I forgot to mention, Irene Adler is properly American in this story.
When he sees her for the first time, she is dressed in a tiny aquamarine dress, curiously shaped to disguise her figure. Her attitude is a mixture of mock artfulness, bemused mischief and genuine, humorous glee. It is not difficult to imagine her playing with a bunch of toddlers on the carpet; he is disconcerted by the vagariousness of the image, popping up in his mind. He wonders if she goes by her real age, and decides positively. A huge bouquet of magnolias in a Persian vase, on the dining table in the middle of the room, and another one - in a smaller, simpler vase, freshly painted in blue - on a little table by the fireplace. She likes to sit there, in a comfortable armchair, when reading. Her favorite flowers.
He runs through the Irene Adler file, stored in his head. He matches particular details of her origin, background and impressive CV of kinds against what he sees. He knows that Irene Adler is an absolute exception, for multiple reasons. All odds were against that Irene Adler should become what she is - 29 years of age and a con woman of international renown - and sit here, in this particular luxurious living, or, indeed, anywhere at all. Most women with her background wouldn't have survived into their thirties, typically, due to violence or a heroine overdose. He is vaguely curious how she managed it, but dismisses the curiosity as irrelevant.
'Irene, darling, this is a friend of mine, Sherlock Holmes.' His host, head of an IT enterprise on a rise, is a large clumsy man with sad, intelligent eyes, who is suffering from excessive perspiration. He clearly adores the woman and hates to upset her. 'He came down from London to help me with a little problem.'
The soft, shining oval of her face is turned to him, like a veiled rifle. She takes him in openly, her cheek dimples caught in a smile, eyes basking in a cool glow. Everything happens very quickly. At the first word of her lover, she still doesn't have a clue, at the last, she is examining her options.
A minute later, she offers them a drink, and he knows she has already come to a conclusion. He is determined to find out what it is. Meanwhile, they are chatting about neutral, harmless things.
New York is a city of endless afternoons. There will be no night, if you don't want one to come. This one will be no different.
A phone call summons the puffing man out of the room. The woman stands up, takes a pack of cigaretets out of a glass cupboard, flashes him a glare and disappears into the balcony. He follows her, stops behind her back, his hands folded behind his own.
She is not nervous. Her fingers, holding a cigarette at her lips, are slightly besmirched with something blue, and he thinks he knows what it is -
'I paint. Vases. Pottery, painting. It's my hobby. I recommend.' Her voice is low, melodious and there is a soft ironic undertone to everything she says. Her relaxedness was thus fake. She scans him without looking. He retorts:
'How did you fool him so long?'
She laughs heartily, as if he has told her a joke.
'I know what he likes.' She says with a bemused sincereness. 'He likes -'
'Oh, please don't indulge yourself in the details.'
She continues nevertheless. 'He likes me. He likes my company. He likes me misbehave.' She adds after a pause, with a seemingly genuine surprise: 'I think I like him, too. Yes, I do.'
'Is that why you have been leaking sensitive information to his concurrent for the last six months, for millions of dollars? Because you like him?' He leans over her shoulder and whispers in her impeccable little ear, lit by a minuscule shiny diamant.
She laughs again, in the tone of his whisper.
'And you, Mr. Holmes, are you a detective because you hate crimes?' She takes another sigaret, offering him one this time:
'Mr. Holmes?'
'I don't smoke.'
'Neither do I. It's my first in months.'
'Six months?' He murmurs, takes a cigarette. She lights his cigarette up, her gracious fingers are ghosting his face, with the slightest of touches.
The New York sky. Skyline, skyscrapers. The sun is burning red holes on their glass scales. The city means the same to them both. Money, vice. Their hunting grounds, at the opposite sides of the law.
Suddenly, her lips are near his cheek. Her parfume is D and G: The One; she has had a glass of gin within the last couple hours; she uses physical proximity as a tactic device. While his mind processes the information, she forms distinct words into his ear:
'When and where will we discuss our deal?'
He conceals his consternation. Not about what she has said, but that she said it so soon.
'Our deal, Miss Adler? Why do you think we have a deal?'
'Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation, Mr. Holmes, would we? You know what I think? You had all the information before you came here. But you came to see me.'
His upper lip curls, ever so slightly. They hear steps behind their backs. Quickly, he tells her the name of his hotel and the time: tonight, 9.p.m.
The sweaty man, a genius with the wrong kind of intelligence, returns, and they continue the conversation. They talk neutral, harmless things: weather and war.