Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (16 page)

She jerked away, eyes burning from the anger that seethed inside over Allison’s deception. “Lies, omission of the truth—it’s all the same thing, Logan, and you know it. She did nothing but whitewash the truth, leading me on to achieve her own end.”

“My thoughts exactly . . . ,” he whispered, lifting her chin to capture her gaze with his own. A mix of humor and affection sparkled in his eyes. “Not unlike you when you found the ‘most perfect Victorian’ for your new school ‘just down the street from a lovely neighborhood.’ ”

Heat burnished her cheeks as she pulled from his hold. “It
is
close to a lovely neighborhood,” she insisted, warding off the truth of his statement with a tight fold of her arms.

His rich laughter burst the bubble of her pride. “As are most of the neighborhoods in our fair city, Mrs. McClare, only this one happens to border the worst.” He shook his head and reclined against the settee, his arm straddling the back once again. “Face it, Cait—Allison is a chip off the old block, and you’re not going to be able to stop her from going wherever she wants any more than I could stop you.”

She turned away in a huff, chin high as she stared into the manicured backyard now bathed in moonlight. His throaty chuckles coaxed a reluctant smile to her lips and she pursed them to thwart it, head cocked as she studied him through narrow eyes. “I hate it when you’re right,” she muttered, wishing her stomach didn’t flutter when he grinned at her like that.

“I’m right about more than you know, Mrs. McClare,” he
whispered, his grin fading into a tender smile as he grazed a thumb against the silk of her sleeve. “You just don’t know it yet.”

She shivered and backed away, arms folded in emotional barrier against Logan’s affection . . . and the annoyance of her growing need for his touch. “So now I know why the stakes are high, but I still don’t know why you need control of Mr. Barone.”

The pin-striped silk of his waistcoat rose and fell with a heavy breath, his four-in-hand tie slightly off-kilter for the meticulous Logan McClare. His gaze held hers for several seconds, quickening her pulse. “Because I had to bribe and bully the man to take the job.”

“What?” She sat up, shocked that the affable detective she’d chatted with in her school office for over an hour needed to be bribed to take a job he seemed more than willing to take on. “I don’t understand—Mr. Barone was most agreeable to any task I’d assign.”

Logan’s lip quirked. “I credit you with that, Cait, because the man not only hates me, but he despises anything associated with wealth.” He paused to give her a half-lidded stare. “And that includes my wealthy niece from Nob Hill.”

Caitlyn blinked, the notion of anyone despising Allison too foreign to comprehend. Full of life and drama, her beautiful daughter had always been popular at school and within social circles as well, sought after equally by both suitors and high society. “But if he doesn’t like Allison, why on earth would you want him to teach her jiu-jitsu?”

He exhaled a harsh breath, the steel glint in his eyes matching the iron clamp of his jaw. “Because he’s just what we need—strong, tough, and bullheaded enough to deal with Allison, and yet angry enough at the upper class not to be a threat.”

“A threat?”

His mouth leveled into a thin line. “The last thing we need is some penniless womanizer cop who breaks hearts for a living falling in love with Allison and breaking hers too.” His gaze shifted to the backyard where moonlight spilled across the lawn, the set of his jaw clear indication he blamed himself for Allison’s heartbreak over Roger Luepke. “Barone is safe because he’s all we need him to be—protector, teacher, and the one man other than Roger who Allison can’t abide any more than Barone can abide her.”

Caitlyn frowned. “Allison can’t abide him? Goodness, she barely knows him.”

He turned back, his lips slanting into a hard smile. “Oh, she knows him all right, and she’s carrying a monumental grudge because he spilled the truth about the attack, which, I might add, she had no intention of telling either of us about, at least not right away.” He sat back and huffed out a sigh. “So between Allison’s grudge against Barone and his grudge against me, Allison, and anyone who lives on Nob Hill, they’re a perfect match for our purposes.”

“But I live on Nob Hill, and Mr. Barone was perfectly charming to me,” she said with a crimp of brows, reflecting on how gruff Nick Barone had been when he’d first arrived at her door, a scowl so deep she’d felt sure it was permanent. And then somehow the conversation had strayed to how much she loved Miss Penny and her girls, and what a blessing it was to have them as neighbors. Before she’d known it, her usual decorum and calm had bubbled into excitement over working in tandem with Mercy House to provide love and opportunity for needy young women. In the twitch of a muscle in his sculpted cheek, Nick Barone’s near sneer had slowly dissolved into a faint smile that eventually grew as warm as his eyes when he talked about Miss Penny and her girls.
The man clearly had a soft heart beneath that crusty exterior, something that had impressed Caitlyn far more than his police credentials or other skills.

“Everyone’s charming to you, Cait,” Logan said with a wry smile. “For one of the wealthiest and most influential women in the city, you are the kindest and least pretentious human being I know, so I’m not surprised Barone responded well to you.”

She peered up, nose in a scrunch. “I like him, but I get the sense you don’t. Why?”

Logan exhaled a weary breath, the question seeming to sap his strength. “Barone and I butted heads in a Board of Supervisors meeting over a misunderstanding with Chinatown awhile back. I think he blames me for the death of a young boy during that spate of riots that broke out when the quarantine was in place.”

Caitlyn nodded. “I remember the incident well,” she said quietly, grateful the quarantine of Chinatown had been lifted and strides were being made in containing the plague. She looked up. “But you had nothing to do with that—that was the Board of Health’s decision.”

“That’s not how Barone sees it. He blames the Board of Supervisors—and me in particular after we clashed in that meeting. Accused me of being in Gage’s hip pocket and supporting both the quarantine and Gage’s denial of the plague.”

“But you and Henry Gage aren’t even friends anymore.”

“That doesn’t seem to matter. In his eyes, I’m as corrupt as Henry by association, even though I’ve never agreed with his politics.” He huffed out another sigh as he kneaded the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried to clear the air, but he’s worse at holding a grudge than Allison, and you know how angry she is at men right now, especially after that last debacle.”

A feathery sigh withered on her lips as her gaze trailed into a
stare. Yes, she knew. After several failed engagements to men who lied and cheated, Allison’s vendetta against men had grown bigger than her heart, it seemed. She glanced up at Logan, her stomach clenching at the guilt that weighted his shoulders. “You’re not responsible for the pain inflicted by Roger, you know,” she whispered, well aware Logan blamed himself for introducing the two.

His chest rose and fell with a heavy exhale. “No, but I am responsible for safeguarding my family—both at Liam’s request and because of my deep love for each of you, making sure the men who come courting aren’t charlatans and frauds.” His eyelids lifted to pierce Caitlyn with a telling resolve. “Never again will I allow my nieces to court a man unless I know everything about him and his intentions.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered, her heart lighter at the thought. “You’re a good uncle and a dear friend, Logan, and I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

His smile returned. “Well, I don’t intend for you to ever find out, Cait. I’m here for the long haul—friends forever, remember?”

A smile lifted the edges of her mouth. “Yes, friends forever.” She breathed in a heavy dose of the cool night air, so very grateful for Logan’s intervention on behalf of her daughter. Her mood turned melancholy, and she buffed her arms as if to chase it away. “I won’t lie, though—it’s been painful to see Allison so wounded and bruised these last six months. It’s not who she is, and it breaks my heart.”

He squeezed her hand. “She’ll rebound, Cait. She’s like her mother, remember?”

Glancing up, her eyes met his, and reading between the lines of his statement, she knew full well that Logan regretted his betrayal years ago as much as she. Maybe more, she realized, seeing a familiar hint of sorrow shadowing his gaze. “I believe
that,” she said with a slow nod of her head. “And sometimes all it takes is the right man to heal the hurt, like Jamie with Cassie.”

“Or Liam with you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with regret.

“Yes, like Liam with me.” Her eyelids drifted closed as she thought of the man who had healed her heart and eventually made it his own. “We were good friends, your brother and I,” she whispered, aching at the sweet memory of all they had shared. “Friendship was the perfect prelude to a lifetime of joy.”

Logan stood to his feet and extended his hand with a tender gaze, his firm hold helping her to rise from her seat. “Well, that’s certainly my hope as well, Mrs. McClare,” he said softly as he offered his arm, his veiled reference to the future quickening her pulse. She thought she’d made it clear last year that there was no hope for them together as man and wife. But she sensed Logan clung to the idea that friendship would eventually lead them there, and a shiver skittered her body despite the warmth of his hand. He seemed to have forgotten her primary reason for turning him away when he’d asked her to marry him that night in Napa.

“I swear to you Cait—I
will be faithful.”

“No, Logan, you can’t. A man
of your habit and ilk can’t be faithful without
God.”

“I believe in God, Cait.”

“No, you believe in
yourself first, God after. There’s a difference.”

Now, in the dark of night, she peeked at his profile as he chatted and escorted her to the door, and despite his intense loyalty and attentiveness to her and her family, she knew that very difference still stood in the way.
An insurmountable difference
, she thought with a sharp pang of regret as he ushered her inside. And the very reason she’d never give Logan McClare the chance to betray her again.

12

W
hy
the
devil
did
I
say
yes
?

Nick scowled, pausing in his restless stride across the Hand of Hope gymnasium to gouge the back of his neck.
Because I had no choice—McClare put a
gun to my head.
He muttered and continued to pace, wishing he could teach the supervisor a few lessons in jiu-jitsu instead of his powder-keg niece, whose fuse was lit every time Nick opened his mouth. But no, the telegram DeLuca sent had been clear: bide your time—payoff is coming. He grunted. And a far bigger payoff than McClare could ever dole out, that’s for sure. A heist bigger than anything the society bigwigs had pulled off, robbing them just like they’d robbed him. And then he’d finally be free to start over somewhere else, far from the tentacles of crime that kept him bound and gagged and shackled to the likes of Logan McClare.

And his beautiful pain-in-the-posterior niece.

He glanced at his watch and huffed out a noisy breath, wondering how long it took for a society dame to change into something “suitable.” Speaking of which . . . He peeled off his coat and four-in-hand tie, tossing both over a stack of wooden chairs he’d cleared away at the front of the stage, then loosened the top two buttons of his stiff, high-collar pin-striped shirt that had once been crisply
laundered and ironed by Miss Penny. Rolling up the sleeves, he strode across the rubber pad in his dark socks, warming up with squats and lunges that helped loosen muscles sore from nights on the beat and a long day at the beck and call of the Hand of Hope School. Flynn had been none too happy to lose his partner most of the day and forced to work more nights than he liked, but Nick wasn’t exactly euphoric either, although he suspected working for Caitlyn McClare would prove considerably easier than dealing with her daughter.

It wasn’t difficult to see why Logan McClare’s manner had softened considerably when he’d called her “one of the most remarkable women you’ll ever meet.” In some ways she reminded him of how Gram might have been as a young woman—gentle, serene, and yet with a quiet spunk that indicated a spine of steel lay beneath that beautiful façade. During their first conversation last Friday, he’d noticed this breathless, little-girl quality about her when she spoke of her dreams for the school or how her eyes lit up when students had peeked in to say goodbye. Throughout the day, he’d watched her giggle and tease with the children as they tromped through the halls, as if she were a little girl herself. He shook his head with a faint smile. Or how she’d all but glowed in his morning meeting with her as if nothing were more important than chatting with him. Like she was a student herself rather than mistress of a school catering to the poorest of the poor.

She kept him busy most of the day with ongoing tasks, but always asked with humility and grace. Never ordering or demanding as he’d expected given the high-society matrons he’d known and despised. No, Caitlyn McClare was a rare woman of privilege who treated others with dignity and respect no matter their station, an assessment that put him in the unlikely camp of Logan McClare on one point at least—she truly was a remarkable woman.

As is her daughter.
His mouth skewed. Remarkably stubborn, remarkably rude, remarkably bad-tempered, remarkably big chip on her shoulder . . .

And remarkably pretty?
His lips clamped tight. Unfortunately, yes. He could deal with the rest easily enough, but the attraction he’d felt since the moment they’d clashed on that very first day grated on his nerves, making him skittish. Especially since he’d made the mistake of nearly kissing her senseless a few weeks back, although she was already most of the way there on her own with her foolhardy notions.
Stupid, stupid move, Barone.
Now whenever he’d seen her in the hall today or worked on an odd job in her classroom, his gaze would stray to the fullness of those maddening pink lips or the glint of sunshine against lustrous black curls. He hated how those wispy tendrils teased the back of her neck, leading his gaze astray with a silk bodice that tapered into a tiny waist before it flowed into the gentle curve of her hips.

No!
He dropped to the mat and started pumping some push-ups hard, muscles straining as he counted out loud, racking them up to keep from thinking about
her
. Society dames were nothing but poison, and this one was the absolute worst. She’d beat him to death with her stick, no doubt, then poison him with her lies just for good measure.

Probably worse
than Darla—

“Ahem.”

He paused mid-push, arms bulging from the weight as he stared, wishing he had time for about a thousand more. Especially the way she looked right now.

Her cheeks glowed a soft pink at his bold gape, and she chewed on the edge of her lips. Nervous fingers tugged at the poufed skirt of her bicycle bloomers, as if desperate to stretch it below the knee all the way to her blue-stockinged ankles. It was a serviceable
navy-blue bicycle outfit with long sleeves, belted at the waist with a double-breasted bodice—all the rage with the upper class who’d taken to bicycling like ducks to water. He bit back a smile at the pert straw hat with matching band atop her head and slowly rose to his feet, fighting to maintain a stern expression as he perused her head to toe, hands on his hips. “Take the hat off,” he ordered, refusing to teach jiu-jitsu to anyone wearing ribbons and straw.

“Pardon me?”

He nodded at her head. “The hat—we’re not bicycling through Union Square, Miss McClare, we’re learning self-defense. You need to be unencumbered for freedom of movement.”

She blinked, a long sweep of black lashes fanning her face. “But . . . but . . . I’ll always be wearing a hat, won’t I?” she said in a rational tone. “I mean, if the need for self-defense should arise?” He could almost feel the flutter of lashes. “Shouldn’t I learn the same way?”

His jaw started to grind. “Not in my class, lady. Take it off.”

Her jaw elevated at least an inch. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

He kneaded his temples with his fingers, counting to five slowly before finally peering up. “Take it off, Miss McClare—
now
.” He forced the next word through clenched teeth. “Please.”

“Certainly,” she said with a bright smile, unpinning the hat from her head. She carefully laid it aside and turned to face him, hands clasped behind her back. “Shall we begin?”

His gaze dropped to her flat leather shoes. “You’ll need to take off your shoes as well.”

She arched a brow.

“Please,” he said sharply.

“Why?”

Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose, smothering a groan. “Miss McClare,” he said, glancing up through tired
eyes, “we both have had a long day, and I have a long night ahead. It would go so much easier for both of us if you would simply defer to me as the teacher in this class just like your students do with you.”

“But even I tell my students why, Mr. Barone,” she said softly.

He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “All right, Miss McClare, point taken.” He slacked a leg, hands low on his hips. “Whenever I teach a class to the officers within the precinct, I ask them to remove their shoes to avoid wear and tear on the mat, which is very expensive, you see, and socks or stockings help to keep it clean.”

“Well, now, see?” she said sweetly, promptly slipping off her low-heeled shoes. “That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Thank you.”

Yeah, perfect sense.
He issued a silent groan.
Unlike this class.

She carefully tiptoed over and tested a toe on the rubber mat like she was taking a dip in a lake before slowly inching in to stand before him, hands clasped behind her once again.

He stared down at her as she peered up, her green eyes calm for the moment as they peeked up beneath a heavy sweep of lashes. In her stockinged feet, she barely came to his shoulders, and he shook his head, a smile inching up on one side of his mouth. “Blue blazes, woman, you’re a little mite of a thing, you know that?”

She arched a brow, the barest semblance of a smile shadowing her lips. “But big enough to whop you with a stick, Mr. Barone.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said with a short bow at the waist. “I guess I should be grateful you didn’t bring it.”

She returned the bow. “No need, it’s right down the hall.”

“Thanks for the warning.” His lip curled as he took a step back. “First we limber up with warm-up exercises, loosen those muscles, if you will.” He demonstrated with his hands on his hips while he performed several squats. She followed suit nicely
as they continued to a count of twenty. Next he ran her through the paces with leg lunges and several sprints around the room.

Ten minutes later she was leaning against the wall with a palm to her chest, huffing and puffing. “I . . . already . . . know . . . how . . . to . . . run, . . . Mr. . . . Barone,” she said in between breaths, a hint of irritation in her voice.

With a jerk of his head, he motioned her back to the mat, grinning when she huffed out a sigh and shuffled over, lips compressed as she stood before him.

Tempering his smile, he folded his arms and gave her a half-lidded gaze. “Basic rules,” he snapped. “No striking, punching, or kicking unless part of the exercise. And no eye gouging, hair pulling, twisting, or grabbing fingers, understood?”

A hint of a smile twitched on her face. “Sure, take away all my fun.”

The corner of his mouth hooked. “And no sticks, though I know that’ll break your heart.”

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I do,” he said with a swerve of lips before his eyes turned serious. “All right, ma’am, instead of a regular class where I teach you all the basic moves like I would with the officers in training, I’m going to focus on instructing you in various threatening scenarios. Since the most likely advance of danger will come from an arm choke from behind, I’m going to teach you a series of moves to counter it, all right?”

She nodded, eyes wide as she fiddled with her nails.

“First off, I’ll show you the steps by having you choke me from behind, which,” he said with a teasing jag of his brow, “should thrill you to no end.” He grabbed one of the chairs from a nearby stack and placed it on the mat, then tapped the back of it. “Hop up here.”

Her lips thinned.

“Please,” he said quickly, quite certain she’d have him trained
way
before he trained her.

Carefully placing her palms on the seat, she positioned a tiny stocking-clad foot on the edge of the seat and made a shaky attempt at rising with dignity, taking so long that Nick blew out a noisy breath and plucked her up by that tiny waist to plop her on top. She spun around and slapped hands to her hips. “I am perfectly capable of scaling a chair, Mr. Barone.”

“I’m well aware, Miss McClare, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to finish sometime tonight.” He slowly turned his back on her, never more grateful she didn’t have a stick. Limbs loose at his sides, he butted up to the edge of the chair. “Now choke me from behind with one arm, okay?” His voice veered toward sarcastic. “And try not to enjoy it.”

He waited. Nothing. Nerves twitched everywhere in his body until a lightbulb went off in his brain as if Miss McClare were dangling it overhead herself. He huffed out a sigh. “Please.” A slow smile curved on his lips when a blue sleeve cautiously curled around his neck, then instantly froze at the press of her body against his. The scent of lilac water and Pear’s soap wreaked havoc with his pulse, and he gulped, hoping she couldn’t feel the jerk of his Adam’s apple.
Focus, Barone
.
He cleared his throat. “Good. Now the first thing you want to do is grab the attacker’s arm around your neck with both hands and pull down like this.” He tugged, then proceeded to softly jab her with two elbow thrusts to her side, grinning at the mouse squeak that feathered his ear.

“First step, pull down, second step, a double elbow to the attacker’s side . . .” He promptly stamped his foot behind, and another squeal sounded when he wobbled her chair. “Third step, a quick stomp on the attacker’s foot and then you step forward and turn . . .”