Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“Yes,” he said, “and I should very much like to paint you, if my big brother doesn’t mind, of course.”

“We must find a more appropriate hairstyle, I think,” Laurel said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t think it possible.

“My fault,” Brent said.

His words hung in the air, and Byrony blurted out, “He wouldn’t let me out of the tub.”

Drew very carefully placed his fork beside his plate, then threw back his head and laughed.

Byrony ducked her head. She heard Brent chuckling with his brother. No, she thought, he most certainly hadn’t let her out of the tub. In fact he’d joined her, his large naked body snaking around hers, sending floods of water onto the bedroom floor. She felt herself grow even warmer at the image of lying against her husband’s chest, her legs between his, his hands in her wet hair, his mouth caressing her throat.

“Now, if you were a mermaid,” he’d said, “I wouldn’t have to worry about those two gorgeous legs of yours—just your lovely tail.”

Byrony was brought from her pleasurable memories back to the present by Laurel’s acid voice. “Please, Drew, Brent.” Lord, she wished she could pull out every one of Byrony’s damp hairs by the root. “Enough, I don’t want the slaves to hear such talk.”

“I suppose things do change occasionally,” Brent said, drawling out his words so that Byrony stared at him. His lilting accent was thick as honey. “Don’t worry, Laurel, when Drew paints Byrony, I’ll see to it that she’s completely presentable.”

Byrony had the awful feeling at that moment that Brent had made love to her only in order to throw it up to Laurel. The black-eyed peas were suddenly hard and cold in her mouth. No, she thought, she was being ridiculous. She could still hear his groans, feel his arms holding her tightly.

Drew said, “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I could attempt another Venus emerging from the sea.”

“I must show you the portrait Drew painted of me,” Laurel said. “It’s hanging in the drawing room, of course. Visitors believe

it to be one of his best efforts. How long have you been married?”

“Three months,” Byrony said automatically. “The journey here took a very long time.”

“How did you two meet?” Laurel asked. Three months. Hardly any time at all. Brent would be bored with the girl soon enough.

Byrony’s eyes flew to her husband’s face. Her confusion was not lost on Laurel.

“In San Diego actually,” Brent said easily, sipping his wine.

“Where is that? I’ve never heard of that place.”

“It’s in the southern part of California. You have heard of California, I trust?”

“You’re so instructive, Brent. I thank you. But how interesting. I thought perhaps you were one of the females in Brent’s saloon.”

My, what sharp fingernails, Byrony thought.

“Oh no,” Brent said, grinning. “My wife has none of the skills or attributes of a saloon girl, thank God.”

No, Byrony thought, she probably didn’t. She felt him looking at her at that moment, and raised her face. His beautiful midnight-blue eyes were filled with wicked amusement.

“But there are so very few ladies in San Francisco, is that not true?” Laurel said.

“More ladies than gentlemen, I’d wager,” Drew said.

“That’s right, Drew. Men dare to soil their hands in California, But you know you’re alive there. There’s no stagnation, no carrying on of meaningless traditions as there is, for example, here in the South.”

His drawl had disappeared, Byrony noticed, and his voice was clear and crisp. “We create our values and our modes of life as we go along. A man’s brains make him important, not accidents of birth that place him willy-nilly in a privileged position.”

“I can’t imagine what your father would say to such sentiments,” Laurel said.

“He’d probably kick my butt out—again,” Brent said. His eyes met Laurel’s and he grinned. He raised his wineglass in a mocking toast.

Byrony took another bite of fried chicken. It hit her stomach like a rock. She began to envision their life here as a series of skirmishes between Brent and Laurel.