“Saint saved you.”
“No, you did.”
They both fell silent.
Suddenly Byrony giggled. It was so unexpected that Brent jumped. “Here I am, in bed with you. I don’t have any clothes on and I can feel you.”
Unconsciously he lowered his body a bit until her breasts were pressing against his chest. That elusive pain gnawed at his guts again. He closed his eyes, wishing he could also close his mind, but he couldn’t. “I won’t let him near you,” he said. “Never again.”
Her low laughter turned into a sob. “I don’t know what to do now. Please, Brent, you must sell the necklace for me. I swear I’ll leave. You’ve helped me so much—”
“Shut up. I’m getting up now,” he said in a very calm voice. “If I stay here with you, I’ll take you again.” He pulled away from her and rolled out of bed.
He knew she was staring at him, and he was as hard as the floor beneath his feet. “Close your eyes.”
For some odd reason, he was embarrassed. He’d never before had a hint of modesty with a woman, but now—“Oh, hell,” he said, and grabbed for his dressing gown.
“I never thought that a man—well, you have a very nice back.”
He smiled, but refused to face her. “And you, my dear, have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.” He heard her suck in her breath, and turned to face her. “You’re not going anywhere, do you understand me, Byrony? You’re staying right there until I can figure out what we’re going to do.”
“But I must leave San Francisco.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Stay put.”
He left her thirty minutes later, having said only, “I’ll be back so
on. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but Nero is downstairs. Continue reading my books.”
He could only shake his head at his own stupidity. There was a driving rain and he felt water drip down his neck. It was a ten-minute walk to Saint’s house on Clay Street. His housekeeper, Lydia Mullins, ushered him into the small sitting room.
Saint came into the room, wearing an old dark blue dressing gown. He merely stood in the doorway, a thick brow cocked at Brent. “Well?”
“I need your help,” Brent said simply.
“Not until I’ve had some coffee,” Saint said. “I was up half the night bringing a child into the world. The child died, dammit.”
“I’m sorry,” Brent said.
“Not anybody’s fault.”
Brent found that the strong black coffee calmed him.
“All right,” Saint said, seating himself comfortably across from Brent, “tell me all of it.”
“You knew Byrony hadn’t birthed that baby,” Brent said.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t any of your business. I am a doctor, you know, ethics and all that. Now that you’ve got that out of your system, tell me what’s happened.”
“I made love to Byrony and discovered that she was a virgin. She isn’t now, needless to say.”
“Ah.”
“The child is Irene’s.”