Arlene hooked a thumb toward her sternum and mouthed words that Hugh couldn’t understand. He shook his head. Arlene leaned forward. He met her halfway. “What?” he said.

“He’s gay, right?” Arlene whispered.

“What? I don’t- That’s what it says in his files. So what?”

“After I leave, pick him up.”

“What?” Noortman looked up at Hugh’s unguarded exclamation and then went back to his braised abalone in oyster sauce.

“Pick him up,” Arlene repeated. “You’re a hunk, he’s probably drooling into his plate over you right now.” She reached into her bag.

He said the only thing he could. “I am not a hunk!”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Robert Redford has nothing to worry about.” She pulled her hand out of her bag.

“Arlene, I-”

“His apartment is close by his office. That’s probably where he’ll take you. I’ll follow.”

“Arlene, we don’t even know if Noortman makes a habit out of picking up guys off the street, I can’t just-”

“We don’t know what kind of security he’s got on his office or who else is keeping watch on it. Getting into his apartment is our best bet.” Her bag vibrated. “I’m so sorry, please excuse me for a moment,” she said to Hugh in a louder voice, in French, accompanied by a dazzling smile. She pulled out a cell phone and flipped it open. She listened for a moment and then let loose with more and very rapid French. “No, it’s quite all right, Veronique, I’m only five minutes away. Offer him some tea, let him look over the closing papers, and tell him I’ll be there immediately.” She flipped the phone closed, shouldered her bag, and rose to her feet. She smiled down at Hugh, an infinitely kind smile, and, still in French, said in a soothing voice, “I’m so sorry our luncheon has been cut short, Mr. Reeve. As I was saying, I have several properties that I believe would interest you. Please call my assistant at this number”-Arlene handed Hugh a small square of stiff paper that later proved to be the business card of Arlene’s accountant-“to schedule showings. A bientot.”

With that, Arlene marched off, leaving Hugh seated at his table facing Noortman seated at his. Hugh’s beer came and he downed half of it at one go. He looked up to see Noortman smiling at him. There was definitely something about the smile, but he still couldn’t place it and he had other things to worry about.

Hugh could give a shit if men slept with each other so long as he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t care if they married and adopted seven kids and watched The Birdcage every night on the Bravo Channel. He himself was a flaming heterosexual. It wasn’t that he thought Arlene’s idea was bad, per se, it was just that he didn’t have the first clue how to go about picking up a man.

Noortman was still smiling at him. What the hell. For starters, he smiled back. He even went so far as to salute Noortman with his beer.

The next thing he knew they were seated at the same table, his or Noortman’s he could never remember, the hostess cooing at Noortman in Mandarin and Noortman kissing the back of her hand with his seductive sneer. Then Noortman was speaking to him in flawless French and he was replying, and they were having a stimulating and informative discussion on Hong Kong real estate, which moved on to globalization and from there to the films of Pierce Brosnan, for whom Noortman appeared to harbor an inordinate fondness.

Noortman mentioned that he dabbled in Hong Kong properties himself off and on. What precisely was Hugh looking for? Hugh replied that he was interested in warehouse space along the waterfront for his import-export business. He was presently looking at various properties with a broker.

Really, said Noortman, how very interesting. He was in the import export business himself and had extensive contacts with Hong Kong shipping firms. Now that he thought about it, he was convinced that just the other day someone had spoken of a very desirable property for sale, located conveniently near Central. He was sure he still had the listing. Would Hugh like to see it?

Of course Hugh would, who by this time was feeling much more relaxed. It turned out that picking up a guy wasn’t all that different from picking up a girl. He managed not to flinch when Noortman smiled deeply into his eyes, and by a superhuman effort didn’t jump when Noortman’s knee rubbed against his beneath the table. By superimposing a woman’s face over Noortman’s features-it didn’t matter that it was Sara’s face he saw, he told himself-he was even able to put what he hoped was a little heat into his own expression.

It must have worked, because shortly thereafter Hugh found himself walking down the sidewalk, following Noortman as the other man wove a sinuous path between the moving mass of humanity that was Hong Kong. A horn honked, a jackhammer sounded, and people talked loudly in Mandarin and ten other languages, a few of which Hugh didn’t recognize, which only added to his feeling of unreality.

Noortman turned down a side street, much quieter in volume and much tonier in appearance, with awnings out to the curb and uniformed doormen guarding brass-fitted doors. Noortman went into one, Hugh tagging along behind and doing his damnedest not to look around for Arlene.

An elevator whisked them up seventeen floors, and Noortman let them into a spacious apartment furnished with leather and teak and glass. There were intricate Afghan rugs scattered artfully across a maple floor waxed to a golden shine, and the crystal lined up over the bar looked fresh out of the vat at Baccarat.

“A drink?” Noortman said. “I have some very nice scotch.”

“Sounds good,” Hugh said.

While Noortman busied himself at the elegant wet bar, Hugh admired the sweeping view of the mainland, the Star Ferries working the sea between it and Hong Kong Island. Even at this distance the ferries looked ready to sink beneath the weight of rush-hour traffic, which Hugh had decided in Hong Kong was probably twenty-four hours a day.

He wondered where the hell Arlene was. He wondered how long he could delay the inevitable before Noortman became suspicious. He wondered if this qualified as cheating on Sara. He wondered if the sweat pooling in his armpits was beginning to show.

He became aware of Noortman standing behind him. Deliberately relaxing his jaw, he turned.

“You’re so tall,” Noortman said in a soft voice. He reached a hand up to touch Hugh’s hair. “Your hair is beautiful. Is it real?”

“Am I a natural blond?” Hugh said. He tried to laugh and had to abandon the attempt when his voice cracked. “Yes.”

“And your eyes, so brown. It’s such a wonderful contrast.” Noortman took a sip of his drink. “People tell me I have a smile like- What is the name of that American singer? The one who shakes his hips?”

“Elvis!” Hugh said. “I knew you looked familiar.”

Noortman smiled, satisfied. He took another sip and set the glass down. He took Hugh’s glass and set it down, too. A foot shorter than Hugh, he let his hand slide up Hugh’s lapel to his neck, and pulled his head down.

A moment later there was a knock at the door. Noortman pulled back, swearing under his breath. “I’ll get rid of them. Don’t move.”

He went to the door, and Hugh, disobeying orders, followed behind on silent feet. Noortman opened the door and Arlene was there and already swinging her bag. It caught Noortman a hell of a thump on the left side of his head and he crumpled into Hugh’s arms.

“Where the hell were you?” Hugh hissed at Arlene, dragging Noortman into the dining room and sitting him down in one of the chairs. “I actually had to kiss the guy, for crissake.”

“Think of it as taking one for the team,” Arlene told him, and hauled out a roll of duct tape.

“Notice my self-control,” Hugh said. “You still live.” He took the duct tape from Arlene and wrapped it around Noortman’s torso and the chair back, Noortman’s wrists and the arms of the chair, and Noortman’s ankles and the legs of the chair.