Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (22 page)

He fisted the brass doorknob of the arched burlwood door, pausing to give her a sober stare. “Family, yes, but let’s be clear about something,” he said quietly. “
You
—and my nieces—are the only women I see or escort about town anymore, and I count it one of the greatest pleasures I’m privileged to have.”

Her eyes rounded in surprise before she laughed, the awkward sound indicating her disbelief. “Really, Logan, an eligible bachelor like you? That must break quite a few hearts.”

He opened the door with a slow push, fixing her with a steady gaze. “I hope not,” he whispered, stepping aside for her to enter. “I have no desire to break anyone’s heart ever again.”

With a shift in her throat, she nodded and hurried into the foyer. Turning with shoulders square, she held her head high in that regal way she resorted to whenever she struggled to regain control. “Thank you for the ride and for seeing to Alli’s safety. My children are blessed to have you in their lives.”

With a short bow, he gave a brief tip of his head. “Good night, Mrs. McClare. Tomorrow I’ll see you for dinner and cribbage.” Before she could close the door, he turned on his heel and strode to his car, the faintest of smiles curving on his lips.

And tonight?
I’ll see you in my dreams.

16

B
ut I don’t understand—why aren’t you going to teach Miss Alli anymore?”

Nick glanced up while he rolled the jiu-jitsu mat for the last time, heart squeezing at the solemn look in Lottie’s eyes. The little tyke sat cross-legged on the edge, the new blue serge “uniform” Mrs. McClare furnished sagging on her tiny frame as much as the sad expression on her face. He huffed out a sigh and continued rolling, nudging the rubber against her knees until a tiny smile crept across her lips. “I already told you, La-di-da—Miss Alli has learned everything she needs to know.” He bopped her legs several times, finally rolling the mat over her knees. “Now, unless you want to be a big bump in this mat, young lady, I suggest you get up so I can give you a horsey ride.”

She hopped up with a throaty giggle that made him grin, then promptly launched onto his back, clinging to his neck like a spider monkey to its mother.

“Hold tight, all right?” Tucking the mat under his arm, he rose and anchored her little legs to his chest. “Let’s get you home before Miss Penny whacks me with Miss Alli’s stick.”

Her giggle tickled his neck. “But aren’t we going to wait for Miss Alli?” she asked, digging her knees into his side to make him go faster.

“Naw—no telling how long it’ll take her to change. She has a tendency to dawdle—”

“I beg your pardon . . .” Allison stood in the doorway, arms crossed and chin high while a small hobo-style purse dangled from her wrist. The lavish silk bow on her straw hat was a pretty match for a fitted navy suit that more than complemented her curves. Reticule swinging in hand, she sauntered in with a cocky air that was purely for show, her flair for drama evident in every single thing the woman did. She slapped a hand to pearl buttons that meandered down a very distracting satin shirtwaist. “And
this
from the man who took a full two weeks to paint a single coat of paint on the back of the school,” she said with a plunk of hands to her hips.
Lush, slender hips, to be exact . . . leading up to a tiny
waist and—

Jerking his gaze away, he strode to the door.
Focus, Barone, and not on the dame.
Despite the heat creeping up his neck, he refused to be cowed, offering a tight-lipped smile while he and Lottie sidled past. “Only because the
drama
teacher
demanded stage scenery for a small hamlet the size of Rome.” His gravelly tone made Lottie giggle.

Allison spun around to follow, quickly locking the front door before racing to catch up so she could tickle Lottie, who immediately flailed heels into Nick’s ribs with a loud squeal. He wasn’t sure who was the bigger pain in his side, but he’d lay odds on Miss McClare. She darted past like the ruffians he’d seen in the hall before recess—skipping backward with a mischievous grin on her lips. “Come on, Detective Ga-roan,” she teased, “Mr. Bigley would have had the scenery built and the house painted in the time it took you to crawl up that ladder and back.” In a flash of teeth, she whirled around with her nose in the air, sashaying down the hall like she owned the place. His mouth crooked. And she did, he supposed, with as many hours as the woman put in, giving every moment of
her time and talents to the outcast children of the Barbary Coast. Lottie giddyupped his ribs with another squeal, and he shook his head, unable to stifle a grin. Holy thunder, what he wouldn’t have given to have a teacher like Alli when he was a kid instead of those crusty nuns. Lively, gorgeous, caring, and fun . . . even
with
a stick.

At the back door, the little imp had the audacity to pivot and smirk, butting the door with her backside to hold it open. “But then Mr. Bigley is probably
way
younger than you.”

His jaw ground despite his stiff smile. “I’m thirty, Miss McClare,” he said in a clipped tone, making sure the rubber mat swatted her as he swept by. “Bigley has me by ten years.”

“Only in age.” Locking the door, she bounded down the steps two at a time, nipping at his heels like Horatio when Nick gave Lottie “horsey rides” at home. “As far as crotchety, you have at least twenty years on him, Mr. Cranky Pants, a grouchy old man well before his time.”

Lottie giggled, bouncing without mercy. “Mr. Cranky Pants, Mr. Cranky Pants!”

Nick seared Alli with a look as she hustled up Miss Penny’s back steps to open the screen door, cheeks flushed with fun. She looked so adorable, he was tempted to grin, but he settled for his trademark scowl instead. “See what you started?” he groused, brushing past her into the screened porch area while Lottie rode him like a steer rider busting a bronc. “And for your information, Miss Talk-Often-and-Carry-a-Big-Stick, I am in a good mood most of the time unless needlessly provoked.”

“Excuse me, Mr. C.P.,” Alli said, following him into the kitchen, “but I believe it was your permanent grouchy moods that have earned you that title, am I right, La-di-da?”

“Right!” The little cowpoke kneed him for good measure with every rib-busting bounce.

“What’s right?” Denise asked, assisting Angi with setting the polished-oak table while Miss Penny retrieved two freshly baked loaves of bread from the oven.

“That Mr. Nick is a cranky pants.” Allison gallivanted past as if she lived there instead of him, reaching for Lottie, who immediately launched into her arms. She spun the little dickens several times before setting her down. “Face it, Nick Barone—you have one mood—crabby.”

A low chuckle rolled from Mrs. Lemp as she fried chicken that watered his mouth. “Oh, I don’t think that’s fair to say. Our Nicky has lots of moods other than crabby.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lemp,” Nick said with a thrust of his chin, slipping an arm to the old woman’s waist while Horatio snarled.

“There’s also testy, crusty, and cantankerous, just to name a few.” Peering up with laugh lines that fanned from teasing blue eyes, the cook pinched his cheek with a butterscotch grin. “Aye, but we keep him around ’cause he’s so lovely to look at, don’t ya know?”

Heat crawled up his neck, but he ignored it with a wry smile. “Appreciate the support, Mrs. Lemp.” He went for a drumstick, only to have Miss Penny thump the back of his hand.

“Oh no you don’t, young man, not before you’ve washed and we’ve said grace—”

“Hey, he’s not ‘young,’ ” Lottie said, cheeks as rosy as the bowl of apples Mrs. Lemp kept on the counter. “Miss Alli says he’s an old man.” She latched onto Nick’s leg, giving a delighted shriek when he bounced her in the air. “What’s
decrepit
mean?” she asked with a squeal.

“It’s a synonym for Mr. Nick,” Allison supplied.

“W-what’s . . . a sin . . . o-min?” Her voice wobbled with every bob of Nick’s shoe.

“You know, two words that mean the same thing, like Miss
Alli taught us last week.” Denise notched her chin, freckled face beaming with pride.

Nick shot Lottie in the air with a hard thrust of his foot, swooping her up and tickling beneath her arms. “Kind of like Miss Alli and the word
trouble
,” he said, smile atilt.

“All right, you two.” Miss Penny tugged Lottie from Nick’s arms with a smile. “We have mouths to feed, so wash up, please.” Setting Lottie on the counter next to the sink, she proceeded to wash the little girl’s hands with a soapy dishrag, shooting Alli a smile over her shoulder. “We’d love to have you stay, Allison, if you like—we have plenty.”

“Thank you, Miss Penny, but I actually have plans tonight.” Her gaze flicked to the chicken with the same look of longing as Nick before she headed for the door. “G’night, all!”

Stifling a groan, Nick snitched a drumstick on his way out. “Save me some chicken.”

Alli spun around. “Oh, no you don’t—your obligation officially ended with our last lesson. I am now skilled and perfectly able to take care of myself, remember?”

Drumstick lodged in his teeth, he held the screen door open with a roll of his eyes. “Not on my wasch, Mish McClare,” he said, voice nearly indistinct for the food in his mouth. He plucked the chicken leg out and motioned for her to go. “Your uncle hired me to teach and see you home until the last class, and that’s what I intend to do.” He sent Mrs. Lemp a wink. “Keep a plate warm, if you please, Mrs. Lemp, or I’ll be showing you ‘crusty.’ ”

A chorus of giggles and goodbyes followed them out the door as Alli shook her head, skittering down the steps like a frisky puppy in dire need of a leash. “Honestly, Nick, you don’t have to walk me home. All I really need are directions to Spanish Alley, and I’ll be fine.”

He froze on the steps—while the chicken froze in his mouth. “What?”

She turned at the bottom of the stairs, the picture of innocence. “I was hoping to visit a friend who has done our laundry for years now—Lili Chen. She lives on Spanish Alley, I understand, but she’s always picked up and delivered, so I’ve never actually been to her shop.”

The drumstick nearly crashed to the ground along with his jaw. “In Chinatown?” he rasped, choking chicken crust down before he sailed the bone into the trash barrel at the back of the yard. His eyes bulged as he wiped his fingers on his handkerchief, unable to comprehend this woman’s latest harebrained notion. “Are you crazy?”

The green eyes narrowed. “No, Mr. Pinhead, I’m not, but I have my suspicions about you if you think you can dictate where I may go.” The chin rose. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

He groaned, biting back the insult that hovered on the tip of his tongue. “I’m-sorry-Miss-McClare,” he enunciated in a clipped tone, careful to meet the terms of their truce, “but Chinatown is part of the Barbary Coast and far too seedy for you to go alone, remember?”

She blinked, obviously taken aback by this bit of news. She gummed her lips in thought. “Oh. I guess I forgot.”

He fought a grunt with a strain of his jaw.
Oh, big surprise.

Her chest rose and fell with a heavy draw of air before she expelled it again, tone considerably more amenable. “Well, then, if you don’t mind, Nick, can I trouble you to accompany me to Spanish Alley on our way home?”

“I mind,” he said in a near growl, steering her through the side alley to the front. “There’s no way you can go traipsing through Chinatown on social calls this time of night, so you may as well forget it.”

She balked with a dig of her heels. “And just exactly why not,
Mr. Barone?” The clipped use of his formal name gave fair warning her ire was on the rise.

He turned and parked hands low on his hips, feeling a bit of jaw-grinding coming on. “Because the sights you’re likely to see at night are not pretty, Miss McClare. There are brothels on every corner where women and little girls peer at you through iron-barred windows. Poor souls sold into prostitution at a young age and exposed to harsh treatment and disease.”

“Why, th-that’s n-nothing short of b-barbaric,” she stuttered.

He folded his arms, her rich-girl naïveté starting to rankle. “So is living in the lap of luxury on Nob Hill, Miss McClare, while children sleep in gutters with rats, but it happens.” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth when a sheen of tears welled in her eyes. Releasing a heavy exhale, he plunged his hands in his pockets, suddenly ashamed for the way he always harped on her wealth. As if she could help being born with a silver spoon in her mouth. “Look, Alli,” he said quietly, “I apologize for that last remark. It was . . .”

“Rude and unfeeling?” She blinked several times as if to dispel her tears, and he sighed again, wishing she didn’t elicit such protective feelings.

“Yeah, and ‘testy, crusty, and cantankerous,’ ” he said with a faint smile, hoping to coax a similar response. “Forgive me?”

She peered up beneath dark lashes spiked with moisture, those lush lips quivering into a smile so sweet, it took everything in him not to pull her into his arms and taste it for himself.

“On one condition.”

He couldn’t contain the groan this time. “What?”

She tilted her head. “Take me to Chinatown, please? Just once?”

“Allison, no—”

“But I’ve never been there before, Nick,” she said with that
little-girl plea that reminded him so much of Lottie. “And I need to.” Her voice trailed to a whisper. “To see the . . . degradation that some women are forced to live with so I can understand and maybe help someday.” She gave him a hopeful look, compassion literally burning in those deadly green eyes. “Please . . . ?”