She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. She slid the dress off, naked underneath. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence.
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