The Darling Jade Read online

  Laughing in spite of herself, she came forward. 'I'm sorry, Zan, are you okay?' She sat down on the edge of the sailboat. It rocked gently, then steadied again.

  'Yes,' he growled, sucking his fingers, 'I'm fine.' His eyes raked slowly across her face as his sunbleached eyebrows relaxed. 'That was quick,' he added absently. 'I didn't expect you for half an hour or so.'

  'From the message I got, I figured I'd better hurry!' She tore her eyes away from his face to inspect the boat. 'This is some yacht,' she teased. 'Can I come aboard?'

  'I believe you are already. Shows a distinct lack of nautical etiquette,' he grumped, leaning over to inspect her feet. 'Rule number one is no street shoes aboard. Off with those sandals!'

  Grinning, Jade obeyed, kicking them off on the dock. Nothing had changed, and she had to swallow a laugh of pure joy. Lifting her long legs, she pivoted around to swing them into the cockpit, which was shaped like an oversized bathtub, with a bench running fore and aft along each side of it. 'Where did you get this?' she asked happily.

  Zan looked up from her legs, his eyes gleaming. 'Chartered it for a month,' he said absently. 'Now come sit down and tell me what you know about sailing.'

  'Port, starboard, mast, boom, hard alee and avast,' Jade rattled off smugly as she settled down on the bench opposite him. 'Oh, and mayday, mayday, mayday— period.'

  Zan made a face. 'I was afraid of that. Okay, we'll start with vocabulary.'

  'After coffee,' Jade pleaded, spotting the coffee pot placed on the after deck.

  'Mind using my cup?' Zan collected it off the floorboards and looked up at her, shaking the loose hair out of his eyebrows. 'It's the only one here.'

  She shook her head slowly, smiling, then looked away again quickly as she felt her colour rise. After a moment, she felt his eyes leave her face as he poured out the coffee. 'What's its name?' she asked breathlessly.

  'Her name,' he corrected. 'Sublimation.'

  Her head snapped around. Coffee cup held out to her, he waited expectantly, his eyes crinkled. Laughing, she shook her head firmly. 'Liar!' She took the cup from him and transferred her attention to it. Maybe things had changed. She couldn't quite meet Zan's dancing gaze, or hold it once she met it, anyway. It was as if their eyes were speaking a different, deeper language than their words.

  'Mmm,' he agreed wordlessly. 'She doesn't have a name. She's just a rental boat, nobody's darling.'

  'Well, we'll have to name her, then. But won't she interfere with your writing?' She took another sip of coffee and stole another hungry look at him.

  Zan shook his head thoughtfully. 'Nope. I think she's just what we need. We can get out of our cage here, work off some steam, and I can think at the same time. I plan to let you do the sailing, while I sit back and meditate.'

  'But, Zan, I can't sail.' She shook her hair back nervously, and stared around the boat—so many lines, cleats, unknown devices!

  He grinned. 'Anyone who can drive a Porsche can sail a boat. All it takes is practice. And that you're going to get, sweet.' It was hard to say if that was threat or promise.

  Threat or promise, Zan made good on it in the next two weeks. When they weren't writing, they were sailing. And it was as easy as he'd said. Within a few days it was Jade who took the helm as they glided around the harbour. While Zan leaned back, his eyes wide and dreaming, she picked the course and gloried in the chuckle of water past the sleek hull, the taut and snowy curve of the jib, the wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes. It was lovely. She loved to sail in the mornings when the wind was light. Gliding slowly along the waterfront, she had time to look up and admire Newport, to savour its stone and clapboard stair-step climb to the green trees, the white and red church steeples that crowned its hill. Or, tiring of the town, she could watch the fishing boats unload at the docks beneath clouds of wheeling seagulls, or tack in close to the sleek whale-shapes of the twelve-metre yachts where they hung in slings with tireless crews polishing their bottoms. Afternoons, when the wind roared in off the ocean from the south-west, she had to keep her eyes on her course as they charged across the harbour, dodging moored and moving boats like a midget ballerina caught in a game of pro football. Either way, she loved it.

  For now, Zan's writing was progressing as smoothly as Jade's sailing skills. They had started work on a flashback the day she returned, and apparently Zan knew exactly what he wanted here, had been planning this part of the book for months.

  'But what has the 1934 America's Cup match between Endeavour and Rainbow got to do with your murders in 1980?' Jade wondered, looking up from her writing. And where had she heard the name Endeavour before? They had worked dutifully on the patio all morning, till Zan declared a break for lunch and sailing. They'd dropped their sails and picked up a mooring under the lee of Fort Adams while they ate the picnic she had packed, and then inspiration had struck, and Jade found herself scribbling away in the notebook Zan carried for such emergencies. Now it seemed to be fading away again as Zan lounged silently across from her, his thick lashes shutting out distractions, his head propped on the cockpit edge and his long legs stretched out before him. Perhaps he'd gone to sleep on her. 'Hmm?' she prodded.

  'Hush. I'm thinking,' he murmured peaceably.

  She scowled at his brooding profile and settled back to wait, wishing she'd brought a sketch pad. She'd yet to draw Zan, much less paint him. She looked around. The sky over the fort was bleaching in the hazy sunlight, fading from pale blue to fuzzy white. Far off she heard the bray of a ship's horn, then fainter still, its echo. There was fog out on the ocean today. Even now it was creeping up the channel, throwing hungry tendrils across the hill above the fort as it reached for the harbour.

  Zan sat up suddenly. 'No good,' he announced in disgust, taking the pad from her. Standing, he stretched like a big cat, then stepped forward to duck into the crawl space he called a cuddy cabin, where they kept a cooler and the sails. Turning back again, he handed her a dripping green bottle.

  'Beer in the afternoon?' She raised an eyebrow.

  'We've worked hard today. I'll start again this evening.' Zan lounged back across from her and shut his eyes again, sipping thoughtfully.

  Jade drank her beer and studied his face, pondering his writing and this mysterious flashback. This last two weeks had been like a flashback, come to think of it. After an uneasy start, they had fallen back into their early easy, teasing companionship. And the only needs Zan had voiced were for typing and help in the kitchen. Perhaps that night in town had been a fluke, some mysterious moon tide of the masculine psyche which had since ebbed. Only once in a while, when she looked up suddenly, did she surprise a yearning look in those ice-grey eyes. And that was surely not so surprising. He was a man who liked his women, after all, no doubt about that.

  Suddenly depressed, Jade swallowed the last of her beer and looked around again. She blinked. Across the cove, the condominium was gone, as was the town beyond. The nearby fort looked soft and dark through the swirling mist. Above, the sky curved brilliant white as it smothered the sun. 'Zan!'

  'Hmm, sweet?' He sat up at the note of alarm in her voice and looked around. 'Hmm,' he murmured thoughtfully.

  The automatic foghorn off the end of the fort awoke just then to sing out its French-horn warning. Zan's head swung to follow the sound, lifted as it came again. 'Nice,' he said softly. He turned back and his mouth curved slightly as he saw her face. 'No problem, sweet. I can find the way home if we need to.' He rubbed his knuckle slowly across his lips as he watched her, his eyes wide and unblinking.

  'You're sure?' Jade stared beyond him into the white shroud, her nerves prickling. It was eerie. The horizon was gone now, sea and sky melting into a white and shimmering bubble around them.

  'Mm-hmm.' There was no doubt in Zan's low, smiling voice. 'We can either follow the shoreline around, or sail from mooring to mooring, Jade. I know all the boats in the cove by now. But let's give it half an hour and see if it clears.'

  'Okay.' If Zan said he could get her
back, then he could. But she was frightened all the same. She slid slowly down to lie on her bench, her knees up, and threw an arm across her eyes to shut out the blinding white. Was it the fog that scared her, or being trapped alone with Zan? She lay quietly and listened to the foghorn. Far away a ship bellowed mournfully.

  'And what does the horn say to you?' Zan's warm voice floated out of her darkness, making her feel colder, even more alone . . . Beneath her arm, she tried to smile.

  'Say? It doesn't say. It's a colour, Zan, and a shape. Hollow, reaching curves of blue-violet.'

  He laughed softly. 'The difference between an artist and a writer, that . . .'

  'What does it say to you?' she asked at last.

  He waited until the signal came round again. 'Waaant . . .' he sang softly with it. 'Waaant . . .'He laughed quietly again as she shuddered. 'You asked, sweet,' he reminded her. 'It comes on late at night sometimes. I wake up in my big empty bed to hear it crying . . . can't get back to sleep.'

  'What do you do then?' she asked faintly. Beneath her arm she squeezed her eyes tight, hurting and not sure why.

  'Get up, get a glass of wine, and bring it back to bed . . . Lie back against the pillows, there in the dark, and drink it, staring out towards the bridge.' His breath hissed harshly. 'Beats howling at the moon.' He took another breath. 'I used to get up and write, or run when it got like that, but not this summer.'

  'I'm sorry.' Jade's voice came out so tiny, she wondered if he heard it.

  'It'll heal.' His low words held something warmer and kinder than a smile. 'It'll heal.'

  After a moment, she heard him slide down on his bench beside her and sigh. She fought the urge to reach out and touch his shoulder. Why did she have to feel this overwhelming need to comfort him, to fill his loneliness? If he was lonely, it was self-imposed, wasn't it? Just part of his writer's discipline. And if Zan made the rules, he could break them, couldn't he, if they grew too painful? A phone call would surely bring Irena, or Mona, or probably any one of a dozen other girls from his address book running. So it was his choice, to be alone. And none of her business.

  'What's it like, Jade, being in love?' The low voice beside her was whimsical, lightly amused.

  Dropping her arm, she turned to gape at him. Head pillowed on his good arm, Zan stared up at the fog, his clear eyes reflecting the white sky. 'What do you mean?' she asked finally.

  The corner of his mouth quirked faintly. 'I mean exactly that. What's it like?'

  Was he serious? Surely this was one of Zan's jokes. Faithful or not to her, didn't he even love his Mona? 'That's a terrible handicap for a writer, I'd think,' she said lightly at last, 'not to know about love . . . This last fifty pages or so with your blonde heroine, I've thought you've done pretty well . . .'

  His head swung to face her. 'You mean the redhead? Don't think I haven't noticed your changing her hair colour, sweet!' His lips twitched. 'I'm just biding my time till the last draft. The author gets the last word . . . But that's not love anyway, that's sex, Jade. Tell me what love's like. Do you go off your feed? Do your ears ring? Are you so absentminded that you jump stop signs?'

  Frowning, Jade ignored this last crack, and tried to picture Fred's face. She couldn't, quite.

  'Well . . . you want to be with him . . . you're happy when he's happy—' she broke off angrily. 'Oh, come on, Zan, you know what it's like! You've been in love before, even if it didn't last . . .'

  'But if it didn't last, it wasn't love, was it?' he asked softly with a child's dreadful logic. 'So what do I know?'

  If it didn't last, it wasn't love. The words echoed in her mind like the haunting blue moan of the foghorn and Jade shivered violently, hugging herself. If it didn't last—such lonely words! Not just for Zan, who didn't know what love was, but for herself, feeling love fading away like fog before the wind . . .

  'You're cold, aren't you, Red?' A big hand slid under her back, lifting her, and Zan settled in behind her. He pulled her back to lean against his shoulder, his arm warm and solid around her waist.

  Jade shuddered and lay rigid, too cold and lonely to move, too tense to relax. His chin settled on the top of her head and Zan took a deep, ragged breath, but that was all. No demands this time, only warmth and comfort, and wonderful strength. She closed her eyes and slowly settled back against him, feeling his heartbeat against her shoulder blade.

  At last, when she lay limp and peaceful in his hold, his chin moved, rasping softly across her hair. 'Now tell me about the other one,' he murmured in her ear. 'The one before Fred.' His arm tightened as she tried to sit up.

  Betrayed, she shook her head against his chin, straining forward. 'There's nothing to tell!'

  His soft snort in her ear called her a liar. 'Have you ever told anyone, Jade? Even Fred?'

  Slowly she shook her head. In those first months, Fred had known she was hurting, had made every effort to console her, yet somehow she'd never told him. 'No,' she whispered, settling slowly back against his warmth again.

  'Well, then there's lots to tell. Tell me.'

  'No,' she whispered again.

  'Can you reach that picnic basket, sweet?' he asked her. From the corner of her eye she saw him nod at the hamper tucked under the forward end of the bench.

  'Not from here,' she murmured, trying to sit up. But his arm still prevented her. 'Why?'

  'Never mind. I was just wondering if I'd packed the thumbscrews,' he teased gently. His arm squeezed her and then relaxed again. 'Tell me.'

  She shook her head bitterly. 'I was such a fool, Zan.'

  'Being a fool's a God-given right till you're twenty-five or so. It might even be a goddam duty. How old were you?' With his chin resting on her head, his deep voice seemed to bypass her ears, echo inside of her mind.

  'Not that young,' she said ruefully. 'It was just over a year ago.'

  'Twenty-three, then. That's not terribly ancient.' His smile seemed to form inside her head. With her eyes closed, she could see his eyes crinkle. 'Who was he?'

  'A visiting professor—Irish, come to teach a semester at Brown up in Providence.' She tensed, picturing Jack's charming, foxy face, and Zan's arm squeezed her comfortingly.

  'And he was married, of course. And he said he was single,' Zan said softly.

  'How did you know?' She gasped, then scowled as she felt his chest heave with silent laughter. 'Damn you, let me go, Zan!' she stormed, twisting against his arm, but he only pulled her closer, his cheek rubbing her hair.

  'Hush . . . hush, I'm sorry, sweet, I'm sorry! It was laugh or cry, one or the other. I'm sorry.'

  Jade held herself stubbornly rigid in his hold, but there was no escaping him. His cheek rubbed her slowly, rasping hypnotic, soothing messages across her hair, and his arm knew when at last the fight went out of her. He soothed her for a while longer and then his head finally stopped. 'And when did you find out?' he prompted gently.

  Jade took a deep, shaky breath. He was going to have it all, every bit of it. Zan didn't even need the thumbscrews. She might as well get it over and be done with it. 'The night I was going to . . . to . . .'she floundered to a halt.

  'Try "sleep with him",' he offered dryly. 'There're better words, but that'll do.'

  She nodded against his chin. 'He'd opened a bottle of champagne ...'

  'An original bastard,' Zan commented bitterly, 'and then?'

  'His . . . wife walked in. She was a model, English, I think, working down in New York—had just driven up for a surprise visit. She was beautiful, and as hard as nails. She looked me up and down, said his taste was improving, and asked if he was still recommending Ireland for the honeymoon.'

  'You were talking marriage?' Zan exploded behind her, his arm compressing her ribs.

  She had to fight for the air to say it. 'Of. . . course we were! I thought I was in love, and he was a liar!' She chewed her lip and tasted blood, as Zan shook his head slowly back and forth against her hair.

  'Silly sweet,' he murmured tenderly. 'Why do you have to be so
serious? You can play around without thinking it's love every time, Jade.'

  Her eyes filled slowly with tears. Was that Zan's formula for success?

  'And what happened then?' His voice echoed in her head.

  'She . . . went upstairs. I turned to go and he stopped me at the front door, told me she'd be gone in a few days, and we could . . . get on with it.' Jade took a breath. 'I let him have it, and he . . . hit me back.'

  'Open-handed or closed?' Zan's voice grated in her ear.

  The question was so typically male that she had to laugh. But it didn't come out as laughter. 'I don't know, Zan, I never saw it coming!' she hiccuped, leaning back against his neck. 'I saw stars! I woke up at the bottom of the steps, with the door shut. End of affair. End of story.'

  He was absolutely still, his chin pressing down against the top of her head, his heart hammering against her back. 'He's not still in the States, is he?' he asked hopefully at last.

  It did come out as laughter this time. Jade turned quickly and brushed her lips against his shirt sleeve. 'No, Zan, he isn't. You can't bash him for me. But thank you.'

  He growled something into her hair and pulled her closer, and with the foghorn moaning through the mist, they sat like that for a long time, filled with an emotion too fragile to question or even acknowledge.

  At last, Jade lifted her head. Was the mist thinning a little? The dark blur ahead of them marked the nearby shore, but the fog swirled a deepening grey now, not white. 'It's going to be dark soon, Zan. Hadn't we better go?'

  'Mmm,' he agreed, the sound muffled against the back of her neck. 'In a minute. Just tell me one more thing?'

  'What?'

  'Tell me how lover boy came along and picked up the pieces?' His arm tightened as she stiffened and he corrected himself. 'Fred! I mean Fred.'

  But she shook her head angrily. 'He didn't pick up the pieces!' she snapped, jerking futilely against his arm. Trust Zan to get around to knocking Fred!

  'Well, caught on the rebound, if you prefer,' Zan offered without a trace of remorse, 'though I would have thought that amateur archaeologists were better at collecting pieces than basketballs.'