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When he spoke, his voice was cold. 'Well, it isn’t the end of the world for me. Maybe I was bored too. No?’

The
cyclone, despite radio warnings and despite precautions, left a trail of damage. Buildings were wrecked, tin shanties had been lifted up and blown away, crops were flattened and there were wash-aways. The cyclone had ripped through the island and Jade knew enough, from Marlow’s letters, to realise that the island did not have to be hit by a cyclone to cause havoc. Even on the fringes, hundreds of kilometres from the rotating eye, there could be high seas, fierce winds and torrential rain, as the ripple effects were felt.

It had lasted three days. Laurent Sevigny’s house, which had been safely shuttered against the cyclone, was opened up. The hurricane shutters which had been clamped over the huge, view-framing windows to protect them from exploding were gradually being opened. One broken pane during a cyclone, Laurent had said, was enough to let in a rush of wind strong enough to lift a roof.

There was a pink sunset.

Marcelle’s nerves had gone to pieces, and moodily Jade had watched Laurent pacify her. At the present moment Marcelle was sleeping off one of her tranquillisers and Laurent was saying, ‘Come with me to the patio. We have to face up to the destruction sooner or later.’

‘I feel completely stunned,' she said, when they were standing on the patio. ‘It s terrible. It's so sad.’

Only the coral reef in the distance was still beautiful and, of course, those fantastically-shaped mountains to one side of the house.

The garden was a mess. Ornamental urns had been heaved over and some had been broken. So had a statue of a girl.

'Is the girl Virginie?’ Jade asked.

Turning to look at her, he said, ‘So you know about Virginie? Virginie flatly refused to disrobe in the presence of the slave who braved the turbulent surf to rescue her when the
St Geran
foundered Overcome by grief, Paul fled into the forest where he died of a broken heart. Eventually, Virginie’s body was recovered from the sea and the two lovers were buried together. It is fiction, of course, concerning these two characters, but it is surprising how many Mauritians believe this novel to be true. The sad fate of the one hundred and ninety-two passengers of the
St Geran
inspired French novelist Bernardin de Saint-Pierre to adopt the
St Geran
as a background for his famous novel
Paul et Virginie.'

When he had finished speaking Jade sighed as she gazed about her.

‘The flower beds are reduced to nothing,' Laurent said, beside her. ‘Look at that flight of garden stairs, the brain-child of my architect, left high and dry....'

Jade was surprised when he took her hand in his. The desire to comfort him was almost overpowering.

‘It's such a shame,' was all she could say. ‘I'm sorry.’

Trees had been uprooted and so had several beautiful coconut palms.

‘Everything is calm now, of course,' Laurent’s voice was almost bitter. ‘The cyclone is played out. Look at the sky ... that beautiful pink, in the hotels, white-jacketed barmen will be trying to act as if nothing has happened while guests will be wondering whether in fact anything has happened, or whether it has just been a bad nightmare.’ She heard his small unsettled breath. ‘I have grown to understand these changes of moods on the part of the island. To cope. But many cannot cope. Like my poor Marcelle in there.’ Jade felt herself stiffen. ‘Her head is going to be a damn sight worse when the side-effects of all the pills she has swallowed begin to hit her.’ With his free hand he patted the hand in his and, dully, she looked down. Even though she was tanned, her hand in his was much lighter. ‘You, of course, took everything in your stride. Good for you! ’

The pool, which was usually the colour of a sapphire in the sun, was filled with thick brown water.

‘Only the coral treasures of the reef will have been unaffected ... safe in their underwater beds,’ Laurent said, releasing her hand.

Suddenly, Jade thought, pacey Sydney with its touches of Victorian-Manchester-like architecture seemed very far away ... so did London.

‘The roads will be potholed and practically washed away,’ said Laurent, breaking into her thoughts, ‘but somehow, in the morning, I must get Marcelle home. You will remain here until I get back.'

‘W-why must I remain here?’ she asked, confused.

‘Because you are in the other direction.’ There was a degree of annoyance in his voice. ‘It will be impossible, under the circumstances, to do the two trips at one time. Don’t you see?’

Yes, I suppose so.’ She felt the sting of tears, possibly because she was tired and had been under considerable strain, regardless of the fact that he had remarked that she had taken the cyclone in her stride. As she stared at some broken stone steps and smashed pink geraniums she bit her lip as they blurred.

‘You are to stay here. Until I get back tomorrow,' he said again.

‘You make me feel like a prisoner,' she said, in a small tight voice.

‘You
are
a prisoner.' The tone of his voice was marked by mockery. ‘The roads will be washed away, the lines down and you cannot escape. Like my beautiful jade phoenix.'

‘The phoenix rose from the ashes,' she said, ‘didn't it?'

‘Yes, that is so. It rose from the ashes to live through another cycle. Note, I said another cycle—not cyclone.' He laughed a little and placed an arm about her shoulder. ‘However,’ his voice changed, ‘if you will remain on the island, it is on the cards that you will live through another cyclone.'

‘There’s no “if” about my remaining here on the island.’ She moved away from him.

‘Come,' he said, ‘the sky is now a chalky-grey. Let’s see whether Marcelle has decided to wake up.'

Marcelle joined them for the meal which they had by candlelight. She was still wearing the silk shirt which Laurent had given her, over her slacks. Her ivory face was paler than usual, and there were dark rings beneath her eyes. ‘I feel awful,' she said. ‘I can’t eat.'

‘You must eat,' Laurent told her. ‘You cannot live only on pills.'

‘Don't turn on me, Laurent.'

‘I am not turning on you. I am trying to help you. In the morning I will take you home.’

‘And Miss Lawford?’ Marcelle’s eyes raked his face. ‘What about her? You will take her home at the same time, maybe?’

‘It will be impossible to do the two trips. The roads will be in ruins, if my garden is any indication of the havoc caused by the cyclone. You are worried about your mother and for this reason you will go home first.’

‘You sound irritable,’ Marcelle said. ‘It is not my fault. I did not expect us both to be here.'

‘No.’ His voice was dry. ‘That is so, Marcelle. Neither did I.' After a moment he said, ‘We might all be cut off here, for all I know. I can only find out in the morning.’

Jade closed her eyes in frustration. ‘I wish I could make a plan to get away, believe me. I don’t know how to go about it, though.’

‘It is a pity Laurent brought you here,' Marcelle’s voice rose. ‘What is the pudding there? I might have some of that.’

‘It is mango mousse,' said Laurent’s Creole housekeeper, coming into the room. ‘I am not yet organised in the kitchen. I made it with tinned cream. It whipped, I thought, quite well.’

‘No,’ said Marcelle. 'Not with tinned cream.'

They drank coffee in the lounge with its off-white sofas and French silk sofa pillows in those exciting sunset shades, as Jade thought of them. Beautiful lamps awaited the return of electricity to light, them, but at the moment, there were candles which flickered on top of large brass candlesticks.

When Marcelle began to sob quietly Laurent said, ‘You are worn out. Let me help you to bed, Marcelle.’

He was gone a long time, it seemed to Jade, and then, when he returned, she said, ‘You appear to have involved yourself in a situation which is an impossible one. I’m madly embarrassed, believe me.’

‘I did not arrange the cyclone,' he said.

‘You know I didn't mean that,' she said hotly.

'What do you mean, then?’

‘I’m woman enough to know that Marcelle Fabre is jealous because I'm here. It’s not for me to—reassure her.’

'Don’t worry,’ his voice was hard and careless, ‘I have—reassured her. But let us put this on record, Marcelle is a girl who is as beautiful as a cat, and very often she behaves like one. However,’ he flashed her one of his corsair smiles, ‘I have admiration for both. Into the bargain, Marcelle also happens to be a very capable business woman. I admire this trait also, believe me.’ The candlelight exploded tiny gold flecks, which she had not realised were there, in the sea-green eyes. 'She receives a very good remuneration for managing my business.'

Jade stood up and left the table to stand at one of the French doors. The sea sounded very loud. She stood with shoulders drawn up high. Everything was so unreal. She tried to visualise the hotel and the health clinic, but couldn’t. The cyclone seemed to have washed everything else from her mind, except that she was in love with Laurent Sevigny and was bitterly jealous of Marcelle Fabre ... the girl who was as beautiful as a cat and, very often, behaved like one. Laurent had admiration for both the cat and her spiteful tantrums.

Behind her, Laurent, dark, lean and strangely green-eyed, looked devilish in denim pants and a white silk shirt, which was open half-way down. Even standing here like this, without seeing him, she was aware of him ... wanting him, as she had wanted no man before in her life. She stood very still, looking out at the blackness which was the coral reef. There was the eerie white line where the breakers plunged down on the reef.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, from behind her.

Encouraged by the wine they had drunk with their meal she said, ‘If you must know—you.’

‘What about me?’ He put an arm around her waist.

‘When you make love to a girl, is your approach direct, even savage? Or is there a gentleness, hidden there under that hard, hard surface? There, does that satisfy you? It must do. You’re the type, after all, who goes to art galleries in France, when you’re there ... opening nights in London, when you’re
there
... and to bed with any beautiful girl who happens to take your fancy.’

‘And this worries you, of course?’ He laughed softly and touched the nape of her neck with his fingers. A little shiver ran through her.

Suddenly he swung her round to look at him and her caftan made a silken swish. She tried not to let her eyes go to where his shirt was unbuttoned and where his flesh was tanned and hard ... and a little on the hairy side, but only excitingly so, to remind her of his strength.

For several moments they studied each other and then, tentatively, their lips met and he drew her close. Jade could feel the beating of his heart against the flimsy material of her caftan. She knew that she felt tired beyond belief and yet excited beyond belief.

‘Don’t try to mask your desire,’ Laurent murmured against her mouth. He caressed her breast with his finger tips and she allowed him to get away with it. 'You seemed to have missed the whole point,' he went on, ‘as to why I brought you here.'

Drawing away from him slightly, she said, ’I know why you brought me here, don't worry. It was just a pity that it backfired for you. You couldn’t get me back in time and you were landed with me.' Her resentment burned while her senses screamed with longing for him. For several moments she stood staring at him and then he drew her close again. The desire she felt for him began to climb—like flames, leaping in a grate, she thought a little wildly, as she clung to him.

‘Persistently, you always bring up the subject of other women,' Laurent said, holding her away from him. ‘Why don’t you forget them? Maybe they don't exist?’ He laughed softly and brushed his fingers beneath her chin.

‘I suppose you think that sounds like—half-way— into getting me into bed with you, when your housekeeper has locked up for the night and gone to her husband in the cottage you provide for them?’

‘You are way ahead of me,' he said. 'I was not thinking along those lines ... not with Marcelle in the house.'

‘And we seem to be stuck with Marcelle tonight, don’t we?’ Jade felt furious with herself for inviting his ridicule and, no doubt, contempt.

‘A new element has crept into your way of thinking,' he said, very softly. ‘Am I right? With Marcelle out of the way ....’

‘Let go of me!’ she snapped and, as she left the room, she thought she could hear him laughing at her.

After breakfast which she ate alone on the ruined patio she went into the broken and smashed garden.

timidly at first, because she was still nervous that the weather might suddenly change, and then gaining confidence because everything seemed so calm. Then she made her way to the beach where she stood, huge sunglasses blotting out her blue eyes, and gazed at the sea lagoon and coral reef beyond. Laurent and Marcelle had already left and she felt alone and frightened as she thought of a possible tidal wave. It was difficult to believe, however, that after all the hell which had been let loose, there was this calm.

Several coconut palms lay across the beach and there was a lot of driftwood about—and seaweed and even shells. She turned to look back at Laurent’s house, which was on a promontory over the ebb and flow of the sea lagoon and coral reef. Steps led down to an empty stretch of sand and, in calm weather, it was obviously an ideal blend of house and sea—but it also opened to the impact of that Indian Ocean and its violent moods.

The design of the house was amplified by its rough trowel-stucco finish. To achieve integration of design with sea breezes and ocean, glass walls could be pushed back to admit those breezes and the sounds of the surf on the reef. Fortunately, all of those glass walls and windows could also be shuttered against them. With its views and expansiveness, the house had drama ... like its dark owner, Jade thought. It was a house where, indoors, art wove an intensely personal theme, with the sea beyond remaining the dominant presence. Even its very handsome owner could not dominate that presence, she thought.