“Judith...push. Now!”

She reached up behind her and gripped the headboard of the simple oak bed, and, her teeth gritted and her face twisted in pain and exertion, she heaved with all her might. It wasn’t enough. He told her more. “Push,” he said. “Push!”

But she’d had enough. “Go to hell.”

She was utterly drained. For a moment, he let her rest. Her face grew strangely placid. Then her eyes focused on him, and she smiled and whispered, “This one’s for you, monk.”

And her body found the strength to push, to force out the tiny contents of her uterus, and the man she called the monk caught the blue, wet, bloody infant as she spurted out. A girl. She looked healthy, perfect. The placenta came easily. He cut the umbilical cord with a sterile knife and cleaned off the baby, wrapping her in a fresh cotton blanket.

He started to hand the infant to her mother, whose arms were reaching out for her, but suddenly she grabbed her stomach and she howled with pain, swearing viciously.

He gently touched her abdomen, and he felt the hardness, the lump of another tiny person still inside her. He told her, “You’re having twins, Judith.”

“Oh, God—oh, shit!” But in her agony, she smiled.

The baby came quickly, a boy, dark haired and perfect. Holding her infants, smiling, pale and spent, Judith named them Ashley and David.

It was the man who delivered them, the monk, who made the foot and handprints, but it was the actress, a few days later, who thought of the fictitious surname. “Wakefield,” she said. “Ashley and David Wakefield...for now.”

He was relieved that she saw the necessity of such extreme caution.

But her clear vibrant eyes focused on him. “I want my babies to have a good life. If anything happens to me...”

“No, Judith. Let’s not think of such things.”

She smiled. “You’re hardly one to talk, monk. This time, listen to me. If something does happen—and I don’t for a moment believe it will, but for God’s sake, I’m not a child anymore. I have to think of my children. If something happens, I want you to take Ashley and David away from all this. Raise them yourself. Let them lead good, simple, honest lives. I’ll provide for their futures, monk. You just get them into adulthood.”

He didn’t know what she meant. She was always planning and plotting, this beautiful woman of the cinema, this reckless, tireless heiress. “I will see that nothing happens to you,” he told her. “You will be able to raise your children yourself.”

“I know. But just in case.” Her expression grew even more intent. “Promise me.”

She was so tired. To ease her fears, he promised.

“Of course,” she said, smiling, “you’ll have to have a new name.”

“Of course.”

“That way the three of you can sneak away and no one will ever find you. You can be their...their uncle. And your name—” She paused, thinking. “It can be Bartholomew. Bartholomew Wakefield.”