At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

  ‘Yes. Then you stop looking like an angel and start looking like a creature from the other place. Still beautiful—but darkly beautiful, not brightly beautiful.’

  ‘Let me make your coffee,’ she said, breaking away from the moment in panic. She fussed with the spoons busily. Her heart had lifted for a moment but now it was hard and heavy again. The sense of nightmare was back. Someone else had said things like that to her. Things that made her spirits soar and joy rise in her.

  Someone called Martin McCallum.

  Chapter Four

  THE job had been offered with ‘accommodation in Hong Kong’, but that had hardly described the Causeway Bay flat Anton had installed her in.

  A fully serviced apartment, decorated in the height of style, equipped with the latest sound and viewing systems, with wonderful views of the bay, close to the most glamorous shopping and possessing—luxury of luxuries in crowded Hong Kong—its own private balcony, it was the most beautiful ‘accommodation’ Amy had ever been in. Judging by her boss’s laid-back style, she doubted whether Anton Zell himself lived in anything more thrilling.

  You couldn’t even accuse the apartment of being soulless, like most corporate accommodation, because the gleaming Oriental antiques with which it had been furnished exhaled the very mystery of ancient China.

  The only problem was that she’d had so little chance to spend time here that, after three whole months, she still didn’t know how everything worked.

  Taking the initial decision to accept the job had been hard. She’d felt as though she were between the devil and the deep blue sea. The memory of that kiss had almost kept her in London. To tell the truth, it had been a chance meeting with a former colleague from McCallum and Roe that had decided her. The look in his eyes, knowing and somehow smirking, had reminded her that there was nothing left for her in London.

  Whereas here in Hong Kong…

  She threw the glass doors open and walked out onto her balcony with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The bay was as blue as a sapphire, as blue as Anton Zell’s eyes. In the typhoon harbour below her apartment, the luxury yachts of the very rich swayed gracefully alongside the picturesque junks of the boat people, where barefoot children scampered and women hunkered down beside kerosene stoves on the deck.

  The great forest of glass towers was backed by a mountainscape of brilliant white cloud, building up into a cobalt sky. It was Sunday morning and she wasn’t due back at the office till eight o’clock Monday morning. In the past three months she had worked right through every weekend. That had included almost a whole fraught month in Singapore to visit a refinery which was not meeting production targets due to various system malfunctions.

  Solving the problems had taken a sustained effort. She had never seen anyone work as hard, or with such concentration, as Anton had during that month. If there were any doubts in her mind as to exactly how he had become so successful, they had been removed forever in Singapore. He was able to concentrate his mind like a laser, cutting relentlessly through problems until a solution was found.

  She had been at his side constantly, relaying instructions, taking calls, scheduling his appointments. But whether she had offered him the companionship, that special relationship that he had spoken of, she could not tell; every waking hour had been spent in work and neither of them had had much energy to do anything than grab a bite of food and go to sleep in their hotel when the day was over.

  There had been no repetition of that kiss in Borneo, though it continued to haunt her memory like the touch of a jungle flower. What was the phrase he had used? A rainforest orchid, perfumed and humid. That was how the touch of his lips on hers stayed in her mind, something exotic and definitely dangerous.

  She shook the thought away. Remembering the way he had kissed her in Borneo brought back other things, things that darkened her day.

  Such as the details she had learned about Marcie, her predecessor, from Glynnis Prior, the pleasant, middle-aged medical officer who had been so happy to talk to her when she’d gone into the sickbay for a plaster to put on a cut finger.

  And it was a Sunday and she had leisure to explore this wonderful new world she was in. She did not want to think about Anton Zell and his dark mysteries. The trouble was, she hardly knew where to begin. She drank her juice, watching the sails drift across the busy harbour.

  The door buzzer sounded. Wondering who it could be— the building had a strict policy of keeping out hawkers— she went to the entryphone. The figure on the closed-circuit television screen was awfully familiar.

  ‘Anton?’ she said, snatching up the phone.

  He was standing with his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Are you going to keep me waiting on the street?’

  ‘I’m trying to let you in!’ She was frantically hunting for the right button to open the door. She’d never had to let anyone in before! It had to be this one with the red key on it. She pressed it and was relieved to see Anton’s impatient figure disappear from the screen.

  She ran to the bathroom, her heart beating fast, to try and make herself presentable for this unexpected call. She just had time to brush her hair into shape when the doorbell chimed. Slightly breathless with her haste, she opened it.

  Anton walked in. Her efforts to beautify herself were wasted; he hardly spared a glance on her, but looked around the apartment with piercing eyes. ‘Damn, I’d forgotten how nice these apartments are.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. I’m very happy here.’

  ‘You ought to be,’ he said drily. ‘You live better than I do. I have a bachelor flat in Wanchai.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I can get to work in fifteen minutes. So—are you settling in?’

  ‘I’ve hardly had a chance to find my feet,’ she said with a smile. ‘The driver picks me up every morning, but I still haven’t really seen anything of Hong Kong!’

  ‘That’s why I dropped by,’ he said. ‘I need to do some things around town. You could tag along and get an eclectic guided tour.’

  ‘You mean—come with you?’ she asked hesitantly.

  He gave her a dangerously lifted eyebrow. ‘Since we’ve spent the last three months in each other’s pockets, I guess the prospect of yet another day in my company is hardly appealing?’

  ‘No, it’s not that!’

  ‘If I promise not to mention light end stripping, surge vessels or vacuum distillation, would that help?’

  She smiled. ‘Actually, I find engineering details fascinating.’

  ‘I see. It’s just me you find repulsive?’

  Amy gave in. ‘I’ll get a raincoat.’

  ‘Ah. You’re turning into an old China hand.’

  The flimsy raincoat, which could be squeezed into a pocket, went with her everywhere; she had learned early about the vagaries of Hong Kong weather, no matter how brightly the sun shone. It was April, a lovely month in Hong Kong, but that did not rule out rain.

  There was no limo today; Anton’s car, a sleek black two-seater, was parked outside.

  ‘Wow,’ she said admiringly, ‘nice wheels!’

  ‘Well, get in.’ He opened the door for her. His hand in the small of her back propelled her in. She had never quite got used to that strong hand which gave her those unanticipated shoves in the right direction.

  ‘Fast and furious, but no room for baggage,’ she said, settling into the bucket seat. ‘Like her owner.’

  He switched on the engine with a throaty rumble and set off. The top was down and it was fun to feel the wind blowing her hair. She settled back, feeling absurdly excited.

  ‘Why did you say that?’ he asked after a silence.

  She glanced at him. ‘What?’

  ‘That I had no room for baggage.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be cheeky.’ His expression was serious and she was afraid she had offended him. ‘It wasn’t meant to be a negative comment. Just that—’

  ‘That?’

  ‘Well, it’s your style. No prisoners, no passengers and no Sundays
off. It’s a nice way to live if you have nobody else to consider.’

  ‘And nobody else to consider you.’

  ‘Anton, you are the centre of a whole universe of people who think the sun rises and sets with you. Of course people consider you. They rejoice in your smile and tremble at your frown.’

  ‘More the latter than the former, I think.’

  ‘You should smile more often.’

  ‘I’m smiling now,’ he said, baring his teeth like a tiger.

  ‘And I’m rejoicing,’ she said. ‘Look.’ She grimaced back.

  ‘I am human,’ he said. ‘I’ll even treat you to breakfast.’

  ‘As long as it isn’t noodles. I’ve tried every combination of noodle for breakfast since I’ve been here, and I still crave a plain old English fry-up.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he said. ‘I even know where to get English bacon and eggs in this town. I know every restaurant in Hong Kong. I eat out three times a day. What I never do is sit down at my own table to eat a meal made in my own kitchen.’

  ‘Stop, you’re breaking my heart,’ she said. ‘I know how you dream of a wife in curlers, frying you liver and onions, while your three kids tug at your sleeve yelling, “Daddy, Daddy”!’

  ‘Hmm, that does sound awful.’

  ‘Oh, please. With your two-seater sports car and your bachelor apartment? Working till midnight then slurping noodles and whisky in some Wanchai strip club? Everything about you screams “single and loving it”.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘What about me?’ she laughed.

  ‘You’re working for the single-and-loving-it guy. When you came to me for the interview, you told me there was nobody more prepared to throw herself into the job than you. You said you wanted to eat, drink and breathe Zell Corporation business from now on.’

  ‘Yes, I did. And I am.’

  ‘So what’s the difference between you and me?’

  ‘Maybe none, at that. Except I don’t complain about it. I’m an obsessive-compulsive loner and happy with it.’

  Anton grinned. ‘You’re only half joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘I just think neither of us is ever going to be sitting at that homey table with the three kids and the fried liver and onions. So it’s pointless to dream about it.’

  ‘It’s never pointless to dream.’

  The conversation was quickly getting painful for her, so she changed the subject. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

  ‘Battery Street. I thought you might like to see the jade market.’

  ‘Jewellery? Oh, yummy. Now you’re talking.’

  ‘Jade is more than just jewellery, Worthington,’ he warned. ‘Jade is a way of life. It’s the stone of heaven. It’s a medicine, a religion, an art form. You rub it for health and worship it for its beauty and take it into the next world. You can even eat it if you want to live for ever.’

  ‘No, thanks. Four score years and ten contain trouble enough. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Well, many kinds of stone go under the name of jade, and it can be green, white, lavender, red, yellow or even black. But the two most important stones are nephrite and jadeite. Nephrite is by far the most common. Jadeite is harder and more valuable.’

  ‘Which should I buy?’

  ‘Buy whatever speaks to your heart.’

  ‘Am I going to be robbed?’

  ‘Depends if you follow my advice.’

  The market, at the corner of Kansu and Battery Street, was crowded and busy. As they strolled, Amy watched, fascinated, as small groups of men, some of them ancient enough to sport long white Confucian beards, haggled over paper packets of the green stone.

  The covered part of the market was crammed full of booths and stalls. As Anton had predicted, a bewildering assortment of goods was on offer. There were man-sized boulders of raw green jade; boxes of tiny beads and blobs; carved animals both great and small, realistic and mythical. There was jade of every colour imaginable, from deepest black to snow-white, taking in the hues of the rainbow between.

  Threading their way through the crowds, they were assailed by tradesmen offering them jade of every description, extolling the quality, calling on them to admire the colour, holding pieces aloft to demonstrate the transparency. Much of it was astonishingly beautiful to Amy’s eyes.

  One shop in particular caught her fancy. The owner had arranged a multitude of small carved animals on shelves. Looking closely, she marvelled at the dragons and lions.

  ‘These are beautiful!’ she called to Anton. ‘And they look really old!’

  He joined her, looking at the collection with a critical eye. ‘Some of them are genuine,’ he said. ‘Anything that’s claimed to be over a hundred and fifty years old is likely to be a reproduction. But these late Qing Dynasty ones are authentic. They date from the nineteenth century. See how polished they are? They’ve been lovingly cherished over generations.’

  ‘I adore this piglet,’ she said, picking up the fat little creature and admiring its chubby cheeks and pop eyes.

  The shopkeeper came forward. ‘Beautiful piece,’ he enthused. ‘Five hundred dollars.’

  Amy blenched at the price. ‘Too much for me,’ she said, putting it hastily back.

  ‘Wrong animal, in any case,’ Anton said. ‘These animals correspond with the Chinese astrological zodiac. You, unfortunately, were not born a pig.’

  ‘What am I, then?’ she demanded.

  ‘It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you are a monkey,’ he said gravely. ‘This one would be more appropriate.’

  She took the carving he was holding out to her, and fell in love instantly. The little monkey was clutching a fruit to its chest with both arms and looking over its shoulder anxiously to see if there was any competition for the delicacy. It was so exquisite that she gasped out loud. ‘Oh, what an adorable monkey! I love it!’

  Anton’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘You’ve just doubled the price, damn it,’ he growled.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she hissed back. ‘What are the monkey’s qualities?’

  ‘Well, if you had been born a pig, you would have been a much nicer person to know and I would not have hesitated about employing you.’

  ‘I didn’t notice you hesitating about employing me,’ she pointed out.

  ‘But as a monkey,’ he went on, ignoring the interruption, ‘I benefit from your superior intelligence and charm. Though your deep distrust of other people makes you hard to get close to.’

  ‘You’re making this up! And what are you? A tiger, I suppose?’

  ‘A dragon.’

  ‘Oh, now, why am I not surprised to hear that? And what are your qualities, oh, great dragon?’

  ‘I’m a brilliant perfectionist who makes impossible demands on others.’

  ‘That’s frightening,’ she said. ‘There’s something in this astrology stuff after all.’

  She let Anton take over the haggling and eventually bought the delightful little monkey for a third of its initial price. Although, as Anton told her sternly as they walked out, it would have gone down even further if she hadn’t shown such conspicuous signs of being infatuated with it.

  ‘I’ll know better next time,’ she said. But she couldn’t have been more pleased with her purchase. She unwrapped it and crooned over it happily. ‘I suppose I should have asked whether it’s nephrite or jadeite.’

  ‘It’s nephrite,’ Anton said. ‘The carving is fine, but the stone isn’t particularly valuable. Come, I want to show you something special.’

  He took her arm possessively in his strong hand and led her down a dark alleyway where the shops were less crowded and there were no tourists to be seen. At the very end of the lane was a shop with a carved red door. It appeared to be closed but when Anton rapped at the dragon-shaped wrought-iron knocker, it was opened by an elderly man wearing spectacles with flip-up magnifiers on each lens. He greeted them warmly.

  ‘Mr Wu,’ Anton said, ‘I was hoping you could show us some of your
wares.’

  ‘Of course,’ the old man said, opening the door wide. Again, Amy was aware of that strong, forceful hand in the small of her back, urging her forward.

  Mr Wu ushered them courteously to chairs. ‘Please, sit down. Some tea?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ Anton said.

  Amy sat beside him in front of the desk where the old man had been sorting through a collection of ancient fragments that looked like dull stone coins, some with holes drilled in them. ‘Those are bi,’ Anton murmured in her ear. ‘Religious objects from China’s distant past.’

  ‘How old are they?’ she whispered back.

  ‘Shang Dynasty,’ he answered. ‘From the sixteenth century.’

  ‘Wow, five centuries old!’

  ‘No,’ he said patiently, ‘the sixteenth century BC. They’re thirty-seven centuries old. The Shang Dynasty corresponds to our late Stone Age.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘China is a very ancient civilisation,’ he said, deadpan.

  Mr Wu came back into the room with a tray. He served them tea in small cups, and, while they sipped the scalding, chrysanthemum-scented brew, began unfolding a carefully wrapped baize bundle.

  Amy watched in fascination. The baize roll contained around a dozen pockets, and from each pocket Mr Wu extracted a piece of jade. There were rings, earrings, bangles and necklaces of polished beads. The workmanship was perfect, yet extremely simple. What made her gasp was the colour of the stone—a deep, almost iridescent green that she had never seen in her life before. The pieces glowed with an intensity that was alive. For the first time she believed Anton’s tales of how jade was revered and regarded as the stone of heaven.

  ‘There’s nothing like this anywhere in the market,’ she said in awe. ‘I’ve never seen such an electric green!’

  ‘Burmese imperial jade,’ Mr Wu said, beaming. ‘As beautiful as emerald!’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she agreed. ‘Most of the emeralds I’ve seen don’t begin to match this for beauty. These beads are wonderful. And these rings…I think I would rather have one of these than an emerald.’

  ‘What about this piece?’ Mr Wu said gently. He was holding out a bangle. ‘This material is the finest quality. And the workmanship is equal to the material.’