“Incest,” Del said with distaste, “is something I simply don’t understand.”
Saint didn’t reply, his eyes on the huge serving of bouillabaisse Jacques had set in front of him.
Del said in an aggrieved voice, “I got about half as much as you, Saint.”
“Well, you’re about half my size, and besides—”
“I know. Pierre owes you favors.”
“Yeah. Remember when he burned himself real bad a couple of months ago? I accepted payment in food. My housekeeper’s cooking just can’t compete with Pierre’s.”
Delaney laughed and spooned down a bite of the delicious fish stew. They spoke of their mutual acquaintances and compared impressions of new arrivals in San Francisco.
“More and more families, thank heaven,” Saint said. “In a couple of years maybe we’ll be rid of our rough reputation. Never seen so many horny men as in this city.”
“Nor so many happy prostitutes. This is also a town where women can make their fortunes.”
Saint grunted something that Del didn’t understand, but he didn’t ask for enlightenment. Saint didn’t approve of prostitution.
“You want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Del asked after a moment. “Chauncey would like to see you, and Alexandra, of course.”
“Sorry, but I’m kind of committed.”
“Ah, the widow Branigan.”
“Jane’s a good sort,” Saint said calmly. “Besides, one of her boys has a bit of a cold.”
“Are
you going to marry her, Saint?”
“You shackled men,” Saint said with mock disgust, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “None of you is happy unless all us carefree bachelors join you.”
“Well, if you had a wife, you wouldn’t have to take favors in food.”
“Just because a woman has different parts, Del, doesn’t mean she can cook.”
Delaney laughed, and toasted Saint with the rest of his beer.
“Looks like you’re a healthy young horse again, Joe,” Saint said, ruffling the towheaded little boy’s hair. “Not to worry, Jane,” he said to Joe’s mother, who was hovering behind him. “The lad’s just fine now.”
“Thank you, Saint.”
But Joe said, “I was hoping I’d get sicker. Mom said you might tell me why you’re called Saint if I was sick enough.”
“Maybe. No luck this time, Joe. What’s that delicious smell, Jane?”
“Bouillabaisse,” she said. “I heard you liked it.”
Saint, who was filled up to his craw with that particular dish, stifled a groan and forced an agreeable smile.
It was close to ten o’clock before Joe and his older brother, Tyler, were finally tucked into their beds upstairs. Saint leaned back in his comfortable chair, his half-closed eyes resting for a moment on Jane Branigan. She was a fine-looking woman, he thought, with her coal-black hair and chocolate-brown eyes. A bit on the plump side, perhaps, but he was a big man, with big hands. The unbidden thought of his big hands covering her ample breasts and hips made him smile and his loins tighten. A man with big appetites.
“I know what you’re thinking, Saint Morris!” Jane leaned down and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You haven’t a subtle bone in your big body.”
“Probably not,” Saint said with a lecherous grin. He pulled her down on his lap and laced his fingers together behind her back. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he felt himself harden in response. “You’re a fine woman, Jane,” he said, the words rumbling deep in his throat, and leaned her back against his arm to kiss her. She responded with endearing enthusiasm, as she usually did, and before long his fingers were caressing her bare breasts. “Nice,” he murmured. “Very nice indeed.”
He felt her press her buttocks downward against him, and smiled even as he kissed her again, quite thoroughly.