obscured the lights of Hong Kong below.
Mei-ling told me that she lived in a building called the Summit that sat atop one of the highest peaks in Hong Kong. At 65 stories, it soared above the rest of the city. The only taller building was Highcliff, another residential tower a few hundred feet from the Summit. Because of the buildings’ thin widths relative to their height, locals had dubbed them ‘the Chopsticks.’
As soon as we emerged from the forest and saw them in the distance, I understood the nickname. The towers looked like two glass rods jutting up into the sky.
The driver parked the limo in front of the Summit and got out to open Mei-ling’s door. I exited the other side and walked around the vehicle.
As I took Mei-ling’s arm, the driver asked me, “Should I wait?”
“No, go back to De Sade and get Mr. Han.”
“And then what should I do?”
“Forget where you took me.”
“Well, that’s presumptuous,” Mei-ling said humorously.
I turned to look at her. “What is?”
“Telling him to leave.” She arched one eyebrow and smiled. “Who said you were staying that long?”Exclusive content from NôvelDrama.Org.
“So you’re saying I should have him wait for me?”
She smirked. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
I sensed a trap again – although this time, it seemed playful.
I turned back to the limo driver. “On second thought, wait here. If I don’t return in two hours, go get Mr. Han.”
I slipped the driver a 1000 Hong Kong dollar bill – worth about $250 US – and he bowed slightly. “Thank you, sir.”
As the driver got back in the limo, I walked off arm-in-arm with Mei-ling.
She led me into the luxurious lobby of the building, past a guard sitting behind a desk, and into one of the elevators. She had to hold a key fob against a security panel for the doors to close.
We got off at the 57th floor and walked down the hall to her apartment.
The place was opulent. The living room had a 20-foot-tall ceiling, with a second level accessible via a wide staircase. Gorgeous parquet floors gleamed a polished brown. A white sofa sat in front of a two-story window looking out over the lights of Hong Kong. Atop an onyx coffee table, a glass vase held a branch of delicate purple orchids.
She led me to a beautiful kitchen with a black island and several tall chairs.
As I took a seat, she went to a nearby bar and poured herself a glass of red wine. “Wine, or something harder?”
“Scotch if you have it.”
“Ice?”
“No, neat.”
She poured a glass of amber liquid and placed it in front of me.
Then she sat down opposite me and said, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I want to hear the story you wouldn’t tell me in the restaurant.”
“Mm.” I took a sip of the scotch, then stared deep into her eyes. “How much do you want to know?”
“All of it.”
“You don’t mind hearing the details?”
She frowned as though she didn’t understand.
“If you told me about the first guy who got to sleep with you,” I explained, “I think I might go mad with jealousy.”
She smirked and shook her head ruefully. “Men.”
I chuckled. “Italian men in particular.”
She perched her chin atop her hand in a coquettish way. “I think I can restrain myself. Tell me your story.”
“Alright.”
I took another sip of scotch and began my tale.