Jade tilted her head back to see his face. She was too shaken to form an answer, much less say it yet. She shook her head wordlessly, her hair fanning out in a soft sheen across her shoulders. No, fun was not enough . . . not for her anyway . . .
Zan's hand tightened on her waist, not pulling her towards him, but simply feeling her. 'Reasons!' he murmured in exasperation. His lips twitched in a faint smile that was ironic, or rueful, or both. 'I guess maybe I should have said, because I love you madly. But you probably wouldn't have bought that, would you?'
She shook her head again, smiling in spite of herself.
Zan's hand travelled slowly up to trace her spine in an absent, melting caress. His brows knotted. 'Or I suppose I could have said you should stay because I planned to write some more tonight. But I'd rather lie with you than to you.' His hand cupped the back of her head again, urging her forward, then slowly relaxed as she leaned away from the pressure. He sighed. 'I suppose I am rushing things a bit, aren't I?' He murmured, smiling ruefully, but his eyes sharpened as she shook her head slowly. 'No? Then—'
'No, Zan,' she whispered. 'It's not too early . . . It's too late.'
'I doubt if it's past twelve.'
'That's not what I mean and you know it!'
Zan's lips twisted. 'Okay, Jade,' he nodded ironically, 'it is late. Let's get you home.'
'You don't have to—'
'Oh, but I want to,' he cut in savagely. He stared at her for a second and then stood up. 'Find your shoes and let's go.'
'What about your sling?' She didn't want the evening to end this way. She stared up at him, hurt and suddenly resentful of his anger. Had he really thought she'd tumble into his bed, just like that? Was that the usual reaction he got from women? Most likely it was, she decided wryly. Well, she'd had experience of that kind of man once before, and once had been enough to last a lifetime! Let the other women stand in line, if they hadn't more sense. She had.
Zan was struggling into his sling already. 'I can manage, thanks.' The anger had passed, or had been suppressed. His voice was brisk, utterly neutral as he turned away.
They walked back through the dark streets in silence, each alone with their thoughts. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, but Zan made no move to touch her, and Jade was grateful. What had got into her back there? What crazy impulse born of firelight, and wine, and Zan's charm, had made her act that way? It was as if the whole evening had conspired to seduce her. It had been like a dream, a golden, hazy moment stolen out of the pattern of her life and her future. And it would be silly to feel guilt for it, as silly and useless as regretting a dream. Already it seemed as if it had happened to some other person, she thought, as the night air cooled her face. Forget it. It won't happen again.
Zan's hand closed on her arm as he stopped her at an intersection. Lights swept across them and a car roared by, filled with drunken laughter, running the stop sign. Zan swore softly and hustled her across the street, then dropped her arm again.
Jade glanced up at him. But did Zan realise that tonight was an accident and would never be repeated? He was frowning thoughtfully, his keen eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead, his long strides slow to match her pace. He glanced down at her, then back over his shoulder with street-wise wariness before turning ahead again. It would be awkward if Zan didn't, wouldn't understand. She sighed. He flicked another look at her, and put his hand to her waist to turn her into her own street. Jade took a quick step forward and his hand dropped away. Well, she would make him understand, if necessary. He might not take his relationship with Mona seriously—he didn't take much seriously, come to think of it—but she did hers with Fred. She was not going to change her life and her loyalty for one night of 'fun', as Zan had put it. . .That might be her mother's style, but it would not be hers . . . Fun as it might have been . . .
Zan's hand pulled her back. 'Whoa, where are you going, Jade?'
She looked up. He was right, she'd nearly walked past her own door. She shook her head ruefully. 'Well, Zan....'
But he was tramping up her squeaky steps already to wait on the porch. She followed him up warily, digging her keys from her pocket. 'Thanks for walking—'
'Let's make sure no one's inside first, Jade. Why don't you lock this door?' he broke in irritably.
'It hasn't been locked in years, since there's two apartments here. The top door's my front door really.'
He opened the door for her and followed her inside. 'Who lives on the first floor?'
'No one. It's uninhabitable, right now. It was damaged in a fire—just before I bought the house.' Would he never leave? She turned and started up the stairs and he followed. At her door, she turned to face him, her face set with determination. 'Goodnight, Zan.'
He studied her silently for a moment, his brows bunched in a shaggy, puzzled line. 'See you at eight-thirty,' he said at last.
'Eight-thirty? I've got some errands to do!'
Zan shook his head firmly. 'I like to start early, and that was part of the deal, Jade. You agreed to be there when I . . .want. . .you, day or night.' His lips twitched as she shuddered, reacting to the twist he had put on the word, and his hand reached out, his thumb brushing her bottom lip in a butterfly caress. He smiled as her chin jerked angrily. 'So goodnight, sweet. I'll see you at eight-thirty.' He turned and went down the stairs, moving lightly for so big a man.
Jade stared after him, eyes wide as the door closed gently. Now she knew why Zan reminded her of Jack. He wasn't really like her first lying love at all. It was something inside her. Somehow Zan struck the same response, like a careless finger brushing across a guitar string. She shivered. 'Fred?' she called softly. Silence . . . her own voice sounding hollow and small in the empty stairwell. Jade shuddered again and stepped inside, wandered slowly across to the plants above the sink. She pulled a sprig of mint and crushed the leaf under her nose—a kindly, friendly smell. Fred ...
CHAPTER FIVE
'"And the dark folded around him like sleep, like a blanket tucked round his shoulders by loving hands."'
Zan paused, and Jade dropped her hands into her lap. Something in his tone, or maybe the words themselves, told her that this was the end of the chapter, this last delusion of a stunned and dying man. She shuddered and then leaped as a hand found her shoulder. 'Oh!'
Inches from her ear, Zan chortled evilly. 'May all my readers react thus, Jade!' Leaning above her, he scanned the page.
Jade read it over again with him, squinting in the near twilight. It was hard to follow the plot and type at the same time, but in re-reading it, she was impressed. It wasn't her kind of story, but Zan's words had a kind of power, a sardonic, almost poetic vision of blood and death. Suddenly conscious of the hand on her shoulder, she looked up, bumping his jaw with her forehead—he was that close. She ducked, turning to study the page again, her nostrils flaring with the scent of him—sunshine and aftershave, and man—a nice combination.
Zan straightened and removed his hand casually. 'We'll call that a day, Jade,' he said quietly, satisfaction obvious in his low voice. A productive afternoon had followed a morning in which nothing had satisfied him on this second day of their collaboration.
Jade turned to look up at him again. 'This is really rather good, Zan,' she said seriously. 'I'm impressed.'
His lips twitched upwards in his grave face. 'Why, thank you, ma'am. Such praise is rain in the desert of a hack writer's ego.' He glanced at the table. 'We'd better get this inside before the dew falls, sweet.'
Pulling the last sheet from the typewriter, Jade gathered the manuscript together. 'My room-mate in college was a mystery addict, but I don't remember ever seeing your name in Liz's collection. Were you writing four years ago?'
Zan scooped up the typewriter carefully. 'Yes, child, I was,' he answered, his voice dry. 'But there are such things as pen-names.' He turned towards the glass doors.
'Oh, right. What's yours—Gore Alexander?' she teased.
'Wyk Halloran,' he told her and drifted inside.
Jade
froze, staring down at the table. Wyk Halloran . . . rather good, she'd told him! She could feel the blush climbing all the way from her waist. Half of America thought Wyk Halloran was rather good, or rather better than good, judging from the best-seller lists these last few years. She'd never read him herself. Zan must be inside, bent double just now with her naive compliment!
Jade's head snapped up. Or was this his idea of a joke? Truth ran a poor second to a good story every time in Zan's world, she was learning. Was this just another of his pranks? She wandered inside warily, her eyes narrowed.
Ice tinkled in the kitchen. Zan was mixing drinks. Damn! She hadn't meant to drink with him tonight, nor eat with him, for that matter. She studied his bent head, still feeling like a fool. Was this a put-on or was it not? H as in Hubert, he'd said at the hospital—but not Hubert. Wyk as in Wykoff, obviously.
Zan dropped a lime into each glass, and brought one to her. 'That's confidential, by the way,' he said quietly. He turned back to collect his own glass, avoiding her eyes as if he were the embarrassed one. 'What will it be tonight, Jade? Steak or barbecue chicken?' He glanced up at her quizzically, eyes widening in anticipation. 'I just happen to have your favourite barbecue sauce on hand…'
But struggling to reconcile her lunatic blackmailer with the famous writer, Jade was too preoccupied to rise to his bait. It was like seeing double. Which was the real man? She shook her head absently. 'Neither for me, thanks, Zan. You take the chicken, and I'll cut it into parts before I leave.'
Zan shook his head briskly. 'I've got some letters for you to type after supper, Jade. Stick around.' Collecting matches and lighter, he stepped out into the dusk again.
Frowning, Jade leaned in the doorway, sipping her drink. And did he really mean to work, or was this just another line? She wasn't in the mood for a wrestling match tonight, with either a famous writer or a practical joker.
Zan loomed above her, blocking out the lights of the harbour and the bridge beyond. He studied her angry face, his head cocked. 'You're not hungry?' he asked softly.
She shrugged moodily.
'Or you're tired of typing?' he suggested.
Jade looked down at her drink, ignoring him.
'Or let's see . . .' Zan considered. 'It's crossed your mind that I'll go berserk again tonight, when the moon rises—could that be it?' There was laughter in the low voice, and Jade smiled in spite of herself, her face hidden.
A warm hand closed on her chin, bringing her face up. 'Or maybe—just maybe,' he mused lightly, 'you're afraid that you'll enjoy it if I do ... go berserk.' His brows twitched gently as he watched her face freeze.
'Is that what happens when you become famous, Zan?' she drawled evenly, 'You become irresistible to women? I never thought fatheads were very attractive, myself.'
Zan grinned. 'The lady has teeth," he murmured ruefully. 'Is it safe to let you go?'
'Safest.' She glowered up at him.
'Okay.' He dropped her chin gingerly and moved his hand back out of reach. 'Anyway, whatever the reasons for your reluctance, I will behave,' he said lightly,'. . .if you'll make the salad.'
'A deal,' she nodded, and turned away, her heart pattering its own light, strange dance.
'You barbecue a mean chicken, Zan.' Jade licked a finger with a cat-like flick, and leaned back lazily to watch him eat.
'I've found they're usually tenderer than nice chickens,' he answered absently, serving himself more salad. He had an appetite to match his size, she'd noticed. 'And my father always told me that the way to a woman's heart was through her stomach. Have another drumstick, by the way.' He waved the plate under her nose.
She shook her head, smiling. 'No, thanks.'
Zan rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his hair falling softly down towards his eyes. 'I never thought about it before, but I wonder if the corollary is true? Do women without stomachs have hearts at all?' His laser eyes fastened on her flat stomach and travelled leisurely upwards to study her left breast with scientific detachment.
Strange how he could heat her blood with just a look. She held herself utterly still beneath the caress, willing the blush to stay down. Which of course brought it on faster. She looked up in warm defeat to find him grinning faintly. 'Tell me about your father,' she said hastily. 'Is he still alive?'
'And kicking.' Zan's lips curled at some private memory. 'There's not much to tell really. He's president of a tiny private college down in Maryland, has been since I was a kid. Has two passions in life—my mother and fishing.' His eyes mused.
'And your mother?'
'A pretty lady. Looks like porcelain, bounces like a basketball. Two passions in life—Dad and writing poetry.' He pushed his plate aside.
'Is she good?' So that was where he got his way with words.
Zan looked up, eyes devilish. 'You know, I've often wondered myself, but I've never had the nerve to ask Dad. He still packs a good punch.' He laughed openly at the face she made.
'Lout! Your own mother! I meant her poetry, not in bed!'
His smile faded gently. 'Very, very good.' He stood up. 'Butter almond or chocolate chip ice-cream?'
'Neither, Zan. I'm full!'
'Spoilsport!' he taunted. 'Coffee, then. Think it's warm enough to have it on the patio?'
'Just barely.'
'Fix it and I'll be down in a minute.' He headed upstairs.
A soft, damp breeze still ruffled the harbour, and the lights of the town flickered and blinked in the black waters. The sails of a small boat gliding past caught the light like a moon on moth wings—a flicker of white and then gone. Jade leaned out against the wall, shivering slightly.
'Here.' Zan draped something warm over her shoulders and attempted to wrap it around her. 'This perishing cast!' he growled.
Jade finished shrugging it on. It was a sweater, enormous and warm, smelling faintly of Zan. She hugged it closer. 'Thanks, Zan.'
Beside her, Zan cursed softly as he struggled to wriggle into another sweater.
'Be still!' Jade commanded. Laughing at his disgust, she reached up to help him. Tiptoeing to wrap the right side around his shoulder, she tucked the empty sleeve into his sling. When she looked up, she found his face at her hair, and turned away quickly, her heart lurching. 'Let's see. Here's your coffee, Zan.' It sloshed over as she thrust the cup at him.
'Thanks.' He really could smile with his voice. Shoulder to shoulder they stared out at the reflections, their arms bumping occasionally as they drank.
Turning his back on the harbour at last, Zan eased up to sit on the wall. He studied her silently. 'So tell me about lover boy,' he said finally.
Irritation flicked through Jade's happiness like a cold draught of wind and she frowned up at him. Why did he have to break the mood like this? 'His name is Fred, thanks,' she said deliberately, 'and I wish you'd remember that.'
'Fred who?'
'Waring. And that's all I care to say,' she said firmly, her chin coming up. She absolutely refused to lay out her relationship with Fred for Zan's entertainment. That would simply give him more ammunition for the next day's teasing. Jade studied his watchful face. There was also something in his manner that disturbed her, some feeling she got that his mocking interest masked something else again. Hostility? But why?
Zan's eyes glittered in the moonlight. 'Not talking, hmm? That's no fun.' He rubbed his chin. 'Why don't we trade, then?'
'Trade what?' she asked suspiciously.
'I'll tell you about my blue-eyed Arabian sweetheart, and you tell me about Fred.'
'No, thanks.' She brushed her hair back disdainfully.
Zan looked like a small boy culling through his baseball cards. He looked up. 'What if I throw in my one-legged Frenchwoman?' he coaxed, eyes gleaming.
'Forget it!' She finished her coffee to hide her smile.
He sighed. 'You're tough, Jade . . . Okay.' He hesitated, measuring her resistance. 'Suppose ... I tell you the truth about the three-day, bring-your-own-condiment orgy on St John's?' He waited hopefully,
gold brows high and shaggy.
Jade considered, prolonging his suspense. She looked up. 'What condiment did you bring, Zan?'
'Mango chutney,' he said gravely.
'Chutney?' She wrinkled her nose and shook her head quickly. 'Now, if you'd said crunchy peanut butter . . .'
'Oh, well, maybe it was peanut butter, now that I think of—'
'No, thank you.' Jade gathered up her cup and saucer. She suddenly had no desire to hear about Zan's loves and misadventures, imaginary or otherwise. None at all, she told herself firmly.
Reaching out, he snagged her left wrist, his face almost serious. 'So just answer me one question?'
'Let go!' She pulled back, suddenly angry. His strength still frightened her. But the warm, gentle grip only tightened a fraction. 'You said you'd behave, Zan!'
'It's all relative,' he smiled faintly. 'This is behaving, for me, Jade. I'll show you the difference, if you like,' he offered hopefully, pulling her closer.
Jade gave a final yank and then stood still, head thrown back in anger. 'No, thanks,' she said bitterly.
'Just one question. Then I'll answer you one,' Zan coaxed, his thumb caressing her pulse point.
'What's your question?' she scowled, shaking her hair back again.
'How long have you worn this?' He gave her hand a gentle flip and the tiny diamond winked in the moonlight.
She stared up at him, trying to judge the intent of his curiosity, but could find none. 'Two months,' she growled softly.
'And how long have you known him?'
But Jade shook her head. 'That's a second question.'
'So it is,' he agreed serenely, pulling her closer, and his eyes crinkled as she hurried to answer.
'Three years!'
'Aaah . . .' Zan released her gently, smiling his satisfaction.
'What do you mean, "aaah"?' She glowered up at him.
He looked like the cat with the canary feathers on his chin. 'Just "ah".' His smile widened. 'And your question?'
'Thanks, but there isn't one damn thing I care to know about you, Zan.' She turned and stalked inside, her head high.
The Darling Jade Page 7