Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)
And you will leave and I’ll never see you again.
She watched him stride into the small parlor, making it seem even smaller with his presence, and for an instant, saw him wearing his ragged, cut-off pants. His legs were tanned, and long and thick with muscle. She saw him diving after her, dunking her, laughing with her. She felt a spurt of warmth deep in her belly. She felt his eyes on her and kept her face down. Maybe she should look at him straight, she thought. Maybe he would see into her mind and keep her with him. But no. He was giving her his very patient look; he was prepared to calmly demolish her every protest. But she wasn’t a child any longer. But how to make him realize that?
Jules drew a deep breath, and plowed forward. “I would like to stay in San Francisco, Michael. I could find a job. You wouldn’t have to be responsible for me.”
Saint raised a brow at that. “Just who would be responsible for you, then?”
“I am not a child, even though it pleases you to think so—still. I am a grown woman and I will—”
“No,” he said, looking at her fisted hands, “you’re not a child. But you are returning to Lahaina, Jules, and that’s an end to it. Your family . . . it’s where you belong.”
“Michael, I could help you, really I could. Please, won’t you just listen to me—”
Again he interrupted her, unable to bear her pleading. “Jules, please try to understand. I am doing what is best for you.”
“I could be your mistress.”
His breath flew out in a sharp hiss. “My what?”
“Your mistress,” Jules repeated in a steady voice. “Jameson Wilkes explained to me that a mistress belongs to only one man and he takes care of her. So I could continue to live here, and you could take care of me and I could do whatever it is a mistress is supposed to do.”
Saint simply stared at her. He supposed he should be glad that Wilkes hadn’t rid her of all ignorance and innocence during the two weeks he’d had her. “Jules,” he asked her very carefully, “he did tell you what a mistress was supposed to do, didn’t he?”
“No, not really. I told him that a mistress sounded like a whore to me and I wouldn’t do it.” Jules ducked her head, realizing that she’d just done herself in. “Not with just anybody,” she hastily amended. “Just you.”
“I see,” Saint said. Handle this with kid gloves, he thought, and with some humor, if I can dredge up any. “Jules, I can’t afford a mistress. I’m only a poor physician, remember? And if I could, you would have to parade about in awful gowns like the one Wilkes made you wear, and douse yourself in that smelly perfume. Surely you wouldn’t want that?”
“I couldn’t just be me?” Her voice was so hopeless that a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he saw her as a young girl again—questioning everything, innocent of guile, and stubborn as a mule when she wanted something. He kept his voice light, teasing. “Indeed not. A mistress is a bird of very different plumage—a simple, elegant cormorant is not allowed. There are different rules about mistresses, you know.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “I don’t believe you. Just what are these rules?”
“First of all, a mistress is not a lady. She isn’t allowed to be around ladies. She’s an outcast, if you will, and she has no rights, no security. She’s taken care of only as long as the gentleman she lives with wishes it. It isn’t pleasant, Jules.”
“It would be pleasant with you, Michael,” she said, and he sighed at the upward thrust of her stubborn chin.
Saint walked to her, drew her out of her chair, and gently stroked his large hand down her arms. “I don’t want a mistress, Jules. And you are not mistress material. You’re beautiful, vibrant, and you’re meant to have a husband and a home of your own and children. The rest is nonsense and not at all for you.”
“Do you already have a mistress?”
He thought of Jane—not a mistress, not Jane—but Jules saw the expression in his eyes and wanted to strike this unknown woman. “No,” he said firmly, “I don’t have a mistress.”
Jules stared up at him, not really believing him, but knowing that Michael had never lied to her. What would he do if I kissed him? she wondered. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “I’m glad you don’t wear a beard,” she said.
He felt his body leap in response. It wasn’t her touching him, or her words. It was the look in her vivid emerald eyes that made his loins tighten. She’d had the same look when he’d stroked his hand between her thighs and felt her and caressed her. It was a vivid image in his mind: her long lashes sweeping down as she moaned softly, arching against him in a frenzy, as if she wanted to become part of him.
He released her abruptly, disgusted with himself. He tried for a smile. “I’m glad you don’t wear a beard either.”
Her smile was as forced as his. “You said that I would get married and have babies.”
“Yes, I said that.”
“So I’m not too young for that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Then I’m an adult.”
“Yes, an adult.”