Nick chortled. “Colette is not Araminta 2.0. Araminta is essentially a Singapore girl—she can glam it up when she wants to, but she’s equally comfortable hanging out in yoga sweats and eating fresh coconut on the beach. Colette’s a whole other advanced species yet to be classified. I think she’ll either be running China or Hollywood in a few years.”

“And yet she’s grown on me. She’s been the nicest surprise so far, hasn’t she? When I first met her, I was like, This girl cannot be for real. But she’s so sweet and so generous—she hasn’t let us pick up a single tab since we got here.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I think we’ve been comped at every restaurant or club we’ve been to. Do you notice how Colette gets Roxanne to take pictures of her everywhere we go? She just tweets or blogs about every place, and the rest of us eat for free. It’s quite a racket.”

“Still, I think she’s good for Carlton.”

“Yeah, but don’t you think she’s toying with him? She’s clearly into him, and yet she’s still chanting this ‘He’s just one of my many suitors’ BS.”

Rachel gave Nick a teasing look. “You just don’t like it when the tables are turned! Colette’s got her own career and her own goals and she’s in no rush to get married. I think it’s so refreshing. Most Chinese girls are under such enormous pressure to get married and have kids by their early twenties. I mean, how many Chinese girls do we get every semester that are really just at NYU to find the perfect husband?”

Nick cocked his head and thought about it for a moment. “I can’t think of any besides you.”

“Oh, har har. Jerk!” Rachel said, smacking him with a tasseled pillow.

? ? ?

At five that afternoon, as Nick and Rachel stood outside their hotel waiting for Carlton to pick them up, a thunderous roar could be heard coming from the Bund. Nick was dressed casually in jeans, a light blue oxford shirt, and his fawn-colored Huntsman summer blazer, while Rachel opted for an Erica Tanov summer linen smock dress. Moments later, a burned-apricot McLaren F1 pulled into the driveway of the Peninsula, its engines making a low, deliriously expensive rumble that sent the valet attendants scurrying around excitedly, each hoping for the chance to park this exotic driving machine. Their hopes were dashed when Carlton poked his head out the window and beckoned Nick and Rachel to get in.

“You take the front seat,” Nick gallantly offered his wife.

“Don’t be ridiculous—my legs are much shorter than yours,” Rachel said. Their argument ended up being completely moot, because as the wing doors rose, they saw that the driver’s seat was in the center of the car, with a passenger seat flanking either side.

“How cool! I’ve never seen anything like this!” Rachel said.

Nick peered in. “This is one sexy car you have here—is it street legal?”

“Hell if I know,” Carlton said with a smirk.

“And here I thought you people went around in nothing but Audis,” Rachel said as she climbed in on the right side.

“Oh, the Audis belong to Colette’s family. You know why everyone drives Audis, don’t you? It’s the car most high-level politicians drive, so many people drive them because they think that other cars will give way and the police are more likely to leave them alone.”

“How interesting,” Rachel said as she settled into her surprisingly comfortable bucket seat. “I love this new-car smell.”

“Actually, this car isn’t new at all—it’s from 1998,” Carlton said.

“Really?” Rachel said in surprise.

“It’s considered a classic—I only drive it on sunny, cloudless days like today. You’re smelling the hand-stitched Connolly leather hides—made from cows even more pampered than the ones in Kobe.”

“Looks like we’ve discovered another of Carlton’s passions,” Nick commented.

“Oh yeah! I’ve been importing cars for several years now and selling them to friends. I started during my Cambridge days, whenever I came up to London on weekends,” Carlton explained as he sped onto Yan’an Elevated Road.

“You must have witnessed the Arab sports-car parade around Knightsbridge every year,” Nick said.

“You bet! My friends and I would grab a table outside the Ladurée and watch them roll by!”

“What are you guys talking about?” Rachel asked.

Nick proceeded to explain. “Every June, all these young Arab squillionaires descend on London, bringing with them the most stupendous sports cars in the world. And they race them around Knightsbridge as if the streets are their private Formula One track. On Saturday afternoons, the cars converge behind Harrods at the corner of Basil Street like some swap meet. All these kids—some not more than eighteen, dressed in expensive tattered denim, and their girlfriends, covered up in their hijabs but wearing blinged-out sunglasses sitting in these million-dollar automobiles. It’s an incredible sight.”

Carlton nodded, his eyes flashing with excitement. “The same thing is happening here! This is now the number-one market for luxury cars in the world—especially exotic sports cars. The demand is unquenchable, and all my friends know I’m the best at finding the rarest of the rare. This McLaren we’re sitting in—only sixty-four were ever built. So before a car even arrives on the dock in Shanghai, I have a waiting list of buyers.”

“Sounds like a fun way to make a living,” Nick commented.

“Tell that to my parents when you see them. They think I’m wasting my life.”

“I’m sure they are just concerned for your safety,” Rachel said, holding her breath as Carlton suddenly cut across three lanes at ninety miles per hour.

“Sorry, I just need to get around those trucks. Don’t worry—I’m a very safe driver.”

Nick and Rachel exchanged dubious looks, knowing Carlton’s recent history. Rachel checked that her seat belt was securely fastened and tried not to look at the zigzagging cars in front of them.

“Everyone on the highway seems totally schizo—they’re changing lanes constantly,” Nick quipped.

“Listen, if you try to drive in an orderly fashion here and stay in your lane all the time, you’ll just get killed,” Carlton said, accelerating again to overtake a truck full of pigs. “The rational rules of driving do not apply in this country. I learned to drive in the UK, and when I came back to Shanghai the first time after getting my license, I got pulled over on my first day driving. The police officer screamed at me, ‘You bloody fool! Why did you stop at that red light?’?”

“Oh yeah, Rachel and I have almost gotten killed trying to cross the road several times. Traffic signals mean nothing to Shanghai drivers,” Nick said.

“They are merely suggestions,” Carlton agreed, suddenly slamming on the brakes and veering sharply to the right, narrowly avoiding a van in the far left lane.

“SWEET JESUS! WAS THAT VAN ACTUALLY BACKING UP IN THE FAST LANE?” Rachel screamed.

“Welcome to China,” Carlton said nonchalantly.

Twenty minutes outside of downtown Shanghai, they finally exited the highway, much to Rachel’s relief, and turned onto what appeared to be a recently paved boulevard.

“Where are we?” Rachel asked.

“This is a new development called Porto Fino Elite,” Carlton explained. “It’s modeled after those fancy neighborhoods in Newport Beach.”

“Clearly,” Nick commented as they passed a Mediterranean-style strip mall painted in shades of ochre, complete with a Starbucks. They turned off the main street and drove down a long avenue flanked by high stucco walls, at the end of which stood a cascading sculptural waterfall next to a gatehouse. Carlton pulled up in front of a massive gate with decorative steelwork panels, and three uniformed guards emerged from the gatehouse. One of the guards walked around the car warily, as if he was looking for hidden explosives, while another used an inspection mirror to peer under the car. The guard in charge recognized Carlton and checked him off a list. He gave Nick and Rachel a careful once-over, before nodding and waving the car through.

“That’s pretty serious security,” Nick commented.

“Yep—it’s very private here,” Carlton said.

The heavy gates clanked open, and the McLaren sped down a pristine white gravel road lined with Italian cypresses. Between the trees, Rachel and Nick could make out several small artificial lakes, from the middle of which sprouted fountains; sleek glass and steel buildings here and there; and the undulating mounds of a golf course. Finally, as they passed a pair of weathered obelisks, they came upon the main reception building—a majestic yet minimalist stone-and-glass structure surrounded by artfully planted pagoda trees.

“I had no idea they were building resorts like this in the suburbs outside Shanghai. What’s this place called?” Nick asked Carlton.

“This isn’t actually a resort. This is Colette’s weekend retreat.”

“Excuse me? This whole property is hers?” Rachel sputtered.

“Yes, all thirty acres of it. Her parents built it for her.”

“And where do they live?”

“They have houses in many cities—Hong Kong, Shanghai, Beijing—but they spend most of their time in Hawaii these days,” Carlton explained.

“They must have done rather well,” Rachel commented.

Carlton gave her a look of amusement. “I guess I never mentioned—Colette’s father is one of the five richest men in China.”

* * *