Jade Star (23 page)

What could she tell him? When she really didn't understand her own motives? “Wilkes,” she whispered, her eyes on the toes of her shoes.

“Wilkes? What the hell does he have to do with anything?” At her continued silence, he added in a mocking voice, “Have you changed your mind about him? Do you want to find him, give yourself over to him?”

“No!”

“No what? I would appreciate some specificity.”

“I was out . . . tracking him.”

He could only stare at her. “Tracking him,” he repeated. “If you managed to find him,” he continued after a moment, “you wanted to kill him?”

“Yes,” she said. “I'm tired of being a prisoner! I'm tired of being a helpless victim.”

“But you're not tired of being a damned fool. Tracking Wilkes—dear God, I don't believe this!”

“Why not? And I'm not a fool.” She saw that he was regarding her as if she had suddenly announced that she was going to jump into the bay. “At least,” she muttered, now more angry than numb, “he wanted me!”

Saint felt himself stiffen, his hands fisting at his sides. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, I didn't mean that! It's just that . . .”

“That what?” he asked when she faltered.

“I don't know what to do!”

“Charming,” he observed. “So blatant stupidity is the answer. Your woman's mind—well, I should have faced it sooner, shouldn't I?”

“What do you mean my ‘woman's mind'?”

“I was wrong to say that. Rather, it's more the case that you're still an ignorant child. Selfish, reckless, silly, and so uncaring of anyone else that—”

“I am not uncaring! I did not mean to hurt that man. And I am not a child. Ask Wilkes! He didn't think so!”

They were going about in circles, he realized. Accomplishing nothing, Resolving nothing. But he simply felt too overwhelmed and too furious with her to continue. What he wanted was to thrash some sense into her.

Jules felt his eyes on her, brooding, questioning, grim now with determination.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, hating herself for her high, thin voice.

“I'm going to do something I should have done
months ago,” he said, straightening to his full height. “Since there is no reasoning with you, since I can't be certain you won't continue to lie to me with great regularity, I shall just have to do something much more basic.”

He strode toward her.

“What?” she said, automatically backing away from him.

“Since there's no one here, I don't have to haul you upstairs,” he said more to himself than to her.

“Why do you want to ‘haul' me?”

He didn't answer her, merely grasped her wrist and pulled her against him. For a brief moment Jules believed he would comfort her, tell her that everything was all right, that he understood.

In the next moment he'd sat down in his chair and pulled her over his legs.

“No!” she yelled, twisting on his lap, trying desperately to lurch away from him.

She felt his hands pulling up her gown, jerking away her underthings. She felt the cool air on her bare bottom.

“Very nice,” Saint said, and slammed down his palm.

Jules yelled, and arched wildly. His hand came down again, harder this time. She felt pain, but her humiliation was greater, and she yelled all the bad names she could think of at him.

He laughed.

Saint lifted his hand to smack her bottom again, then drew up short. Her white buttocks were now slashed with red, and he could feel her quivering with pain. He laid his open palm on her, his fingers, of their own accord, gently kneading her stinging
flesh. He felt a surge of desire, and quickly raised his hand.

“If ever,” he said, “you lie to me again, or do something so stupid, I'll use a whip on you. Do you understand me?”

“I hate you!”

He brought his hand down again, not as hard this time, but dammit, he had to gain her compliance, and, for that matter, her attention.

“Do you understand?” He punctuated each word with a smack.

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Excellent.” He simply pushed her off his lap, and she landed in a welter of skirts on the floor at his feet, her underclothes about her ankles. He rose quickly, forcing himself not to look at her, for if he did, he knew he'd probably beg her forgiveness, hold her, and . . . Damnation!

He didn't bother with a coat. He left, slamming the front door after him.

Jules gingerly touched her hand to her burning bottom. She struggling to get her underclothes back into a semblance of order, then straightened her gown. But didn't rise—she couldn't manage to do that just yet.

She leaned down, pillowed her head on her arms, and breathed in the dust from the carpet.

Saint sat by himself at a table at the Wild Star. His friends and acquaintances now kept to themselves, leaving him in solitary splendor, nursing his whiskey.

“Hisself is takin' things too serious,” said Dancer Drake, the local boxer.

To Bear Paw Ryan, Saint had been just plain rude. “He musta lost somebody important,” Bear Paw said by way of excuse for one of the most popular men in San Francisco.

Saint stared down at his whiskey, unaware that his very unsaintlike behavior was leading to wild speculation. What am I going to do now? he was asking himself. It was a refrain that had no more acceptable answer now than when he'd first asked it months before. Jules's shocked white face kept swimming before his eyes. And her beautiful bottom, red-streaked from his smacks. He winced, hearing the sound of his hand striking her. You damned brute, he said to himself, and downed the remainder of his whiskey.

I hate you.

“Well,” he said to his empty glass, “what the hell did you expect? You were beating her. Did you think she'd tell you how wonderful you were?”

He yelled for another whiskey.

Saint had never before raised his hand to a woman. His great size and strength discouraged men from trying to prove their manhood and courage by baiting him. All it had taken was one small woman who had finally driven him over the edge. What had she done, anyway?
She lied to you, she went tracking Wilkes, and she shot a man.
That was a start, he thought, grunting at Nero when he slapped his whiskey shot onto the table.

Nero backed away from the table, saw Brent Hammond, and waved frantically toward his boss.

“Mind if I join you, Saint?” Brent asked. “Excellent, don't mind if I do. Godawful weather we're having, isn't it? I imagine that Jules is having a problem with all the drizzle and fog, her being from Maui and all, huh?”

“Go away, Brent,” Saint said, not looking up.

Brent sat down and leaned back in his chair. He studied his friend's face.

“Leave me alone, Brent,” Saint said, his voice as rude as he could make it.

“I think I'll take my chances and bear you company for a bit longer. Thackery wanted me to find out what you'd done to your wife, actually. He's very worried about her.” If the truth be known, Brent thought, Thackery was just as worried about Dr. Saint. “She pushed him too far this time,” Thackery had said, shaking his head.

“I should have used a whip,” Saint said suddenly, renewed fury gripping him. “And I will next time, damn her stupidity!”

“Thackery feels guilty, feels he should have
prevented what happened. He tells me that your little one, as he calls her—”

“Would you just shut up?” Saint sent Brent the meanest look he could manage, but it wasn't as effective as he'd hoped. Brent laughed.

“Why don't you go upstairs, Saint? Any of Maggie's girls would be delighted to bring you some temporary . . . relief.”

Brent waited for the explosion, but it didn't come. He watched in astonishment as Saint appeared to consider his suggestion. “I probably should,” Saint said at last. “It would at least protect her from me.”

For a long moment Brent simply stared at his friend. He didn't know what to do or what to say. Finally he said very quietly, “Can I tell you a story, Saint?” He continued without pause, “When Byrony and I were first married, we didn't get along—my fault of course. She followed me to Celeste's house, thinking I was going to my mistress to sleep with her. Odd. In fact, I wanted to ask Celeste about preventing conception. Do you know that she faced me down? Yelled at me like a fishwife. I was so mad I was ready to strangle her.”

“Your point, Hammond?” Saint asked almost savagely.

“Hmm, well, I guess it's that Byrony showed a lot of courage to do that. It wasn't quite the same thing, but just maybe Jules wants and needs your attention, and you've frozen her out. Neither Thackery nor I, I might add, can understand why you don't appear to give a good damn about your wife.”

Saint scraped his chair back and rose. He wasn't aware that a goodly number of men were regarding
him intently. “It's gotta be a woman,” Bear Paw said. Limpin' Willie nodded sage agreement.

“You want to borrow a whip, Saint?” Brent asked with interest, not at all intimidated by his friend's menacing size or mean stare. “Really bring the little fool to her knees? Or you could send her back East with Thomas. And if Thomas isn't going back East, hell, send her there by herself. Get rid of the thorn in your side once and for all.”

Brent's mockery seared him. It's time to end it, Saint realized, staring blankly through Brent. “Yes,” he said, “it is time to get rid of the thorn.”

Brent felt a moment of fear at what his words had wrought. He wondered if he should cosh Saint over the head, if he should . . . No, he decided, violence was abhorrent to Saint. If he had indeed thrashed her, he wouldn't again. He watched Saint throw down several dollar bills and stride out of the Wild Star.

“You calm him down, Brent?” Nero asked.

“God only knows,” Brent said. He rose and heaved a mighty sigh. “I think,” he said, a crooked grin on his face, “that I shall go upstairs and tell my wife how much I love her.”

Saint had sobered up dramatically by the time he reached his house. It was completely dark. What did you expect, you fool? It was, after all, well after midnight. He banged about loudly, wanting her to wake up.

Jules was awake. After Saint lit the lamp in the spare bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, regarding him warily.

“How's your bottom?” he asked, sitting down beside her on the bed. Her hair was in wild disarray
about her shoulders, her eyes vivid and large in the spidery light.

She looked thoughtful a moment, as if considering his question. “I am fine,” she said finally. “Are you drunk?”

“I was, but not much now. I guess that's one benefit to being a large man.”

“Did you come to hurt me again?”

“No,” he said, wincing inwardly at her words. “At least I hope I won't hurt you. I've come to end it all, Jules.”

“Jules,” not “Juliana.”

“What do you mean, Michael?”

He gave her a crooked grin. “Well, first I want to have a look at your bottom. I was pretty heavy-handed with you, I'm afraid.”

She flushed, and drew back a bit. “My bottom is fine, I told you.”

“After I look at your bottom, I want to toss that nightgown of yours into the corner. Then I want to carry you to my—our—bedroom.”

Jules couldn't believe his words, and gaped at him. She began nervously to pleat the sheet between her fingers. “Why?” she blurted out.

“It's got to stop,” Saint said. “I've been a bloody fool. I want you, Jules. I want you so badly I hurt most of the time.” He paused a moment, looking at her searchingly. Her expression was unreadable, but of course he hadn't tried all that hard to read her expressions. “First, I want to see your bottom.”

Jules felt a surge of pure happiness flow through her. She knew that if she showed the slightest hesitancy, the slightest fear, he wouldn't touch her. She
clamped down on the silly feelings of embarrassment. He was her husband.

She smiled up at him. “All right,” she said.

Saint hadn't expected such a ready compliance—she saw it from the shocked expression on his face. Had he believed she would fly at him and try to scratch his eyes out for spanking her? He looked suddenly uncertain. Maybe it would be easier if he had drunk a bit more. Well, it was too late to give him more now.

Slowly Jules pulled open the three pink ribbons that fastened the front of her nightgown.

He watched every movement of her fingers.

“I would appreciate you looking at my bottom,” she said, peering at him from beneath her lashes. “I guess I do hurt. Maybe you broke something.”

“No, there's nothing to break in your bottom,” he said, his eyes on a white breast newly revealed by the parting material.

“Still . . .” Jules temporized. She came up onto her knees and pulled her nightgown over her head. She balled it up and tossed it toward the corner. She placed her hands flat on her thighs, and didn't move.

Saint stared at her, not speaking.

Jules tossed her head a bit, thrusting her breasts outward. She felt foolish for her exhibition, and at the same time, hopefully excited.

As if in a dream, Saint stretched out his hand and gently touched his fingers to her breasts. He felt her quiver, and quickly drew back his hand.

“You aren't frightening me, Michael,” she said. She didn't want to fling herself at him, but neither did she wish to be covered with gooseflesh sitting here watching him watch her. “My bottom,” she said,
and slowly stretched out on her stomach over his legs.

Saint looked down at the white expanse of back, to her very perfect bottom, down her slender legs. “Your bottom . . .” he said, and laid the flat of his hand over a buttock.

She felt his strong fingers begin to caress her, and inadvertently she moved her hips. She heard him suck in his breath.

She smiled, and placed her own hand on his thigh.

“Is my bottom all right?” she asked, feeling his muscles tighten and move beneath her fingers.

“Perfect,” Saint said with great sincerity. “All of you is . . . well, white and soft and sweet.”

That was the nicest compliment he'd ever given her. Jules turned over, and clasping his shoulders, pulled herself onto his lap. “You said you were going to carry me into your—our—bedroom,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, “yes, that's what I said.”

For an instant he simply couldn't believe this was happening. She was offering herself to him. After he'd been a nasty bastard to her, after . . . But what if he hurt her again? What if . . . ?

“I'm getting cold, Michael,” Jules said, lightly kissing his jaw.

He rose, clutching her tightly against him, and strode to their bedroom. He wanted to see her, every inch of her, but would the light frighten . . . ? No, she had pulled off her nightgown, and there'd been a light on.

He laid her on the bed and pulled a thick blanket over her. “Now you won't be cold,” he said. He moved quickly, lighting a lamp, then stripped off his
clothes. Still, he was worried, even as he slipped in beside her, beneath the blanket.

“Jules,” he said, looking down into her face, not touching her yet, “the first time we made love, I did hurt you, badly. I'm very sorry for that. I know that you must have thought me an animal, a brute, as bad as Wilkes . . .” He broke off a moment, but Jules didn't interrupt him. Let him get it all out, she thought. “I didn't mean to hurt you . . . it was your maidenhead . . . the first time is tough for a woman . . . and I couldn't stop myself. If you could trust me now, I think it could be better between us.”

“I don't know,” Jules said, managing a very serious frown. “It was truly awful that first time. You were a complete brute and used me so roughly. I didn't think you cared at all about me, and I thought I was going to die with the awful pain and—”

“Are you mocking me?”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “Me? Mock you?” She turned onto her side facing him, and her hand roved quickly over his chest to his belly.

“Jules!”

“All you have to tell me is that I won't bleed this time. Is that true?”

He closed his eyes a moment and remembered that wretched trip to Sausalito. He had imagined her waking up alone, but he hadn't thought about her bleeding. God, she must have been terrified. “There won't be any more blood,” he said.

“Good,” Jules said with satisfaction, and gently clasped him in her hand. He was quivering, swelling at a very excellent rate, and she loved it. “I want to kiss every inch of you,” she said outrageously.

“Seduced by—”

“Your wife, Michael. Now, would you please kiss me, and touch me, and love me?”

“I've been a bloody fool, haven't I?” he said, and kissed her deeply.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, you have. I could never, ever be afraid of you.”

He knew he had to go slowly, despite her display of enthusiasm. And he did, until Jules was driven to distraction.

He said against her parted lips, “Remember how I fondled you that first night, when you were drugged, and crazy?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said, and felt his manhood, swollen and throbbing against her thighs.

“I used my hand, my fingers, that night, Jules. Now I want to caress you with my mouth.”

“Oh dear,” she gasped, truly shocked. “I don't know, it seems so very . . .”

“Just trust me,” he said. “It's the most natural thing in the world, I promise. It's something that a man loves to do.”

When she felt his warm mouth against her, felt him lift her hips in his large hands, she felt only a brief instant of shock. She'd never imagined that he would . . . Her thoughts broke off and she felt a sudden tension building, felt her legs stiffening.