Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

He felt her tense. “You are my husband in name only, Alex. But you are my lover, I will not deny that.”

“And do you think you will not want me after our child is born?”

“Probably.” She sighed. “But perhaps this passion I feel for you will fade.”

“Practice will tell, you know, Giana, and I intend to practice constantly.”

She pulled away from him, drawing the velvet coverlet over her. “You must find me very inept,” she said bleakly.

“But ever so willing. I am a patient man, in all things.”

“Particularly when it comes to your women?”

He cocked a black brow at her. “You already accuse me of infidelity?”

She looked down at her toes. “No, but I will become boringly familiar to you. And I will be too pregnant to share your bed.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You are free, after all, and you will likely do just as you please.”

He felt his jaw tighten. “I find your blithe cynicism nauseating,” he said, unable to keep the anger from his voice. “Don’t paint me with your bitter brush.”

She whirled about to face him. “Ah, the big stud of Rome is spouting piety. I find you insulting, Alex.”

He rolled off the bed and stood towering over her. She saw vaguely that he was wet with her.

“Wife or no wife, Miss Van Cleve,” he said, “you continue to rant nonsense at me, and I’ll thrash you.”

“A stupid man and his threats. The two go together so perfectly. You cannot deny the truth, so you resort to bullying. It becomes you so well, Mr. Saxton.”

“Jesus, I am a fool for standing here listening to you.” He gathered up his clothes and yanked on his trousers.

He was on the point of slamming out of the stateroom when she yelled, “Wait. You cannot leave me, I have no one to help me with my gown.”

“Stay in bed, then,” he said. “You’ll likely be so hot for me when I come back that you’d tear it anyway in your haste to get to me.”

“Conceited ass. I would never marry you.”

“Take care, ma’am. I might just stop asking you.” He turned on his heel and slammed out of the stateroom.

Giana closed her mouth and eyes to let Alex wipe her face with a cool cloth.

“You’re sweating like a pig,” he said.

“A sow,” she said, unable to smile at him. “And ladies don’t sweat.” She watched a half-filled glass of water slide across the tabletop as the Halyon careened sharply to starboard in the furrow of a deep trough. In the next moment she was scrambling toward the chamber pot.

Alex turned away from her so she would not see his worry. There was no doctor aboard the Halyon, and he had not considered what a ferocious Atlantic storm would do to Giana. The storm had raged for nearly three days, and most of the passengers were seasick, but none of them were also pregnant. She had eaten little since it started, and held down nothing as far as he could tell.

“Giana, you must try to eat something,” he said, sitting down beside her.

“You must hate me.” She looked so damned fragile, her complexion pale and her hair lank and shiny with sweat. He had tried to braid it, and left her looking like a little girl playing grown-up. He felt his own stomach lurch at a particularly violent heave of the huge ship.

He was completely unmanned when she whispered, “Please, Alex, don’t let the baby die.” Tears coursed down her cheeks, and he dashed them away before they ran into her mouth. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and drew her knees up to her chest.

“It’s this damned stateroom,” he said suddenly, glancing around at all the luxury tilting and heaving around him. “We’re getting out of here.”

He pulled on several sweaters and his slicker, then bundled Giana up to her eyebrows in warm blankets.

“Are you going to throw me overboard?”

“The fish would likely throw you back. You weigh no more than a guppy. Hush, now. You are going to feel better quite soon.”