“I think you should run for mayor, Saint,” Byrony said. “You would gain more votes than any man in the history of San Francisco.”
“Saint,” Thomas said, sitting forward in his chair, “tell us the story about Napoleon and his one experience with a cathartic.”
“In front of the ladies, Thomas? And I believe you’ve already told it. Needless to say, he refused any further treatment of that sort.”
“What’s a cathartic?” Penelope asked.
“The opposite of an emetic,” Thomas said, hooting with laughter.
“Thomas!”
“Yes, Pen?” Thomas asked, his face as innocent and guileless as his sister’s was when she wanted to fool Thackery, Saint thought. Which evidently she had. She hadn’t spoken one word directly to him all evening. He wanted to be alone with her. He wanted to yell at her and shake her. He wanted . . . Oh no, you damned randy bastard! Not that, not again.
He sat back and pretended to listen to Brent describe their progress at Wakeville. Lydia’s roast beef sat like leather in his stomach, as had her attempt at Yorkshire pudding. He sipped at his wine, his gaze going to his wife’s face.
What the hell was he going to do with her? He’d hurt her badly, but that didn’t excuse her recent behavior. He supposed he would have to speak with Thackery, have the man keep a closer eye on her.
“Michael?”
He was jerked out of his fog. “What?” he said, turning to Jules.
“The ladies will be in the parlor,” she said, rising. He quickly stepp
ed to her side and politely held her chair. She didn’t look at him.
“We won’t be long,” Saint said.
Another two hours passed before they were alone. Thomas left to drive Penelope home, and Brent, his voice light and amusing, claimed his fat wife needed her rest, which gained him Byrony’s elbow in his ribs.
Saint said without preamble, “I want to talk to you, Jules.”
“I’m tired,” she said, moving toward the parlor door. “I’m going to bed. You know, Michael, it’s that rather large piece of furniture up in the bedroom. Good night.”
“Jules!”
He jumped to his feet and strode after her. “You come back here!” he shouted to her retreating back on the stairs.
Jules paused at the top of the stairs, curled her lip at him, and said coldly, “Oh no. It seems that the parlor has become your bedroom. I have no intention of speaking to you there.”
“Damn you,” he growled, and stalked up the stairs after her.
20
Let him come in, Jules thought, stomping into the bedroom. She stopped in the middle of the room, turned, and faced the open doorway.
Perhaps she should begin taking off her clothes—that would stop him in his tracks!
Her fingers went to the long row of buttons.
“Don’t you dare,” Saint said, coming into the room. He paused a moment, then slammed the door closed behind him. “Leave those buttons alone!”
“Why?” she asked, unfastening yet another. “Would you find it so very repulsive? I thought doctors were quite used to seeing naked women.”
“I want to talk to you, not see you with nothing on but your hair.” What game was she playing, damn her!
Jules sat down on the swivel chair in front of the dresser, folded her hands primly in her lap, and began to twiddle her thumbs. “Yes?” she asked.
We used to be such good friends, he thought, staring down at her, his frustration mounting. She used to trust me, to . . . love me. No, not that, you ass! She loved you as a child would an older brother. He said, “Why did you buy a gun today?”