Forty-threeHector de Vile stood transfixed by what was unfolding before him. The swift course of events. The rock-solid testimony it seemed impossible to bring into question. But most of all, that woman. That wicked smile.
For a moment he forgot he was in a meeting room at the Occidental Hotel in San Francisco in 1870. The reality of the November ballot box, of San Francisco in July, faded.
The sure knowledge that—unless he grabbed back the initiative—this scandal would ditch his re-election chances dissolved away, swamped in old memories.
He was back in a balmy Honolulu night more than twenty years ago, in the company of a beautiful woman. The velvety touch of her skin, the floral scent of the multi-blossomed leis that hung around their necks as they stood hand in hand in front of a fe
