She handed him a glass before collapsing onto the sofa next to him. “Chin up.”
Penelope knocked back her drink in one and Field found himself doing the same. It burned his stomach and he groaned quietly, then leaned his head back.
“Tired soldier,” Penelope said.
She moved to her knees in front of him and tugged at the laces on his shoes.
“No, I’m . . .”
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t be silly. It’s about time you relaxed. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? The comfort of family.” She took off both shoes, then whipped off his socks, tickling the bottom of his right foot as he withdrew it.
Penelope refilled the glass and handed it back to him. “Geoffrey is just like this. Doesn’t like to talk about things.”
Field took the glass, looked at it for a moment, then downed it in one again. Penelope followed suit, smiling at him. She held up the empty glass. “To the comfort of family,” she said. “Look at your shoulders.” She put her glass down and moved around behind the sofa. She massaged his neck and back expertly.
“You’re hurt.” She came around to the front. “What happened to you, Richard? Your girl let you down?”
Field didn’t answer. “Do you know Charles Lewis well?” he asked.
“Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“One knows him.”
“Would you say he is the most powerful man in Shanghai?”
There was a mirror opposite, and Field watched Penelope tilt her head to one side, frowning slightly. “I suppose so. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Field’s mind was now so overrun by questions that he shut his eyes again.
“Do you know who killed the Russian girl?” she asked him.
“We’re getting close.”
“Tell me. Who is it?”
Field didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about it and he knew she was only making small talk.
Penelope released him. She took his glass and refilled it again. She placed a hand against his cheek. “Drink up, soldier.” She poured herself another, too, and they faced each other and drank. “Ooh . . . I feel quite drunk now. Geoffrey hates me drinking whiskey.”
Penelope bent down, her breath warm against his ears. “Relax, Richard. Let it go.”
Field closed his eyes.
“Has she hurt you, Richard? Is that what it is? Has the Russian princess betrayed you? They always do, you know.” He felt the glass against his lips. “Drink, Richard.”
Field stood. “I just need to excuse . . .”
“Upstairs, I’ll show you.” She held his hand.
“Actually, I should . . .”
“Geoffrey will want to see you. You can talk to him about it.”
She was still holding his hand, leading him up the stairs, and then they were in her room and she was turning, slipping the dress from her shoulders, so that she was naked from the waist up, wearing nothing but a garter belt and stockings below.
Her mouth was warm and sweet, despite the whiskey, her skin soft. She reached down and took hold of him through his trousers, releasing her grip only to brush against him, moving her hips from side to side.
He staggered, trying to pull away, but her grip was strong. “I know you came for this,” she hissed. She kissed him with sudden ferocity as she unbuttoned his fly.
Penelope sank to her knees and took him into her mouth. He could feel her tugging at his trousers, taking her lips from him only long enough to free them, the wetness soothing as she took him to the base of her throat. She stood again, unbearably close as she took off his holster and unbuttoned his shirt.
She led him back toward the bed and lay down, legs slightly apart, so that he could see the pink lips glistening beneath the dark hair. She took his head and guided it there, the smell of her filling his nostrils. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his hair savagely and pulled his face toward her own, taking hold of him and forcing him into her.
Penelope suddenly pushed him over again, onto his back. Her nipples were erect and she put a hand over his and pulled it to her breast. She pressed down against him, so that he found himself grunting, half in pain, half in anger.
His remorse was instant. Field waited perhaps ten seconds, but as soon as she was off him, some of his semen dripping back onto his stomach, he stood up and wiped it away with his shirt.
He put his shirt on, not caring how squalid that felt.
Penelope sat up, clutching her knees, resting her head on them and looking at him, her hair across her face. “Everything is not as it seems.”
“Isn’t it?” he said as he tried to pull his trousers on. “I suppose you’re going to tell me your husband doesn’t make you happy.”
