Authors: Pearl Moon
Stone, Katherine (6 page)
She was golden! Her honey-colored hair shone as if caressed by its
private moon, and her face, radiant too, glowed as if gilded by the sunny light
of love. Her sister was neither exotic nor glamorous. But she was lovely,
lovely.
And like Maylene, Allison viewed the world through eyes inherited from
their father.
The eyes of the unwanted daughter were jade, shadowed with
torment. The golden daughter, the cherished one, viewed her happy life through
shimmering emerald.
"Maylene?"
James's voice, though quiet, thundered in the silence. And his
tone, though subdued, demanded a reply.
She needed more time. She wasn't ready to meet the gaze of the man
she'd believed she could trust. She crossed to a nearby teak-and-crystal table,
and, as she set the book on the tabletop, she wondered again if James had
betrayed her, so soon and with such cruelty.
Maylene had no doubt James could be cruel. He'd need only permit a
sliver of the rage within to surface. Maylene knew all about cruelty born of
rage. For that horrible time between her discovery of the truth and the day,
nine years ago, when she left Hong Kong, she'd allowed such cruelty to surface
often. Allowed it? Yes, sometimes.
Yes.
In the beginning, of course, her hurtful words had come of their
own volition. At thirteen, her lack of control was understandable. As were,
perhaps, the words themselves. But there were other times, far too many to
forgive, when Maylene
could
have held her rage inside. Instead, she'd
lashed out at the mother she loved.
Maylene wasn't a stranger to cruelty. She'd been its victim all
her life, the target of merciless taunts from classmates scornful of her
snow-white skin and dark-green eyes. It seemed unimaginable that she, of all
people, would ever intentionally hurt anyone. But there it was—
cruelty
—alive
and thriving within her. She'd wanted desperately to believe she'd been visited
by an evil spirit, a sinister phantom who'd chosen for its home her innocent young
heart. It was so tempting to hope the cruelty was distinct from her, an
unwelcome guest that would one day leave.
But even at thirteen, Maylene was too grown-up to shift the blame.
The cruelty was part of her, an inheritance no doubt from her father. It had
been there all along, and now both she and her mother knew it.
Maylene left Hong Kong believing she'd caused irreparable harm to
her relationship with the mother she loved. In London, as if in penance for the
outbursts that had destroyed so much, she imposed discipline on every aspect of
her life. She dressed impeccably, and wore her long black hair tightly
restrained. She made top grades, joined the most prestigious firm, worked
harder, better, longer, than her colleagues.
Her emotions, too, were kept in check. Even when the pain felt too
great to endure, Maylene didn't permit hurtful words to escape her lips. Not
once. The cruelty remained within—directed inwardly—where it belonged.
For nine years, Maylene had lived a life of rigid control, as
perfect as she could possibly be. No one had been observing her behavior. No
one
cared.
Yet perhaps there'd been some purpose to her penance—unknown
to her until, as she prepared to return to Hong Kong, a joyous idea took form.
Maybe she'd find the courage to ask her mother to forgive the unforgivable. And
if that day ever came, she'd offer Juliana a brave reassurance. I'm
better
now,
Mother. My anger—and my anguish—are under control.
But were they?
Even before seeing Allison's
photograph, the emotions evoked by being in Hong Kong were more powerful than
she'd expected. And now, as the worry that James might have betrayed her
triggered memories of long-ago betrayal, she felt terrifying whispers of rage.
I'm under control, she told herself.
I
have to be.
She turned toward the man who was quite capable of making his gray
eyes as hard and unreadable as granite. Their message now was crystal-clear.
James was concerned about her. What he'd told her was the truth. He'd
discovered Allison's book by chance, a simple accident of fate....
"Maylene?" The question became a command. "Tell me
what's wrong."
The actress within her found a little righteous indignation.
"This Allison Whitaker, she's an American, isn't she?"
"Yes." Watching her carefully, James added, "And as
you've no doubt deduced from the title of the book, she's a Texan—another
Texan."
"There wasn't a single British or Chinese photographer capable
of taking pictures of Hong Kong?"
"For what I want, she's the best. Just as you are. Just as
Sam Coulter is."
With these last words came an unmistakable reminder. She and James
had disagreed, too, about his choice of Sam Coulter to build the hotel. In the
end, Maylene had to concede that James was right. The man who'd built Le Bijou
on L'île des Arcs-en-ciel
was
the best choice for the Jade Palace.
Maylene wasn't happy about having to rely on a man from Texas to
make her extraordinary vision become an extraordinary reality, but she accepted
it. She'd even promised James she'd be "charming" to Sam, beginning
the moment they met, an encounter scheduled to take place in three days.
And when she was face-to-face with the daughter who'd been loved,
not abandoned?
The question filled her with such fear she blurted out,
"Please find another photographer, James!"
"Tell me why, Maylene."
"You
know
why! The Jade Palace is a symbol of Hong
Kong. As much as possible, everyone involved should be either British or
Chinese."
"With very few exceptions, everyone is."
"Not Sam Coulter. Not Tyler Vaughn."
"Sam Coulter and Tyler Vaughn worked together on Le
Bijou," James said, patiently reiterating information she knew. "I
readily admit that before this, I've always relied on Hong Kong-owned trading
companies. But as you know, Grand Prix was the supplier for Le Bijou and Sam
specifically requested that Tyler be involved. It's best for the Jade Palace,
Maylene. Grand Prix has an impeccable reputation for on-time delivery of top
quality materials. And there's something else you don't know about Tyler,
something I haven't told you."
"That he used to be a race-car driver? I know that, James.
That's why he's named his company Grand Prix. But I don't consider the
willingness to risk one's life by driving a car at breakneck speed a terribly
impressive credential."
"What you don't know, Maylene, is that Tyler has a deep
commitment to Hong Kong. In 1989, after what happened that June in Beijing,
thousands of people left the territory. Businesses pulled out, tourism
plummeted—"
"I know," she interjected softly. She'd been in London
during the fear and chaos following the Tiananmen massacre. In London, worrying
about the mother with whom she'd severed all contact years before. Juliana had
become an internationally acclaimed fashion designer during those intervening
years, able to emigrate if she chose, her lucrative business welcome anywhere
in the world. But she'd vowed never to leave Hong Kong, and she hadn't. She was
here, in this small corner of the world where no distance was great—except for
the vast distances of the heart. "So Tyler didn't join the throngs who
left in the summer of '89."
"Actually, that's when he arrived. He'd made the decision to
expand Grand Prix to Hong Kong before Tiananmen and didn't revoke it, despite
the fact that at the time it was a risky commitment to keep."
"We've already established he's a risk-taker. And now that
the scare has passed and Hong Kong is booming once again, he's profited
immensely." Maylene knew her flip reply was unfair to Tyler. He'd honored
a commitment from which many others might have—and had—simply walked away. But
she wasn't making concessions to James at the moment, especially since he'd so
casually discounted her concerns about Allison. "You really don't care
about my opinions, do you, James? All your promises about how this would be a
collaborative effort were just rhetoric."
The muscles in James's jaw rippled, but his voice remained calm.
"This
is
a collaboration, Maylene, but please don't forget I'm
paying the bills. That gives me ultimate responsibility—and liability—for the
project, and it also gives me the final word on every decision. I care about
your opinions. Very much. But what I'm interested in at the moment is your real
reason for objecting so strenuously to Allison."
"I
told
you my real reason, and you obviously
don't
care." Her shrug was dismissive—and defeated. "It's late, James,
and I'm very tired. I'll see you in the morning. Thank you for dinner."
She'd taken only two strides toward the door before she was
stopped. She hadn't sensed his movement, but suddenly he was standing in front
of her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms.
His touch was like his voice, deceptively soft. The lean fingers
that encircled her flesh were gentle but imprisoning, their warmth proof of the
fires of rage banked within.
James knew how tough Maylene was, how determined and controlled.
He saw that determination now, and something else—fear.
This wasn't the way James wanted to learn her secrets. He released
his grip and stepped a less imposing distance away. "I'm sorry.
"No,
I'm
sorry, James," she whispered, grateful
he wasn't going to push. "I'm not sure what's wrong with me."
James doubted very much that was true. But smiling, he suggested,
"Why don't we chalk it up to jet lag?"
"And too much champagne?"
"And the pleasure and pain of returning to Hong Kong."
Maylene knew there was a fourth conspirator. Every month, with the
reliability of the moon, a hopelessness fell over her, stealing her control,
confusing her emotions, making her feel more precarious than usual. It was, she
supposed, nature's way of making certain she was achingly aware of the womb
that would never bear children conceived in love.
"Friends?" James asked. When she nodded assent, he
added, "And collaborators?"
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I value your opinions—although I do have the final
say."
Maylene smiled at last. "Ah, ha."
"And meaning that even though it's my money, I want the Jade
Palace to be ours."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. And most of all, meaning I need to be able
to trust you to put the hotel ahead of whatever personal feelings you might have."
"Are we talking about professionalism, Mr. Drake?"
"We are indeed, Miss Kwan."
"You're suggesting I have to be nice to
all
the
Americans?"
The teasing stopped. "It's more than a suggestion, Maylene.
Will you?"
James should have asked "Can you?" not "Will
you?" But Maylene nonetheless told him yes. And, as she said goodnight to
the man who had such surprising faith in her, Maylene allowed herself a
magnificent fantasy.
Everything was within her control. It was simply a matter of
choice. If she wanted to, if she
chose,
she could be authentically
gracious to Allison and Sam. With that fantasy came a bewitching emotion, the
way it would feel to be free of her anger, her anguish—and her fear.
Sam
Coulter's 8:00 a.m. rendezvous with James Drake had been arranged
before Sam left his San Antonio ranch. They'd meet in the Trade Winds lobby,
walk to Drake Towers, and since neither man routinely ate breakfast, would talk
over coffee in James's office.
Although it was only 7:45, Sam was in the lobby, ready for the day
to begin. Today and the ten days until groundbreaking were necessary. But Sam
was eager to put the meetings behind him and start the real work on what would
be the greatest challenge of his career.
He'd always been selective about the buildings he agreed to build.
To his way of thinking, any man-made creation permanently etched on the face of
the planet had to be worthy of claiming space otherwise filled by nature. As a
result of such a philosophy, Sam's early projects were challenges no other builders
would touch. Now he was every developer's first choice.
Sam thrived on challenge. The more complicated the project, the
better. The outcome was never in doubt... until now. The problems posed by the
Jade Palace eclipsed all that had come before. The structure had the potential
to be a monumental triumph—or a monumental disaster. Everything had to be done
exactly right.
As he appraised the lobby of James's other Hong Kong hotel, Sam
realized that what James had promised him was true. No expense would be spared.
He'd be given the best of whatever materials he needed to make the Jade Palace
a masterpiece. James would do his part. The rest was up to Sam.
No expense
had
been spared in the decor of the Trade Winds
lobby. Intricately detailed carpets, undoubtedly antique, adorned its snowy
marble floors. And blooming from mammoth porcelain vases—priceless remembrances
of dynasties past—were orchids, plumeria, birds-of-paradise. Scenes from
Chinese mythology, carved in jade, played out on the marble walls, and overhead,
casting prisms of light, sparkled Lalique chandeliers.
It was the lobby of a hotel, but it felt like the sitting room of
a king.
And who sat in this royal chamber? The Trade Winds boasted an
international clientele. Despite the diversity of their nations of origin,
however, the men and women sent a uniform message of success—and a desire for
more. Their clothes were haute couture, their demeanors regal, their refined
voices subdued.
But they were making deals worth billions.
Sam had heard about the frenetic pace of Hong Kong, where fortunes
could be made or lost overnight, and where, as the clock ticked toward the
uncertainties of 1997, each passing second took on greater importance. There
were still fortunes to be made in Hong Kong, and dreams to be achieved, and
passions to be fulfilled.
Sam had expected to see the frenzy. But he preferred the calm.
This was how high-stakes games were played in Hong Kong. Good.
Wonderful.
Sam
loved poker. And no matter what cards he held, he won.
Quite suddenly a player appeared who didn't know the rules. He was
American, Sam decided. Late for a meeting and perhaps unprepared, he jogged
across a centuries-old carpet accustomed to statelier strides. The man was
headed for the revolving front door—a route that ran straight through Sam.
Sam felt compassion for the man whose desperation was so obvious.
In another setting, he might have offered a soothing word or two. At the moment
anything hindering the man's progress would only fuel his panic.
Sam did the only thing he could. He stepped out of the way,
avoiding a possible collision—and creating one.
Sam caught her as she fell. Her grip on her briefcase had been
released in anticipation of her inevitable landing on the snowy marble. But the
hard landing never happened. Sam averted it.
As he righted her, her expression held the fury—and beauty—of a
tropical storm.
"I'm very sorry," he said. "It was entirely my
fault. I wasn't looking."
She seemed startled by his apology. And with the world-changing
dazzle of the sun appearing from behind a cloud, she smiled.
"It wasn't really your fault," she said, startling him
anew with her accent—the Queen's English, spoken as if she were a royal.
"I saw what happened. He was on a collision course with you." Her
head tilted thoughtfully. "I'd assumed you weren't going to move, that
he'd have to go around you."
"He needed all the help he could get."
She nodded, and Sam saw an enchanting softness—sympathy—for the
man's plight. Had she, too, known the feeling of being hopelessly out of place
yet desperate to belong?
"Still," she countered, "you
could
blame him
for forcing you to step back."
"It was my step," Sam said simply. "I'm responsible
for it. I'm sorry it affected you."
"No harm done."
She started to retrieve her briefcase, but Sam swooped faster. He
noticed the very high heels she wore, and the delicate ankles precariously
perched, and recalled that she'd been twisting when he caught her.
"Are you hurt?" he asked when he handed her the
briefcase.
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
They should have parted, the incident over, but their eyes
lingered, hers surprised yet inviting, his concealing their surprise—but not
their interest. Then the spell was broken, as if each remembered this was Hong
Kong, where every second counted. There were fortunes to be made.
And dreams to be achieved, Sam thought as her high heels clicked a
carefully measured tattoo toward the revolving door.
And passions to be
fulfilled.
She was gone, but not forgotten, an intriguing portrait of
contrasts. Who was she? he wondered. A high-fashion model with a briefcase? A
Chinese princess raised in England, or a British one raised here? And were the
eyes that darkened with fury one instant and dazzled with sunshine the next
really the deepest shade of green?
***
James appeared at precisely 8:00 o'clock.
"How was your flight?" he asked as he and Sam began the
six-block walk to Drake Towers.
"On time and uneventful."
"Tyler met you?"
Sam nodded. "We stopped by the construction site. Quite a
location. It's hard to imagine a better view."
"I don't think there is one. You saw the trailer? That'll be
your on-site office. It should be equipped with everything you'll need, but if
not, let me know. There's also an office for you in the Towers. You'll need it
for meetings over the next ten days, but it's yours as long as it's useful to
you."
"Thanks. What's on the agenda for today? I know I'm seeing
Tyler at three. What about the foreman?"
"Chang Lu. At one. He and his crew are the best in Hong Kong.
They did both the Trade Winds and Drake Towers for me, plus two condominiums in
Stanley and eight apartment complexes in the New Territories. Lu doesn't have a
degree in engineering, no formal education at all, but other builders have told
me his instincts are pure gold. He won't offer his input unless you ask."
"That's good to know. I'll definitely ask." They'd
walked less than a block along Chater Road but already James was living up to
his reputation. During the coming week, Sam would be meeting with the myriad
people involved in the Jade Palace. Each meeting was important, but aside from
Sam and James, three people would determine the project's ultimate success or
failure—the taipan whose trading company would supply the finest-quality
building materials, the foreman who'd oversee the crew, and, of course, the
architect. James had scheduled appointments with two of those three this
afternoon. Even before asking, Sam knew he'd be seeing the architect this
morning. "And the meeting with the architect? Will that be today?"
"Yes. You'll be meeting with her from nine until
eleven-thirty, after which I thought the three of us would go to lunch."
Her?
The word halted everything except Sam's long, graceful strides.
He'd seen the sketches, of course, and the blueprints for the superstructure,
the skeleton of steel over which the jade, alabaster and golden flesh would be contoured.
Blueprints of the interior would be forthcoming, and they'd bear the same
identifying information: Titchfield & Sterling, Ltd., Grosvenor Square,
London, England. M. Kwan, Architect.
Sam assumed he'd be working with a Michael Kwan, or a Martin or a
Mark, and he had great expectations of the architect who'd put an almost
impossible concept to paper. He'd damned well better have some thoughts about
transforming his two dimensions into three. And he'd better be prepared to
work. Sam wanted him on-site, tromping through the mud that was inevitable
during Hong Kong's impending rainy season and standing on rain-slick steel
girders high above the earth as they tried to reconcile what Mr. Kwan had
sketched with the laws of optics and gravity.
Couldn't a
Ms.
Kwan do all that just as well? an inner
voice chided him for what appeared to be a full-blown case of male chauvinism.
Of course she could, depending on what kind of woman she was.
She'd be an intrepid climber of slippery steel, Sam assured
himself. And an experienced one. James wouldn't have hired anyone less than the
best....
***
"This is Maylene."
"We've met," Sam said quietly. "We bumped into each
other earlier in the lobby of the hotel."
He'd wanted to see her again. In fact, in the minutes between the
time she'd left and James had arrived, he'd decided he would. Even if the
concierge wouldn't reveal the name of the Asian-British model-businesswoman,
he'd surely agree to relay a message to her.
But now she was here, as startled as he, and although her lovely
mouth attempted a gracious smile, Sam saw storm clouds in her eyes. Ms. M. Kwan
wasn't happy to see him. Well, he wasn't exactly thrilled about seeing her,
either. Not under
these
circumstances.
She wasn't a veteran of tromping through mud and climbing steel
girders. Stiletto heels and designer silk suits could be exchanged for work
clothes. But experience wasn't so easily donned. She wasn't old enough to have
been an architect for very long. How many of her designs had actually been
built? Whatever the number, it wouldn't be nearly enough.
Sam needed a colleague, a peer, someone who brought a wealth of
experience to complement his own. It wasn't a frivolous wish. Any hope of
pulling off the building coup of the century depended on it.
But James had given him this glowering novice, and it made no
sense. James was likened to the great producers of Hollywood, assembling the
best talent, providing them with a near limitless budget, then watching them
create a blockbuster.
James was the producer of the Jade Palace, and Sam was the
director, and Maylene Kwan? She was the gifted writer who'd created a script of
lyrical beauty—and presented Sam with a challenge as difficult as making a
motion picture from a poem. She was, he feared, going to be no help whatsoever.
Indeed, like a first-time writer passionately wedded to her words, she was more
likely to be a hindrance. She wouldn't understand the need for flexibility, the
willingness to change a word here, delete a sentence there, no matter how
magnificent the original.
James Drake's instincts were supposed to be impeccable. It didn't
take a genius to determine what had made them go awry.
James and Maylene were lovers. The intimacy was obvious as they
exchanged glances in a secret language that excluded Sam. He guessed that as a
token of his love—or at least his passion—James had given Maylene the Jade
Palace. As gift wrapping for the half-billion-dollar trifle, he'd given her the
builder who'd rescue them both from their folly.
If Sam failed, it would be career disaster for him, a huge
write-off for James—and Maylene would emerge unscathed. Architecturally her
concept was brilliant. She depended on more experienced people to make it real.
They, not she, would have failed. Sam most of all.
And would he accept the responsibility? Maylene already knew he
would. This morning, at the hotel, she'd learned he assumed responsibility for
every step he took, even if he'd taken the step to avert a calamity caused by
someone else.
Sam could walk away from the Jade Palace. He could tell James that
on careful reconsideration he'd decided the risk-reward ratio was too high.
There'd be awkwardness, perhaps even anger, but he could leave Hong Kong this
afternoon.
The trouble was that he liked Hong Kong.
And he'd agreed to build the Jade Palace because he was arrogant
enough to believe that if any builder on earth could make the illusion work, it
was he.
He couldn't leave Hong Kong, anyway. He'd promised Garrett Whitaker
he'd keep an eye on his daughter, and keeping an eye on Allison was trivial
compared to what Sam owed Garrett—
everything.
Sam wasn't sure why Maylene was glowering at him, but he met her
glower with an easy smile.
"So, Maylene, shall we get to work?"
When Maylene appeared surprised, not relieved, by his suggestion,
it occurred to Sam that she'd been intentionally trying to provoke him into
packing his bags and leaving Hong Kong. Suddenly the Jade Palace became an
almost inconsequential challenge in comparison to the Jade Princess.