JADE STAR by Catherine Coulter

again. But she had hurt him – that, or he hadn’t enjoyed her body, taking her only because she’d demanded it of him. How could he have enjoyed it when she’d fought him, and cried like a stupid fool?

She felt tears sting her eyes now. Everything had gone awry. She’d hoped that he would change toward her, but not this way. Slowly she sank to her knees in front of the mirror and buried her face in her hands.

Saint pulled himself together when he heard a man talk about all the bloody fog rolling in. ‘Unusual this time of year,’ the man said to his companion. ‘No way out now.’

That brought Saint to instant sobriety. ‘Fog?’ he asked the man.

‘Yep. You’re from the city, ain’t you?’ ‘Yes, and I must get back.’

‘Ain’t nobody going out in that damned soup. Sorry, mister, but you’re spending the night here.’

Saint paid his shot and went outside. The man was right. He couldn’t see a foot in front of him. San Francisco could be a thousand miles away, and in any direction. He thought of Jules and cursed. He should

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have left her a note, dammit. She would worry, and there was nothing he could do about it.

There were no inns in Sausalito, so he walked back into the saloon.

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19

Saint didn’t get back to San Francisco until late the following afternoon. He felt dirty., tired to the soles of his boots, guilty, and he didn’t want to go home. As he strode along Clay Street, his eyes on mud puddles that could bring the unwary low, he imagined the look on Jules’s face when she saw him. Disgust, revulsion – God only knew. For a moment he allowed himself to remember the intense pleasure he’d experienced, but of course, the pleasure had been all his. He kicked a stone viciously out of his way. Life, he decided, had become bloody hell.

He drew a deep breath and opened the front door to his house. ‘Jules,’ he called. Jules, who had talked herself into fatalistic

calm, heard his voice and forced herself to walk slowly from the parlor into the entrance hall.

‘Hello, Michael-,’ she said, not meeting his eyes. Somehow his presence made her feel dreadfully vulnerable and exposed. ‘Are you hungry? Lydia made a delicious beef stew, and there’s freshly baked bread. Thomas isn’t here. I believe he is again with Penelope

Stevenson, teaching her manners, no doubt.’ She ground to a pained halt.

Saint wanted desperately to take her in his arms, to stroke her bright head, to comfort her, but he was afraid to. He thought ruefully that he needed comforting himself. He smiled painfully, knowing she was putting on an act for him, trying to behave naturally, hiding her true feelings about him.

‘I need a bath first,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Jules, about a lot of things. I should have left you a message, but I expected to be home soon. I was called over to Sausalito, across the bay, and couldn’t come back any sooner because of the fog. Please forgive me – a doctor’s lot and all that.’

She raised her eyes to his face. For a brief instant his expression was unreadable; then she knew she saw pity in his eyes. She rocked back on her heels, hating him, hating herself. He’d found her lacking, found her still to be a child, not a woman, and now he was stuck with her. She wanted to yell, but she didn’t. She said nothing, merely looked away from him. ‘Yes,’ she said finally, ‘yes, there was f6g.’ She hadn’t known the fog was all that heavy, but of course she hadn’t been out of the house. She’d been too afraid to leave. No, she amended to herself, not really afraid. She hadn’t wanted to leave because he might q1A

return at any moment.

‘What happened to your patient?’

‘She died,’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘I could do nothing for her.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

He slashed his hand through the air. ‘There was nothing to be done for her, as I said. Now, I think I’ll go up. I won’t be long, Jules.’