Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (9 page)

His eyelids snapped up. “What?” he croaked, wincing when the grip man bellowed the next stop.

“This is history and culture at its finest, I’ll have you know. Why, that was home to
The Golden Era
,” she explained with a waggle of her purse in the building’s direction, “the city’s most important literary journal. Goodness, Mark Twain was a frequent contributor and so was author poet Bret Harte, who not only worked as a typesetter there, but penned his first poem in that very building.” They passed the Golden Era Building, and she dropped back onto the bench with a heady sigh, hands clasped on the leather purse in her lap. “Good gracious, do you have any idea how thrilling this is for an English teacher?”

He stared through glossy eyes, mouth gaping. “Not a clue.”

She offered a sheepish smile. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

His lips quirked in one of the few smiles she’d seen on his face all night. “I think that was established when I broke your stick, Miss McClare.”

Her smile faded to shy. “Allison,” she whispered, suddenly painfully aware of his muscled arm pressing against hers and
those long legs sprawled so close to her skirt. She peeked up beneath her lashes, able to see every dark whisker peppering his hard-chiseled jaw. “It appears some of the color has returned to your face, Mr. Barone. Are you feeling better, I hope?”

“Nick.” His whisper was almost intimate as his eyes locked with hers, their intensity draining the air from her lungs. His gaze lowered to her lips for a stutter of a heartbeat before it rose again, tumbling her stomach with his faint smile.

She quickly averted her gaze, deflecting the heat in her cheeks with nonstop chatter as the car rumbled on the rails. “California Street!” the grip man shouted, and Alli shot to her feet. “That’s m-my s-street,” she muttered, wobbling as the cable car slid to a halt.

Heat scalded her skin when Nick braced her with a firm hand. “Steady there,” he said, face suddenly pasty as he peered up the steep and ever-climbing blocks of California Street that led to her home on Powell. “We have a ways to go—especially since we’re going to walk.”

“Walk?” She whirled around on the step of the car. “But this is the best part—scaling those wonderfully steep hills via cable car. Why, it’s almost as exciting as the roller coaster at Ocean Beach!”

“Yeah? Well, this isn’t Ocean Beach, Miss McClare, it’s a rickety cable car jerking up the hill, rattling my bones every time it jolts to a stop. No, thank you. If I’m seeing you home, we’ll scale by foot.” He hooked her arm to help her down, then sucked in a deep breath when his feet hit the sidewalk, exhaling slowly while a grin inched across his face. “My first—and last—cable car ride, unless somebody puts a gun to my head.”

Giving a little skip, she laughed and twirled on the sidewalk, head back and arms free as she spun, reveling in the glow of the
melon moon overhead. “Oh, come on, you big sissy, it wasn’t that bad, admit it.”

He arched a brow, hands buried in his pockets. “So we’re back to that again, are we? Maybe I’m not the juvenile delinquent you are, Miss McClare, ever think about that?”

“And maybe you spend so much time being a grouch, Mr. Cranky Pants, you don’t enjoy things like wind in your face or a sky heavy with stars glittering over the most beautiful city in the world.” She hugged her shawl close, breathing in deeply as she walked backward to face him, eyes drifting closed. “Or revel in the intoxicating scent of jasmine as it drifts by on a sweet breeze from the bay.”

She stumbled on a crack in the walk, and he lunged to grab her, stabilizing her with two hands to her waist. “Speaking of intoxication,” he said softly, hands lingering while his voice lowered to husky, “I believe the jasmine may be making you tipsy, Miss McClare.”

“Sweet mother of mercy,” she rasped, grateful no streetlamp was close enough to illuminate the hot flush in her face, “I best keep my eyes on the sidewalk, I suppose.”

“And your hand on my arm,” he added with a dry smile, crooking his elbow.

“Thank you . . . Nick.” She glanced up, studying him through curious eyes. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you, you know, about being afraid of the cable car. I just find it rather curious that an armed officer of the law would be afraid of something so harmless.”

He slid her a sideways look with the barest of smiles. “Harmless to you, maybe, but you weren’t pushed down a steep street in a pram by a wicked cousin at the age of two.”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh, Nick, truly?”

“Yep. Flew through the air like a trapeze act gone awry, limp as a rag doll and bloodied up good. To this day I refuse to ride anything that can careen down a hill. Near broke my skull.”

“Merciful heavens, you fell on your head?” She paused, palm splayed to her chest and eyes warm with mischief. “So
that’s
what happened!”

His gaze narrowed, but it didn’t hide a spark of humor. “That explains my fear of cable cars, Miss McClare, but not your sassy mouth.”

She tilted her head, eyeing him with a smirk. “I’m afraid that’s nothing more than raw, unadulterated talent, sir, laced with a bit of temper.” A sobriety settled as she averted her gaze to the street, her voice suddenly softer than before. “But I do apologize, Nick, for treating you like a pompous, pigheaded, overbearing baboon.”

His laughter was low and gruff, the sound warming her body more than the shawl. “And I apologize for treating you like a spoiled, stubborn, simple-minded snob.”

Her smile bloomed. “Well, see? Then I guess we were both wrong.”

He grunted. “Not about the stubbornness, I suspect,” he said with a droll smile.

“Mmm . . . you may be right.” She closed her eyes to breathe in the familiar scent of the sea and the faint charred smell of cable car brakes. “Oh, I just adore San Francisco,” she whispered, drawing in a whiff of something she’d never noticed before—sweet, like the incense at church. “Oh my, that smells nice, what is it?”

Nick’s mouth crooked. “Opium, Allison, more addictive than food.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, a knot shifting in her throat. Her gaze snagged on a street sign, and instantly her focus shot down a narrow cobblestone road. Adrenaline rushed through her veins
as her eyes expanded wide. “Stockton Street? Wait—that’s Chinatown!” she breathed, heart thudding in her chest. “Oh my, I’ve always wanted to visit Chinatown, but Mother never let us.” Heels skidding to a stop, she whirled to face Nick, a plea in her tone. “Oh, Nick—do you think we could stroll through, just once, so I can see what it’s like?”

His profile stiffened along with his grip on her arm. “Forget it—your mother was right. Chinatown is no place for a naïve woman from the upper class. It’s not a pretty place.”

“But I wouldn’t be ‘naïve’ if I had the chance—”

“No,”
he said with stern emphasis, his halt on the street so abrupt, she wobbled on her feet. “Or don’t you know what that means?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know what it means out of the mouth of a pompous, pigheaded, overbearing baboon.”

His broad shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh as he slacked a hip, dropping his hold to gouge the bridge of his nose. “Look, Allison,” he said, his manner considerably softer, “I promised Miss Penny I’d see you safely home as quickly as possible, and I assure you, a detour through one of the worst neighborhoods in this city is neither safe nor quick. Not to mention the fact that it’s well after dark and you are already late getting home.”

It was her turn to sigh, disappointment lacing her tone. “I suppose,” she whispered. Her gaze darted down Stockton where a beehive of people buzzed and milled on a cobblestone street lined with tall, ramshackle buildings. Groups of men dressed in dark shift-like jackets congregated in front of storefronts with wooden awnings and massive glass lanterns, their strange dress and exotic faces enticing her to explore. Another wispy sigh left her lips. “I’ve read all about it in books, but I’ve so longed to see it for myself.”

“Well, this is its border, so take a good, long look, Miss McClare, because it’s likely all you’ll ever see as long it’s one of the highest crime areas in the city.”

She picked up her pace as he tugged her on, his words sending a shiver down her spine. The comforting sound of a church bell suddenly pealed in the air, and her gaze flicked to the old St. Mary’s Cathedral looming just ahead. Its Gothic brick bell tower rose like a beacon of hope. “‘Son, observe the time and fly from evil,’” she said softly, the inscription under the clock face imparting new meaning. “I suspect that was aimed at those tempted to frequent the bars and brothels in this area.”

“No question about that.” Nick’s voice took on the same hushed note as hers, as if the presence of a cathedral amidst this downtrodden section of the city demanded a reverence that even sin couldn’t deny.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, their breathing more labored as they climbed the steep hill. Closer to Nob Hill, block after city block of meticulously manicured homes began to appear, their lush yards edged with trees and shrubs. Lamplight cast an ethereal glow while locusts and tree frogs provided a summer symphony backdropped by the fading music of the Barbary Coast. A sudden longing arose in Allison to explore this city she loved by night. To stroll the streets on foot rather than peering from the backseat of the Packard. A thrill surged at the thought of doing just that down Market Street, with its imposing wall of skyscrapers like the twelve-story Flood Building or the historic Palace Hotel. An adventure all her own where she could be an integral part of the sea of pedestrians who darted to and fro, oblivious to the blare of horns and clang of cable cars. Or even to revel in the beauty of Union Square by moonlight, one of her favorite places in the entire city. Her
excitement rebounded as she tugged on Nick’s coat. “Do you know how Union Square got its name?” she asked, a schoolteacher quizzing her student.

“No,” he returned, that secretive smile back in place. “How did it get its name?”

“It was built and dedicated by San Francisco’s first American mayor, John Geary, in 1850, named for the violent pro-Union rallies that took place here before and during the Civil War.”

“You’re quite a history buff.”

She tipped her chin and offered a shy grin, certain she was glowing more than the streetlamp overhead. “And, I’ll have you know, I sat in the very first row when the Dewey Monument was dedicated by President Roosevelt in May.”

“My, my, but we do rub shoulders.”

She giggled. “Well, Uncle Logan is on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, of course, so naturally we all sat up front.”

“Naturally,” he muttered, his tone sharper than before.

She glanced up to see a nerve flicker in his cheek, and for some reason, it dampened her mood. Shaking it off, she continued, trying to make light out of his obvious disdain for her uncle. “Goodness, one would think you bear a grudge against either the president or my uncle.”

He grunted. “Well, not the president, that’s for sure. I served under him in the war.”

The whites of her eyes grew. “You fought in the Spanish-American War?” she whispered.

He slid her a sideways glance. “First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry.”

The hinges of her jaw dropped again, Nicholas Barone apparently full of surprises. “Oh my stars—you were with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders?” she breathed, his stature suddenly soaring as high as the ninety-seven-foot naval monument
in the middle of Union Square. “Sweet heavenly days—the Rough Riders are legendary!”

The plane of his handsome face softened with a hint of sadness as he studied her through somber eyes. “No, Miss McClare,” he said quietly, “just angry men who hate injustice.”

Angry
men.
Allison fought the inclination to shiver, thinking that described Nicholas Barone a little too well and wishing she knew why.

“Well, you’re not breathing too hard,” he said, neatly changing the subject when they reached Powell where she lived. “That is, for one who just scaled one of San Francisco’s tallest hills.” He nodded behind where the city sprawled out before them in an inky sea of lights that matched those glimmering on San Francisco Bay. “But then I guess heights don’t bother you living all the way up here on Nob Hill, not with these stunning views.”

“No, they don’t,” she whispered, quite sure that when it came to heights, she could handle Nob Hill and more. But Nicholas Barone? She peeked up at his chiseled profile, his towering frame putting a crick in her neck while her stomach did a little loop. She swallowed hard, well aware she’d be wise to protect both her head and heart when it came to the handsome detective. Because despite the stunning views, she knew all too well—heights like
that
could make a girl dizzy.

8

R
ich dames,” he muttered, shooting a narrow gaze over his shoulder at the fancy glass door of the three-story mansion where he’d just dropped off Allison McClare. Cuffing the back of his neck, he issued a harsh grunt and lengthened his strides, desperate to escape the spell of a pretty schoolteacher he had no desire to know better.

Liar.

Okay, okay, desire, maybe, but definitely the wrong kind, prompted by green eyes that sparkled and hair as black as night. His mind strayed to her lush pink lips and that sassy little mole that hovered so very close—like he craved to do—and knew he needed to put as much distance between Miss McClare and himself as humanly possible. His mouth crooked as he bounded down the patterned brick steps flanked by roses and boxwoods. Distance, right.

Like another state.

His legs and fingers twitched as he waited at their curb for a Mercedes-Benz motorcar to pass, determined not to go down
that
road again. A nerve flickered in his jaw. Not the one that led to Nob Hill—the one that led to getting mixed up with a spoiled society princess used to getting her own way. Nope, he’d already
learned that lesson the hard way and wasn’t interested in another crash course from some la-di-da teacher. The Mercedes chugged by, and Nick loped across the cobblestone street that might as well have been paved with gold for all the wealth lining its curbs. True, Allison McClare didn’t strike him as the type of spoiled daddy’s girl who’d betrayed him back in Chicago, but Nick was in no mood to take any chances. Miss McClare may pose as a caring philanthropist, deigning to reach out to the disadvantaged and poor, but he knew better. Society dames like her never gave anything of themselves without ulterior motives. His lips took a twist.
Except grief
and plenty of it.

“Barone!”

His muscles calcified to stone when his shoe hit the sidewalk across the street. Nerves taut over the mispronunciation of his name, he peered over his shoulder at an imposing silhouette looming in the doorway of the McClare mansion, light blazing around it like the second coming.

“I need answers,” the shadow said in a near growl, “
now
.”

Choking back colorful commentary, Nick didn’t know so many muscles could twitch in a body at one time, but if there was anyone who could set his teeth on edge, it was Logan McClare. And quite frankly, after a grueling day, he just flat out wasn’t in the mood. He kept walking.

“Another step, Barone, and I’ll have your badge.”

Nick halted, the urge to spit in McClare’s eye so strong, saliva pooled in his mouth.

“Swear to me, Nick, now—
that you won’t rock the boat. We can’t
afford to tip our hand—the payoff is too big . . .”
Nick’s eyelids weighted closed at DeLuca’s parting words, causing a cramp in his side.
Blast you, DeLuca . .
.

“Inside, now!” The command hung in the air like a threat long
after McClare slammed the front door. Nick sucked in a heavy dose of air, fists clenched as he exhaled his fury in a questionable word muttered beneath his breath. Gouging the back of his neck, he stalked across the street, taking his time to mount the steps to the burlwood and glass door he would have bludgeoned with his fist if the archaic butler hadn’t opened it first.

“Good evening, Mr. Barone,” the man said with a polite nod of his head, no ill feelings evident in his tone or manner from that first day they’d sparred at the school.

“Matter of opinion.” Nick strode into the foyer. “And it’s Barone, long
e
,” he snapped, jerking his hat off his head.

“Right this way, sir.” The butler—Hadley, was it?—offered a courteous smile.

“Thanks,” Nick mumbled, feeling a prick of guilt over his curt tone. After all, it wasn’t this poor joe’s fault that Logan McClare was a pompous idiot.

“Mr. Barone,” Hadley said, pronouncing his name with a dignity few people ever did.

Hat in hand, Nick charged in, well aware of Allison sitting ramrod straight on the edge of a love seat, eyes downcast and cheeks blooming bright red while she fiddled with her nails. He honed in on Logan McClare, who stood bent over the fireplace to light a cigarette, his back to Nick. “What do you want, McClare?” Nick bit out, his temper as hot as the tip of McClare’s cigarette.

The supervisor turned, exhaling a rush of smoke that filled the room with the scent of wood spice and chocolate, and Nick instantly craved one of those Turkish cigarettes Darla had given him for Christmas. Too deuced expensive for his tastes—like Darla had been. He glared at McClare with as little civility as possible.
Figures.

“My niece tells me you escorted her home,” he said smoothly, assessing him through eyes that glittered with as much suspicion as Nick’s. “Thank you.”

Nick refused to respond and Logan nodded to the empty sofa while he settled into a cordovan easy chair, his manner cooler, calmer than Nick tended to be when the two butted heads. “Have a seat, Mr. Barone, please. I assure you, I’ll make this brief.”

“Ba-ro-ne,” Nick ground out. “Long
e
.”

Logan ignored him with a deep draw of the cigarette before resting his arm on the chair, studying Nick through a curtain of smoke. “Why so late and why did you escort her at all?”

Nick stared. “Excuse me?”

“Uncle Logan, I already told you, I lost track of time and—”

“I understand, Allison,” Logan said in a far softer tone, the concern in his eyes obvious. “And you also explained that instead of calling a taxi, you opted to board a common cable car in the worst part of town, something I can hardly believe your mother would allow.”

A knot shifted in her throat before she met her uncle’s gaze with a repentant one of her own. “She doesn’t know,” she whispered.

Logan glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Yes, well, she will soon—Rosie tells me they’ll be home shortly. But that’s not my chief concern at the moment. It was a foolhardy decision to take the cable car—”

“Uncle Logan, please, let me explain—”

The tenderness in his eyes cooled a degree as he halted her with a look. “There will be time enough when your mother walks through that door, young lady, but right now, my concern isn’t with you taking the cable car or even Mr. Barone escorting you to the cable car stop in the worst part of town.” His eyes frosted to ice as they returned to Nick, tone scathing. “What I want to
know, Mr. Barone, is why my niece’s usually meticulous appearance is so disheveled?”

Allison’s gasp echoed in the room while Nick shot to his feet, blood blasting his cheeks. “Just what are you accusing me of, McClare?”

Logan rose to meet him, jaw to jaw, the tic in Nick’s temple keeping time with the one in McClare’s cheek. “Why don’t you tell
me
, Mr. Barone, since my niece’s hastily pinned hair and disheveled shirtwaist suggest she’s been manhandled—”

“Uncle Logan, no!” Allison thrust herself between the two, facing her uncle with palms to his chest. “My shirtwaist got soiled when I fell outside the school, and the cable car blew my hair into disarray, that’s all—”

“No, that’s
not
all,” Nick spit out, determined somebody in this hoity-toity household should know the truth. Heaven knows someone needed to keep an eye on Allison McClare, because she obviously couldn’t be trusted to take care of herself. “Your niece was—”

She wheeled to face him so quickly, he caught the scent of lilacs while she pleaded with her eyes, hands folded to her chest. “Too clumsy for words,” she said in a rush, her wide stare imploring his silence. “Poor Miss Penny had to clean me up and enlist Mr. Barone to accompany me home, so we owe him our gratitude, Uncle Logan, not our accusations.”

Logan gripped her shoulders, pivoting her to face him. “You’re telling the truth?”

She nodded, black curls bobbing in affirmation.

Nick’s gaze trailed from those lustrous locks chaotically reclasped with a gold hair clip, down a shapely silk shirtwaist and fancy cashmere shawl, and knew she was nothing but a magnet for trouble in the streets of the Coast. Oh, she’d hate him if he
spilled her secret, no question, but that was for the best anyway because he sure welcomed the distance. He ignored the twinge in his gut that told him he was making a mistake getting involved with this family, but it was clear somebody needed to save Allison McClare from herself.

He steeled his jaw, pretty sure enmity with a rich dame who raced his pulse was far safer than friendship. “She’s lying through her teeth,” he said calmly, boring into Logan’s eyes to make sure he knew he was telling the truth. He ignored her gasp when she whirled to glare, and continued to speak in a curt tone. “She was accosted by two men outside the school who, I assure you from daily reports at the precinct, would have raped, robbed, and left her for dead if Miss Penny hadn’t intervened. And if you don’t believe me, tell her to take off her shawl.”

Tears glittered in her eyes. “How could you?” she breathed.

“Allison?” Her uncle’s voice was sharp. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing,” she cried, lips quivering as she seared Nick with a look.

Tired of her games, Nick blasted out an impatient sigh and jerked the edge of her shawl, prompting her shocked cry when he yanked it clear off her shoulder to reveal the torn sleeve. “She was mere seconds away from being raped,
Mr. McClare
,” he said, his statement as harsh as the look in his eyes, “and somebody in her family needs to be aware of that.”

Wet fury glinted in her eyes. “You promised!”

“I didn’t promise anything, Princess,” he said, his words a near snarl. He forced himself to be hard and callous in the face of an attraction he knew would bode him no good. His lip curled in a sneer. “I just let you talk your fool head off, so you never even noticed.”

Another gasp rent from her lips right before she hauled off and stomped on his Italian oxfords, gaping his jaw. “Get out!” she screamed, raising her heel to bludgeon some more.

“Enough!” her uncle shouted. He spun her around, hands gripped to her shoulders while a nerve pulsed in his temple. “Is this true, Allison? Were you accosted?”

“I . . . I was, Uncle Logan, but I fended them off with the hat pin you gave me for Christmas, I swear!”

Nick’s laugh was not kind. “Sure, right after Miss Penny chased them away with her shotgun.” He faced Logan dead-on, turning a deaf ear to the ragged breaths that sputtered from his niece. “Face it, McClare, your niece is a loose cannon who needs to be kept on a chain.”

“Oooooooh, that’s it—where’s my hat pin . . .” She rushed to retrieve her hat, fumbling wildly to remove the pin while her face was as red as the scarlet rose that bobbled on top.

She lunged for Nick, and Logan whisked her away with a hook of her waist before she could inflict damage. “Behave, young lady!” Logan said sharply, flinging the pin in her hands onto the coffee table while the little brat flailed and pleaded to poke Nick just once. “I suggest you take your leave, Mr. Barone,” he said, his demeanor decidedly cool, “before I unleash my niece. Your honesty is appreciated, but your insults are not welcome here.”

Nick grunted and slapped on his Homburg. “Don’t have to ask me twice, because pardon my rudeness, but I want nothing to do with either you or your niece.” He stormed for the door, halting long enough to toss one final insult over his shoulder, hoping to ensure Allison McClare would hate him for life. “She’s nothing more than a spoiled brat who needs a firm hand,” he called, punctuating his statement with a hard slam of the door. He plunged his hands in his pockets and descended the steps,
grateful to close the door on any chance of a relationship with another society dame.

A firm hand
. He issued a grunt that might have been laced with a smile if he wasn’t so riled, then grunted again. Or better yet, firm handcuffs.

Preferably without a key . . .