“I LOVE THIS CAR.”
“You already said that.”
Donna tightened her grasp on the little purse Laura had lent her. “Did I? Well, I do. It’s a beautiful car. Black’s always been my favorite.”
“Is that why you decided to wear black tonight?” Bruce came to a stop at the junction of Broadway and Battery and shaded his eyes against the glare of oncoming headlights.
“This was a bad choice, wasn’t it?” Donna had a momentary impulse to open the door and leap out, to run away. “A black dress is all wrong, too sultry, or sophisticated, or—”
“Good Lord, no.” In the light from the dashboard she could see his surprised glance. A horn blasted behind them and he stepped on the accelerator, swearing under his breath. “Everybody’s in such a damned hurry. What was I saying? The black dress—you look terrific in it. It’s wonderful; just right. The Chinese like subdued colors. They consider them tasteful. The worst thing you can do is turn up for a celebration in white—and a lot of westerners do it. White’s their sign of mourning.”
Donna didn’t want another cultural lecture. “So the dress is okay? You like it?”
“I’m crazy about…the dress is lovely, Donna. But, as you once told me they say about women like you, you’d look fantastic in a sack. You do something to whatever you put on that sumptuous body of yours. And I’m glad you wore the jade necklace. That was sweet of you.”
She touched the lavender beads and stared straight ahead. He was only humoring her, loosening her up for the ordeal ahead, Donna reminded herself. But she reveled in every word he spoke. “Bruce,” she said in a small voice. “Do we have to go through with this?”
“Mmm.” He nodded. “We have to go through with this. A quiet dinner, just the three of us, is the answer to a prayer, the ideal opportunity to iron things out. Let me know if you feel like bolting, and I’ll handcuff you to me.”
Not such a bad idea, Donna decided. She said, “As long as you’re with me, I’ll make it.”
“I’m with you to the bitter end. Let’s hope it isn’t too bitter.”
All too soon, they were crossing the marble floor in the reception area of the Harbor Village Restaurant on the lobby level of the Embarcadero Center. This was considered “the” place for Chinese food, Bruce had told her. Donna had driven past the beautiful high-rise building many times. She wished she were doing the same right now, driving past, and going on her way.
“The Tsung party?”
A hostess wearing an ice-blue cheongsam, her throat wrapped in a collar of white mink, inclined her head toward Bruce. The woman smiled, nodded, and motioned to a man in a tuxedo who glided toward them in improbable silence over the hard floors. Etched glass shot prisms of light reflected from crystal-festooned chandeliers. Antique Chinese art pieces were discreetly displayed: jade, ivory, glistening dark wood. The ambience flowed over Donna, and the muted noise of diners she couldn’t see, and Bruce’s voice—Bruce’s voice!
“Donna?” He held her elbow. “You okay?”
“Yes!” She nodded emphatically. “Sorry. I was looking around. This is lovely.”
“Thank you, madam,” the man in the tuxedo said, smiling. “If you would follow me, please, Miss Tsung. Your father is already here. A wonderful occasion, the reunion of father and daughter.”
Donna hesitated, her eyes meeting Bruce’s and appealing to him. Miss Tsung? Reunion? Had Raymond’s enthusiasm made him confide in the maître d’, of all people?
Bruce’s fingers tightened. “Hang in there, honey,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”
“Our Marlin Room is considered beautiful. There’s still a little light. You’ll be able to see the fountains in the plaza.”
She moved on numb legs, smoothing her hair automatically and trying to smile. Bruce would help her explain everything to Raymond. They’d have a polite little dinner in what she was sure was exactly the right atmosphere for logical discussion, and afterward, the problem would be resolved.
The maître d’ entered a large room filled with round white linen-covered tables on which exquisite flowers nodded and crystal glittered. Donna hung back slightly, her hope for a small private dining room dashed. The maître d’ turned and beckoned. Bruce gave her a firm little push. She went forward as Raymond rose from his table, a delighted smile on his face. There were other people around his table. Lots of people. All looking at her. All smiling. There must be four, five, six…
She forced a sickly smile in return, and managed to say, “Good evening.” Her voice sounded squeaky to her, and she cleared her throat. “Good evening,” she repeated. “I didn’t…I thought…”
“Cool it,” Bruce said, almost inaudibly, barely moving his lips. “Smile,” he ordered. “Do it!”
She clutched his arm and smiled blankly as Raymond came toward her, holding out both hands. She extended her own and felt them clasped warmly in his. He pulled her forward to his table. Who were all these people? Maybe there were seven or eight. She couldn’t seem to count. The men were all standing up, bowing slightly.
“Donna, Donna, my daughter, welcome to my family and my special friends. This is truly a great night for me.” He began making introductions with joyful pride. “This is my sister, Lily Huang…” And in Raymond’s happy flow of words, he was graciously including Bruce in the introductions.
Somehow Donna continued smiling and bowed to the pretty woman swathed in dusky pink silk, her hair drawn up into a shining chignon atop her small head.
“And this is her husband, my good friend and kinsman, Nicholas Huang.” Donna looked at the surprisingly tall man who stood next to Lily Huang.
She kept smiling and going through the appropriate motions. There must be at least ten people here! She wasn’t going to be able to end this charade tonight and bow out gracefully, as she’d planned.
“And this is Mike Woo, eldest son of one of our family’s oldest and most respected friends—” Raymond was going on and on. The man, Mike Woo, bowed to her, smiling with something resembling amusement.
She would get them sorted out later, Donna thought desperately, edging toward the table. She wanted to sit down. But Raymond caught briefly at her elbow and made a sweeping gesture over the beautiful room.
“And these,” he said, “are my very dear friends who have come to welcome you tonight.” As he finished speaking, the people at all the surrounding tables started applauding. Donna was stunned. Frozen. Hypnotized. Slowly, like a wave breaking, they all began standing up until every person in the room was standing and clapping. The whole room!
Donna’s mind went blank. She felt a flood of fiery color rush into her face.
“Smile,” Bruce said next to her ear. “God, I didn’t expect…you’ll never trust me…” It was impossible to hear the rest of what he said.
She had to sit down. Now. Mercifully, Raymond pulled her chair out and she slid weakly into it. “You will meet them all later,” he was saying. “We will form a line and they will all come by.”
“Yes,” she said numbly. “That’s nice. Thank you. Thank you.” She was aware that the others were subsiding into their chairs all around her. She was aware that she was still smiling, nodding, bowing to the other people at this table.
White-coated waiters were passing among the tables putting down trays laden with food.
“Let the feast begin,” Bruce whispered in her ear as he sat down beside her.
“This is the Peacock Platter.” Raymond was telling her about the first dish. “Here, my dear, take some of this…”
Still murmuring, “Thank you, thank you,” Donna carefully selected a piece of food from what appeared to be a salad smothered with various meats. She had to collect her wits, somehow get her world back to normal. She had to do something ordinary. That was it. She would eat. She popped a piece of food into her mouth, grateful that Bruce had made her persevere with the chopsticks until she was fairly proficient.
Everything around her shone—translucent china, crystal, silver chopstick holders, the chandeliers overhead. A muted green-and-beige color scheme added serenity to opulence. She took another bit of food. Things were coming back into focus.
Ray leaned toward her. “Is it good?”
She chewed and swallowed. “Very good, thank you.” There had been almost no taste. “What was it, please?”
“Jellyfish. Try some of the melon and a little duck with it.” Ray waved his own chopsticks. “Marvelous. Will you have some wine?”
She drank several long gulps of her Chenin Blanc before she noticed that Bruce was frowning. She took another swallow, frowning back at him. If she was going to get through jellyfish and two hundred introductions, she’d need all the courage she could muster.
Courses were served and cleared away. Braised vegetables with conpoy—dried scallops, Ray explained. Sautéd prawns with Virginia smoked ham. Donna jumped when Ray came from his seat, carrying his own bowl, and ceremoniously placed a morsel of food in her bowl. He smiled, and the rest of the guests at the table murmured approvingly.
Bruce cleared his throat. “I’ve always admired your customs, Ray,” he said, not meeting Donna’s eyes. “I have many books on Chinese culture. The idea of a host giving a guest a particularly succulent piece of food from his own plate is charming.”
“Mmm.” Donna lowered her lashes, silently blessing Bruce for his resourcefulness. She ate Ray’s offering and found it crunchy, but not unpleasant.
“Shark’s fin is one of my favorites,” Ray said, clearly pleased at her satisfied smile. “There will be abalone next, then garoupa fish, and squab, of course.”
When Donna raised her eyes, closing out all thought of shark’s fin and the seemingly endless dishes to follow, she found Mike Woo regarding her steadily. He smiled quickly.
“Your father told us you were very beautiful,” he said, no hint of sarcasm in his voice, “And you are.”
“She certainly is, Michael.” Mike’s mother, a tiny woman in a plum-colored brocade cheongsam, agreed. She turned to her husband, an older version of Mike, the gray hair at his temples adding distinction to almost arrogantly handsome features. “Isn’t Donna lovely, Hal?”
Hal Woo settled a speculative stare on Donna and kept it there until she squirmed slightly. “Your father is very proud of you,” he said finally. “Rightly so. How old are you, my dear?”
“Uh, nineteen, almost twenty.”
“Hmm.” Wong’s lids drooped as his son’s had done earlier. “Michael,” he said, looking at his son, “you must escort Donna to the theater, the symphony, perhaps some art exhibits.” He bestowed a brilliant smile on Donna. “Michael will be good company, my dear. He knows everything going on in the City.”
The joints in Bruce’s jaw ached. This wasn’t at all what he and Donna had planned. There would be no opportunity to set things straight with Raymond this evening. In fact, the situation could only become more difficult. And Raymond Tsung’s primary goal of the moment was sickeningly clear. He intended to find a suitable husband for his newfound daughter. Even as Bruce watched and moved a piece of garoupa fish around his mouth, Raymond was introducing one young man after another to Donna.
Bruce felt a small rush of pride. Donna was doing great. Now that she’d gotten her bearings she was coping very well. Sensitive, innately kind, she was giving Raymond the performance he seemed to want. She was playing the lovely, gracious daughter to his doting proud father. Tonight, before the relatives and friends, she would not falter and embarrass him in any way. Smiling brilliantly, laughing, talking, she was terrific!
He gave Mike Woo a sidelong glance. The man was handsome, and obviously Raymond’s prime candidate for the position of son-in-law. Mike must have felt Bruce’s stare. He met his eyes, raised one brow, but didn’t smile. Bruce’s stomach made a slow revolution. The guy had to be thirty-five—even older than he was. No way was Donna equipped to deal with the kind of sophistication this privileged Chinese represented.
“Donna.” He kept his tone light, laughing a little. “Did you know each type of fowl has a meaning?” The tiny roasted squab had been served.
She shook her head.
“Let me see,” he went on. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ray. Duck is happiness and fidelity, right?”
“Absolutely.” Ray’s wonderful, crooked-toothed grin split his round face. “You are an expert on these things.”
Bruce gave a modest shrug while he willed Donna to concentrate on him. “And squab is for filial concern and longevity.”
Beneath Donna’s determined smile and laughter, Bruce saw a momentary touch of sadness in her eyes. Moisture sprang up along her lower lashes. He closed his own eyes for an instant, wanting to kick himself.
Mike Woo’s deep, pleasant voice interrupted him. “I believe that’s pigeon.”
Donna dropped her chopsticks. “This is pigeon?”
“No, no.” Mike reached out to cover her hand while Lily Huang picked up the chopsticks and leaned them on a silver holder. “I meant that the pigeon stands for filial concern and longevity, not squab. Save room for the mango pudding, it’s marvelous.”
Bruce settled a murderous look on Mike’s hand, so firmly closed over Donna’s on the stiffly starched white cloth. The man patted Donna’s hand, once, twice.
“And you’re a lawyer, I understand, Bruce,” Mrs. Woo said.
He returned the woman’s smile with difficulty. “Yes, that’s right.” Mike’s arm still extended across the table.
“I expect that’s fascinating.”
“Fascinating,” Bruce agreed. He would find a way to make sure Donna never saw Mike Woo again.
“I believe I met your sister once. Laura Fenton Hunt?”
The smile on his face hurt. “My cousin.” Donna was undoubtedly the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met, and she was perfect inside as well as out.
“Ah, I see. She does a lot of civic work for Mrs. Winthrop.” Mrs. Woo was oblivious to his lack of concentration.
Mike Woo poured more wine for Donna, who was beginning to look dazed. This must be a hell of a strain for her. “Have you ever been to a real Chinatown parade?” Mike asked.
“No,” Donna responded with polite interest.
“Then we must go. I’d love to take you.” Woo and his father exchanged a glance in which Bruce read mutual understanding. The older man wanted his son married—to the right girl, from the right family—and he’d decided Donna was it.
“I think there’ll be some sort of parade next week,” Mike said to Donna. “I’ll call you and we’ll go.”
Over my dead body, Bruce thought.