The Jade Girl

by Daphne Clair

  Alex welcomed them at the door, and took the large flat parcel from her that held the painting, saying with a smile, 'I think I can guess what it is, but will you mind if I open it later when I have time to appreciate it properly?'

  He put it carefully leaning against the wall by the stairway, and ushered them into the lounge with a middle-aged couple who had arrived behind them. Several people were already there, and Stacey recognised some as teachers from the college. They seemed friendly and they all remembered her from the prize-giving night she had attended with Alex.

  Roger Pearce greeted her mother warmly and stood up to give her his armchair, for the small room was already crowded. He sat down again on the wide arm after Alex and Fergus indicated they would find drinks for the newcomers, and a young man called Carl, whose last name she didn't catch, gave Stacey his chair and squatted cross-legged at her feet.

  Carl, who turned out to be an art student at present completing his diploma, soon discovered her interest, and captured it for some time. Alex gave her a glass and then went off to open the door for more guests, flickering a glance and a small smile between her and Carl before he went.

  As Carl explained and expounded on new techniques and schools of art that Stacey had never even heard of, she began to feel slightly envious.

  'I'd love to try that!' she said at one point. 'But I've no proper training. I wouldn't know how to start.'

  'Ever thought of night-classes?' Carl asked.

  'I did attend a night-class for a year or so after I left school,' Stacey told him. She had given up the year she had planned to marry, because they could not afford a very expensive place to live, and she wanted to spend time redecorating and making a comfortable home for herself and David. His studies would have left him little time to help, and her spare time was free.

  Alex came over to them, and Carl looked up at him. 'I'm trying to persuade Stacey to attend art classes at night school,' he said.

  'Good idea, Stacey,' said Alex. 'Have you tried it before?'

  'Years ago,' she said. 'Perhaps I could do it, next year.'

  'You could probably get into a class at the college,' he told her. 'They usually have a university tutor to take them. The bloke who makes the arrangements is here somewhere, I'll introduce you.'

  He took her over to a tall, stooped man who seemed only too happy to advise her how and when to enrol for the following year's class at the college.

  Then someone else came up to speak to him, and she looked around, seeing her seat now occupied and Carl drifting out to replenish his glass in the kitchen which was serving as the bar.

  Her mother still sat, looking extremely soignée and lovely in the blue caftan they had bought together, and with Roger' Pearce leaning over from his seat on the arm of her chair in an almost intimate manner. Stacey frowned a little, looking to see where Alex was, and found him studying them too, reflectively sipping something that looked like whisky from his glass.

  Deliberately, Stacey walked over to her mother and began chatting about the night-class idea, and Roger reluctantly gave up his seat.

  Stacey flashed him a pretty smile, and took his place next to her mother. She chatted on, throwing him an occasional casual glance, until he moved away to talk, with some of his fellow-teachers in another corner.

  Alex was still standing in the same place, but his glass was empty, and when she caught his eye she saw he was looking both puzzled and slightly angry.

  She smiled and moved her head a little, indicating he should come over to them, and. after a moment or two he did.

  'Alex seemed to think it was a pretty good idea,' she was saying to her mother as he stopped in front of them. 'Didn't you, Alex?'

  'What?' he said. He smiled, but as he looked at her she had to make an effort to smile back, because his eyes were still angry, cold and rather watchful.

  She explained rapidly, then said airily, vacating her perch on the arm of the chair, and whipping the empty glass out of his hand, 'Here, let me get you another. The poor host never gets a chance to sit down and be waited on, does he? Take my seat and enjoy your own party for a while.'

  Too surprised to protest, he did so, and she wended her way through the crowd and into the kitchen.

  She took her time fixing the drink according to the instructions he had rather bemusedly given her, and after handing it to him rapidly disappeared into the dining room, where the table had been removed and a makeshift dance floor formed on which some couples were dancing, to a portable cassette player. Quietly she sat down and began going through the tapes. The one in the machine was almost ended, and when it finally ran out, she took it out and inserted another.

  Barely five minutes later Alex came in and glanced around the room. His eyes finding her in the dim corner, he made straight for her and bending slightly over her chair said quietly but with a hint of anger, 'Would you mind telling me what all that was about?'

  'All what?' she said innocently, genuinely puzzled as to why he should seem to object to her harmless attempt to stop Roger Pearce monopolising her mother, and give Alex a chance to talk to her and sit with her for a while.

  'You know quite well what!' he answered, and she looked up in astonishment at the coldness in his voice, his expression. His hand closed over her arm as though he intended to lift her forcibly from her chair, and then someone called his name, wanting him to come, and he released her and straightened up. 'I'll see you later,' he said as though it was a threat.

  She looked after him in pure astonishment as he left the room.

  Someone asked her to dance, and she did so with her mind totally preoccupied. There seemed no reasonable explanation for his annoyance. Her mother was far too sparkling and obviously happy for it to be caused by some quarrel between them. Stacey flattered herself that her manoeuvres had not been so unsubtle that it could have embarrassed either of them. Even Roger, she was sure, had not discerned what she was up to.

  Perhaps Alex just didn't like to have someone take such an interest in his interests. It would be just like him to resent what he might see as interference, when he was not in the least averse to putting an oar in other people's affairs—Stacey's, for instance.

  She changed partners and hardly noticed the fact, but as the music altered to a fast, heavy beat and her new partner indulged in some tricky footwork, she forced herself to concentrate and gradually Alex's inexplicable behaviour faded to the back of her mind.

  She glimpsed her mother later, dancing with Roger. Then she saw the tall stooped man she had been speaking to earlier guiding Helen round the floor. But when she returned to the other room, Roger was sitting on the sofa with her mother, the two of them deep in conversation, and Alex was nowhere to be seen.

  She talked for a while to Fergus and Tricia, who stood arm in arm and kept stealing smiling glances at each other. Then-Alex wheeled a tea-trolley he had borrowed from somewhere into the centre of the room and he and a couple of volunteers from among the guests began to hand around plates of sandwiches, hot savouries and cakes.

  Stacey took a couple of sandwiches from one of the plates and began to edge away from Alex. She was still disturbed by that odd little interlude earlier and didn't particularly relish the thought of talking to him. In fact she wanted to avoid him for the time being.

  Twenty minutes later she had succeeded very well in keeping out of his range of vision while the food was consumed at a remarkable rate, when she saw her mother standing in the doorway and signalling to her.

  'I told Alex we would make the coffee,' she explained when Stacey obeyed. She led the way to the kitchen where food and bottles had been cleared from the small table to make room for cups and saucers. Together they made coffee and filled the cups, carrying it into the other room on trays.

  She left a cup for herself in the kitchen and slipped back there to drink it when everyone else was served, and her mother was again sitting beside Roger, who had kept her seat free.

  She had barely finished when Alex came in, an em
pty cup in his hand.

  'There you are,' he said, placing the cup on the sink bench. Then he took hers and did the same. 'They're all happy,' he said. 'This seems the right time to have a private little session with you.'

  'What for?' she asked, and saw the ready laughter in his eyes. They were teasing, and even as she felt relief that he seemed no longer annoyed with her, they flickered over her with a look that was more than teasing, a look that she remembered from the early days of their acquaintance with each other. A very man-to-woman look.

  'What for?' he repeated blandly. 'To open your present to me, of course. Come on.'

  His hand closed round her wrist and he pulled her out with him into the narrow little hall, and picking up the still-wrapped package that contained her painting.

  'Upstairs,' he said quietly, taking her inexorably with him. 'It's more private.'

  Outside his bedroom door he paused as she instinctively pulled back from his hold on her. He looked at her and smiled, raised his eyebrows a fraction, and said with laughter in his voice, 'Along here.'

  He walked on further to the door of the front bedroom, and opened it for her, making her go in.

  She hardly noticed that he had shut the door behind them and was standing only inches away from it. Her attention was caught, as soon as he snapped on the gentle wall lights, by the jade statuette that now stood on a small intricately carved wooden table by the window.

  It was the only furniture in the room. The walls had been papered in a very pale green paper with an oriental influence, and the wall-to-wall charcoal grey carpet was lighted by a thick-pile Indian rug in white and pastel colours. Jade green silk curtains hung at either side of the window, highlighting the colour of the enigmatic little figure on the table beside them. The light shone on its planes and hollows and gleamed on the graceful draperies that seemed to float around the girl.

  'Oh—is she going to stay here?' Stacey asked, moving closer.

  'Do you think she looks happy here?' he asked.

  'Oh, yes. The room might have been made for her. Was it?' she swung round to look at him.

  His smile was almost as enigmatic as the Chinese girl's. 'Not exactly. I hope to give her a companion— eventually.'

  She found she couldn't meet the steady gaze of his eyes, and she dropped hers suddenly to the parcel in his hand. 'Are you going to open that?' she asked.

  'That's why we're here, isn't it?' But his eyes laughed at her as he carefully removed the wrapping and held her picture at arms' length.

  He studied it for a few long minutes, and she saw his mouth quirk in a smile. He glanced up and saw her questioning look. 'The paint-pot,' he explained. 'I missed it at first.'

  He returned to studying it. Finally, he lowered it to the ground and propped it beside the door, against the wall. Still looking at it, he said. 'I love it, Stacey. You've caught the years of neglect, the sadness of it, and the subtle suggestion of a new lease of life with the ladder and the paint-pot. Plus its essential charm and character.'

  He turned, and his eyes were very gentle on her. He held out his hand and said, 'Come here.'

  She felt that she shouldn't, but she moved towards him, and he took her hands and pulled her closer. She heard his voice say, 'Thank you, Stacey.' His lips touched lightly on her forehead, and quickly and with slightly firmer pressure on her cheek.

  That's all, she said to herself, and tried to summon enough willpower to step back and move away. But another part of her was urging her to move closer, to lift her lips to meet his. And that was not to be allowed.

  Then it was too late, because his hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, and then pulled her closer, the left sliding across her shoulder blades to close round her left shoulder, the other lifting her face. Then his mouth was firmly on hers, warmly masculine and incredibly welcome and desirable.

  The kiss lasted only seconds, then Stacey pushed against him, and twisted her head away.

  For an instant she felt his hands tighten against her rejection, then he let her go.

  It had been nothing, after all, Stacey told herself. Just a brief, almost passionless thank-you kiss such as any male friend might bestow on a woman in these circumstances. There was nothing to be ashamed or guilty about.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A quick glance at his face showed her that Alex was looking-slightly puzzled, but not at all guilty or worried. Obviously he had felt none of her urgent desire, and her sudden withdrawal had been quite unnecessary as far as he was concerned.

  Stacey stepped sideways from him, studiously looking at the painting so that he shouldn't see her eyes.

  'I'm glad you like it so much,' she said.

  'The painting, or the kissing?' he asked, turning and putting his arms about her shoulders.

  'Don't!' Sharply she twisted away from him, she would have made for the door, but his own turn to face her in some astonishment had brought his back up against it.

  'What's the matter with you?' he demanded.

  'Nothing. Shall we go back downstairs now?'

  'No, I don't think so,' he said slowly. His mouth curved a little as he watched her. 'I didn't bring you lap here with rape in mind, you know.'

  'I didn't think you had.'

  'Then why are you so nervous of me touching you?'

  'I'm not,' she said, putting up her chin.

  'No?' He took a step away from the door and stretched a hand out to her. 'Prove it.'

  With an effort she stood perfectly still as his fingers lightly traced a line down her cheek and along her chin. She firmed her lips as he feathered his index finger across them, and held his eyes as it moved down her throat to rest momentarily in the hollow at its base. She felt the pulse there beating against the light pressure of his finger, and saw the smiling challenge in his eyes change to something else.

  'Please stop it, Alex,' she said, and stepped back, away from him. 'I know you don't mean it—it's just a game to you, but I ‑'

  'Do you, now?' he queried softly. He leaned back against the door and folded his arms, and she had the feeling that she had just said something that had really angered him, in spite of his seemingly indolent stance. 'And what is it to you, Stacey?'

  'Nothing.' Couldn't he see how easily this silly flirting of his could get out of hand? Let passion once flare between them, and it would mean disaster, for Helen and for both of them. 'I've had enough of your teasing for tonight, Alex. Let's go down, now.' She tried to smile at him, to treat the whole thing lightly, to persuade him to take her downstairs, back to the party and other people.

  'Teasing?' he repeated. 'Oh,' he said softly. 'Is that what I'm doing?'

  'You know it is!' she cried, angry herself with his obtuseness. 'Get away from that door, and let's go down!'

  'I know it isn't!' he contradicted her, and moved away from the door towards her so quickly and purposefully that she retreated before him in something close to fear.

  He stopped himself short and stood staring at her, visibly taking a hold of himself. 'All right,' he said, 'if that's what you want. But if you don't mind, the picture wasn't the only reason why I brought you up here.' He hesitated as if gauging her probable reaction, 'There's, a rather special art exhibition on at a city gallery next week—a Christmas showing.'

  'Yes, I read about it.'

  'Would you like to go and see it—with me? And have dinner afterwards.'

  Stacey looked at him in some perplexity. 'That's kind of you,' she said, thinking he must be looking on it in a similar light to a treat for a child. 'But I don't know ‑'

  'I understood,' he said, 'that Graeme had—er—ridden off into the sunset. And Gideon sailed in the same direction, I believe. Don't tell me that young Carl has stolen a march on me already?'

  He smiled, and something very odd happened. Hearts don't turn over, Stacey told herself, entirely failing to convince herself that that very thing had not just happened to hers.

  'I see,' she said to him. 'But really, you don't need to take pity on me
because I'm without a boy-friend for a while.'

  'Take pity?' He looked at her with obvious amazement. 'Do you honestly think I'm asking you out from the goodness of my heart?'

  'Aren't you?' she challenged.

  'No.'

  'Then why?'

  'Why the hell do you think?' he asked tightly—and illogically, because she had just told him that. But she had no time to think about that, because he had simply reached out and jerked her into his arms, and this time there was no question of slipping out of his embrace. It was implacable, and the force of his kiss against her mutely protesting mouth was forcing back her head against his arm. She made a little sound in her throat, and he changed his grip, so that her head was cradled in the curve of his shoulder and arm, and her body even more closely curved into his, but his mouth gentled and began to tantalise hers into response with a mixture of passion and tenderness.

  'This is why!' he whispered against her mouth. 'This.' The tip of his tongue explored her upper lip, and then his mouth parted hers beneath it and plunged her into a whirlpool of aching desire.

  She didn't surface until he lifted his head to look with triumph into her darkened eyes. And as reality intruded and the voices from downstairs floated into her consciousness, she went rigid in his hold and wrenched away, turning blindly for the door.

  It took him by surprise, and his restraining hand slipped down her arm as she turned from him. But before her shaking hand found the handle, he was there behind her, slamming a hand against the panels to keep the door closed, and turning her roughly with the other, his eyes blazing down so that she looked away from them.

  'Now what?' he demanded. 'And don't tell me you didn't like it, because I know you did. And your eyes are grey now, jade girl,' he added softly, watching them as if fascinated, even though she wouldn't look at him.

  He moved his hand to cup her face and make her look up, but she knocked it away with a clenched fist. She would have hit his face next, but he grabbed her wrist in a painful grip, and she bit her lip and glared at him in defiance and fury.