Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

They hadn’t enjoyed each other in nearly a week and Jane discovered that she wanted him as much as he did her. In their urgency, they didn’t consider going to Jane’s bedroom. He took her on the carpet in front of the fireplace, kneading her full hips as he plunged into her warm body.

“Ah, Jane,” he said some minutes later as he watched her face contort with her pleasure. “It pleases me so much when you do that.” Then his huge body tautened as he surged into her.

Jane pulled an afghan over them, then snuggled against Saint’s chest. “It’s been too long,” she said. “That was very nice.”

“An understatement, woman,” he growled, gently nipping her earlobe. “Now, Jane,” he continued as he felt her hand glide down his chest, over his muscled belly. “I’m only a man, after all.”

“Hmm,” she said, caressing him in her hand. “Now, that, my dear, is the understatement.”

It was close to midnight before they were dressed again and sitting at Jane’s small kitchen table drinking tea.

He never spent the night with her because of her boys. Some nights, like tonight, when he was sated and sleepy, he thought fondly of holding her, her arms wrapped around his body.

“How’s our little girl doing, Jane?” he asked, dismissing the thought as he sipped the delicious tea.

“Much better. She wants me to call her Mary, which I do, of course. She worships you, naturally.”

“Excellent, but is her sewing good enough for you?”

“Yes. She’s a bright girl and she wants nothing more than to please. She still likes to stay in the back of the shop, away from the customers, but I expect she’ll gain some confidence soon.”

“It might take a while, since most of your customers are men,” Saint said. “You’ve got three women working for you now, right?”

“Yes, and business is booming. Lord, I think our little shop has made at least two thousand shirts since we opened last year, not to mention more flannel trousers than I care to count.”

Saint pictured the fifteen-year-old Mary—her name in Chinese, he couldn’t begin to pronounce—as she had been two months ago when he had saved her from being sold as a prostitute in a filthy crib down on Washington Street. She had been beaten for her unwillingness, and Saint had examined her carefully while she was unconscious. Luckily, she was still a virgin, but he could imagine that her maidenhead was only a technicality. Poor girl. He sighed, leaning back in the chair. So many poor girls, so many victims.

“I know what you’re thinking, Saint,” Jane said, closing her hand over his forearm. “You’ve done so much. It’s just that the city is so very young and wild and there are so many men and—”

“And many of them rapacious bastards!”

“True, but things are changing, you know. You’re not a rapacious bastard, and neither are many of your friends.”

“Things won’t really change until San Francisco is no longer a city of single men and prostitutes.”

“More families are coming all the time,” Jane said, making Saint recall his own words to Del Saxton. She lowered her eyes to her lap for a moment. “If only Danny had survived . . .”

“I know, Jane, I know. Your husband was doubtless a fine man. He sure picked a fine wife and made fine boys.”

“But some gold wasn’t enough for him,” she said in a voice tinged with bitterness. “If only you’d been in that camp when he came down with pneumonia, things might have been different.”

“I’m not a miracle worker. Now, we’ve talked ourselves into a depression, and that’s no good at all, particularly after what you did to my poor body.” She laughed, as he had known she would. He rose and stretched. Jane eyed him with wistful yearning. He was such a fine specimen of a man, she thought, her fingers tingling with the memory of his smooth flesh, the soft tufts of hair on his chest and belly. She was so lucky to have found him when she had. She watched him stride over to the sink. She loved the way his chestnut hair curled about his ears, the way his hazel eyes narrowed when he was concentrating. And she knew he didn’t love her. They were good together, and, the good Lord knew, he’d helped her more than she could ever repay. Maybe someday, she thought.

“Let me fix this blasted pump, then I’ve got to get home,” he said over his shoulder.

Saint was awakened at three o’clock in the morning by violent knocks on the front door. It was Caesar, from Maggie’s brothel. One of the men, a stranger, had beaten one of her girls.

He cursed and ranted all the way to the Wild Star, Brent Hammond’s saloon. The other half of the large building was a brothel, called Maggie’s.

“Dammit, Maggie,” he shouted as soon as he stepped into her sitting room. “How could you let something like this happen? Which girl got hurt?”

“Victoria,” Maggie said. “The man is dead. Ceaser slit his throat. Come along.”

Oh God, Saint thought as he stared down at Victoria, a pert, vivacious young woman who always had a ready smile for him, except now. One eye was already blackening, her upper lip was split and swollen, and she looked as pale as the sheet covering her.

“Hold still, Victoria,” he said gently as he sat on the bed beside her. “It’s just me, Saint.”

Victoria closed her eyes, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out. His touch was gentle, but she hurt, badly. “Your jaw’s not broken,” Saint said. He pulled down the sheet that covered her. There were teeth marks on her left breast and an ugly bruise over her lower ribs. He probed as gently as he could, feeling her tense. “Try to relax, Victoria. I’ll be done in a minute. Your ribs are fine, but you’re going to hurt for a couple of weeks.”