Love at Any Cost (2 page)

She would
.

Jamie MacKenna dialed the Blue Moon Bar & Grill and leaned against the glass wall of the mahogany phone booth inside Oakland Pier station, feeling as stripped of his pride as the booth was stripped of its polish—weathered, splintered, and as tired as he. Eyes closed, he waited for his boss to answer the phone, wondering what in blazes he'd done to earn the royal shellacking from the Queen Mother. A corner of his mouth hooked at the memory of the pretty little rich girl who'd fallen hard, but not over him, apparently—a situation he seldom encountered, if at all.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as the phone continued to ring, properly humbled by the woman's distaste for him. At twenty-five and newly graduated from Stanford Law, he was used to a warmer reception from women—a lot warmer, as a matter of fact—and although the petite blond was pretty in a cute and clumsy kind of way, she certainly didn't compare to some of the women who vied for his attention. A slow exhale breezed over his lips. Although never had he seen more unusual eyes—the color of his favorite green agate marble as a boy—like pale green jade, hypnotic, mesmerizing, fringed with honeyed lashes as thick as her Texas drawl. He frowned, aware he was still thinking of her, which meant the little spitfire had wreaked havoc on his emotions, a reaction that both annoyed and appealed. He flapped the front of his Oxford shirt in an attempt to cool off, giving the testy little princess credit for one thing: she sure knew how to spike a man's pulse.

She was obviously one of those nose-in-the-air rich girls with a vendetta against men, smacking of wealth and privilege in her expensive suit and top-of-the-line luggage. He shook his head. Although a socialite in cowboy boots was a first. He exhaled loudly, grateful he'd never have to see her again. Rejection had a
way of piquing his interest, enticing him to do what his friends Blake and Bram claimed he did all too well—charm a jury, win a lost cause, lift an underdog so high, he'd think he could fly. “I swear, Mac, you could coax a jury into acquitting Jack the Ripper,” his best friend Bram Hughes always said, and Jamie had to admit it seemed to be true. Whether it was his innate desire to please, the warm smile he'd inherited from his mother, or the strong angular jaw from an alcoholic father now dead and gone, he wasn't sure, but people—especially women and juries—seemed to like him.

“Blue Moon.”

His boss's voice jolted him back. “Hey, Duff—is my mother still there?”

“Sure, Mac, hold on.”

Jamie loosened his tie, throat so parched, he wished he had one of Duffy's fountain Dr Peppers, the only drink he ever touched whenever he was in a bar. He waited while the sound of ragtime filtered through the phone with a familiarity that felt far more like home than the ramshackle flat he'd once shared with his family in the same neighborhood. Back then, they'd lived in a sleazy cow-yard of the Barbary Coast—a brothel with an apartment building above—until Jamie went to work on the docks at the age of twelve after his father drank himself to death. Desperate to get his mother and sister out of the slums, he worked additional jobs, supplementing his mother's meager seamstress income and a stipend from his aunt. Pride swelled when they finally moved out of the red-light district and into a boardinghouse in a respectable neighborhood several blocks away.

It'd been a struggle excelling at his studies—first in college and then in law school—while tending bar two nights a week, weekends at the Oly Club and Saturday mornings keeping books at the Blue Moon. Yet somehow he'd managed to win more mock
cases than anyone in his class, a fact that made his mother proud. A pride hard-earned by the sweat of his brow and that of his mother, who now also worked as a cook at the Blue Moon.

He heard the crackle of the receiver as somebody picked up. “Jamie?”

“Hi, Mom—I just put Sara on the train to Tulsa.” He glanced at his watch. “The schedule says she'll arrive by Monday at two, so can you let Aunt Sophie know when you call?”

He heard his mother's sigh of relief. “Yes, of course.” She hesitated. “It's been a long time since your sister enjoyed herself like she did with your cousin here.” Her voice wavered enough for Jamie to notice. “Thank you for switching your shift at the Oly to take Sara to the station. You're a good brother, Jamie, and I hope your boss will understand.”

A good brother?
Jamie's gut clenched.
Hardly. Then Jess wouldn't be crippled.
He forced a casual tone. “Mr. Burke gives me free rein, remember?” He paused, head bowed and eyes focused on a cigarette butt on the floor. “How's she feeling today?” he asked, hoping against hope she would say what he wanted to hear.

She took too long to answer, and he winced at the cheerful voice she always resorted to when she didn't want him to worry. “Tired, but that's to be expected with Sara's visit.”

“And the pain?” He closed his eyes, dreading his mother's answer.

Longer pause. “We had to use the last of the laudanum,” she whispered.

He put a hand to his eyes. “I'll stop by Doc Morrissey's on my way home.” Sucking in a deep breath, he shifted his focus. “Did you bother to eat today?”

“Yes, son, before I came in to work. Toast and tea, then Duffy's dumplings later,” she said quickly, as if desperate to put his mind
at ease. A hint of a tease seeped in as she switched roles to become the mother. “And you?”

He managed a smile. “Like a horse—leftover meat loaf from yesterday's blue plate special, which, by the way, was some of your best. Duffy says if I keep it up, he'll dock my pay.”

The lilt of her laughter thickened his throat. “Well, you better get back for your shift or he's liable to follow through.” She hesitated. “I love you, Jamie,” she whispered, and the rasp of those gentle words nearly sparked forbidden moisture in his eyes. “No mother could have a better son, nor Jess a better brother.”

“Love you too, Mom.” He gouged at a pain in his temple, wishing more than anything Jess were well and he could put them both in a house on Nob Hill. His eyes flickered closed.
Where they belong
. “I'll bring you and Jess dinner when I get off.”

She laughed. “No, don't spend the mon—”

“It's Thursday, fried chicken special at the Corner Bar, Jess's favorite, so don't argue.”

“You've gotten very pushy now that you're a lawyer.” Her voice shimmered with pride.

“Let's hope,” he said, teeth gleaming in the glass of the windowed booth. “We both know I won't get that house on Nob Hill with my looks.”

“Oh, I don't know,” she teased, and it felt good to laugh with his mother.

“Love ya, Mom. See you at seven.” He hung up the receiver and smiled, almost oblivious to the hum and buzz of the station as his words circled in his brain.
“Won't get that house on Nob Hill with my looks.”
He peered into the glass, noting the flicker of a muscle in the hollow of his cheek. His lips clamped into a hard line that carried the faint bent of a smile.

Wanna bet?

 2 

S
orry we were late, Cass, but Market Street was a zoo.” Allison McClare plopped on the lavender canopied bed in the spacious guestroom where Cassie would stay for the summer, obviously unconcerned about wrinkling her full-length chiffon dress. She lay on her side, elbow cocked and head in her hands. “It was awful—a horse and buggy reared when a Benz truck tried to outrun a cable car. Hadley braked so hard, I almost ended up in his lap in the front seat of the Packard.” Her lips took a twist. “Which wouldn't have been the first time since the poor dear is near deaf and can barely hear shouts or horns, not to mention he forgot his glasses—
again
.”

Cassie grinned. “How is sweet Hadley? Rosie still picking on him?”

Her cousin chuckled. “Of course, although not as much as she picks on Uncle Logan, for pity's sake.” She shook her head. “Goodness, maybe it's just men Rosie can't abide because she sure rides Uncle Logan without mercy. But dear Hadley?” There was a smile in her tone, laced with affection. “The sweet man's only sin, apparently, was being Uncle Logan's butler growing up, yet he takes Rosie in stride, as usual. I feel so sorry for him because Mother had to rig this thunderous gong in the kitchen when
the doorbell rings, which annoys Rosie to no end.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, Hadley's vision isn't much better, so Mother sent him to the optician to get glasses as thick as soda pop bottles.” She giggled. “Makes his eyes look three times their size and rather like the sweetest owl. Of course, he misplaces them a lot, which drives Rosie absolutely crazy when they work in the kitchen. But he's such a dear, nobody minds if he can't see or hear or runs late.” She paused, grating her lip with an impish smile. “But then . . . it rather sounds like this is one time ‘late' may have been a good thing . . .”

An armful of dresses in hand, Cassie slid her cousin a wry look on her way to the wardrobe, lips swerving off-center. “Absolutely. A potent reminder of just
why
I left Texas.”

“Mmm . . . just how potent are we talking?” Mischief tipped the edges of Alli's rose-colored lips while green eyes twinkled, the exact color of her delicate jade earrings, another gift from Nana. Soft strays of ebony curls from her upswept Gibson Girl hairstyle framed her face, a perfect complement to cream-colored skin. A summer breeze fluttered both her curls and her sheer, ruffled sleeves while sunlight blazed through French doors overlooking a garden where pink rosebushes wreathed an Aphrodite fountain.

Hefting the clothes with a grunt, Cassie hung them in the wardrobe with a roll of her eyes, determined that Alli understood loud and clear men were
not
on her list of sights to see.
Especially pretty men.
“Too potent for his own good, and ours, I can tell you that. A pretty-boy yahoo with dark, curly hair, chiseled jaw, hypnotic eyes, and more ‘mussels' than San Francisco Bay.” Cassie shivered. “Sweet Texas tea, it's enough to drive me into a convent.”

Alli chuckled and rolled over, head on a plush eyelet pillow. “Probably not—I'm pretty sure they don't allow boots, lassos, or spurs.”

“Or blue jeans and a Stetson,” Cassie said with a scowl. She fingered a coiled rope in the bottom of her suitcase, rubbing the smooth hemp between forefinger and thumb. A smile tugged at the sudden thought of “Pretty Boy” all trussed up like a steer. Closing her eyes, she imagined breathing in the sweet smell of hemp and home, and instantly tranquility flooded. Quirky certainly, and maybe even a little bit odd, but nothing calmed Cassie like the feel of a lasso in her hand. Since her father had taught her to rope a fencepost at the age of four, she'd been a little girl who snuggled with a lariat at night rather than a blanket or bear, preferring tying knots and rope tricks to baby dolls and tea parties. The edge of her mouth crooked. And it had certainly come in handy once or twice with boys who had taunted her as well. Her smile went flat. Too bad Mark had gotten under her skin before she could hog-tie him and send him packing.

Alli jolted up, nose in a scrunch. “Wait—
please
tell me you did not bring that nasty old rope with you all the way from Texas. For mercy's sake, Cass, heaven knows where it's been!”

Cassie's eyes narrowed as she hugged the lariat to her chest, chin high. “You're lucky I didn't bring my Winchester, Allison ‘Priss' McClare, and this top-grade piece of hemp has been with me since I was a tot, I'll have you know—in my bed at night and on my hip at the ranch.”

Allison's smile tipped. “Yes, I know, Annie Oakley—you slept in my bed many a summer, remember? But good gracious, Cass, I'd rather my cousin not smell like a horse.”

Grazing the rope to her cheek, Cassie drew in a deep breath filled with the smell of horse and hay and
home
. She blinked, desperate to dispel the moisture beneath her lids, but it was no use. The fight leaked from her voice as a tear leaked from her eye,
stealing her trademark spunk. “It calms me, Al,” she said quietly, fingering the twine. “Makes me feel safe and in control.”

Sympathy radiated from Alli's eyes. “Something you didn't feel with Mark, I guess?”

“No,” she whispered, chest constricting at the memory of Mark asking for his ring back, robbing her of her future as well as her heart.

“Well, you can't convert,” Alli teased, obviously trying to lighten Cassie's mood. “No convent would take a nun who smells like a horse and has a lariat on her hip instead of a rosary.”

Cassie's smile rebounded, as dry as her tone. “Wish I'd had the rope on my hip at the train station, I can tell you that,” she muttered. “Would've lassoed Pretty Boy and tied him up nice and neat with a pretty, little bow.” She fumbled with the buttons of her infernal high-necked shirtwaist. “And at least hiding away in a convent is better than being a sitting duck for some fortune-hunting man.” She heaved a weighty sigh before slipping the blouse off and sailing it toward a purple velvet settee. “Or maybe I should say ‘sitting pigeon' given these ridiculous pigeon blouses we're forced to wear. I'd like to wring Charles Gibson's neck for turning us all into air-deprived Gibson Girls.” She huffed. “
Along
with that pretty-boy polecat at the station. No doubt he's another louse like Mark Chancellor, and obviously not very bright.”

“You don't know that,” Alli said with a grin.

“Oh, yes I do.” Cassie issued a grunt. “Expecting me to swoon over a two-timer like him? Humph! Face it, Al—I've always been good with numbers, and trust me—I had his the minute he asked me to lunch. Like Daddy says, the boy's plumb weak north of the ears.” She flopped down on the bed, and before she could rein them in, more tears glossed in her eyes. “Botheration, Al, why do men have to be such rats?”

Alli shifted to face her. “They're not all rats,” she said softly, giving Cassie's arm a gentle squeeze. “Blake's not too bad for a brother, you know, and he's got a couple of dreamy friends that are really nice. And then there's Uncle Logan . . .” She paused, a wrinkle wedging her nose. “Although I suppose he's not the best example since he is still single and a bit of a rogue.” She puffed out a sigh. “But even so, he is pretty wonderful, so not all men are rats like Mark.”

Cassie loosened the buttons of her voile skirt, a wry tilt to her lips. “Maybe not, but a Texas-size rat like Mark has a way of curbing a girl's interest in any man.”

“Mercy's sake, I hope not.” Alli sat straight up. “I've got an itch for adventure this summer, Cass, and I need you to be focused and engaged.”

Cassie arched a brow.

“Whoops. Sorry,” Alli said, offering a feeble grin. “Poor choice of words.”

A wispy sigh drifted from Cassie's lips. “Well, I'll go where you want me to go, Al, but don't expect me to turn on the Texas charm for any of the Romeos you have in mind.” She shimmied off both her skirt and several layers of petticoats, pitching them on top of the blouse. “The idea of flirting with a man right now is as blasted uncomfortable as these ridiculous female trappings.” She scooted around, her back to Alli. “Here—untie this silly S-curve corset Mother made me wear, will you? Sweet suffering saints, why do women put up with these things?”

Alli's low chuckle blew warm against Cassie's neck. “To turn heads, Cass,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “and trust me, with this gorgeous flaxen hair of yours, your dainty figure, and those mesmerizing green eyes, you are going to turn aplenty.” She wrinkled her nose. “That is, if I can manage to hide the boots.”

“Don't you dare touch my boots!” Stays loosened, Cassie immediately gulped in a deep draw of air before pumping it out again. “Besides, the only male head I want to turn right now is Mark Chancellor's.” Her smile was devious. “Preferably with a slap of my dainty hand.”

Alli's laughter filled the spacious bedroom with a musical sound, warming Cassie inside as much as the hazy shafts of sunlight that streamed through the French doors. Her cousin gave her a playful squeeze of her neck. “Well, trust me—we are going to do everything in our power to see you have a wonderful summer and forget all about Mark Chancellor.”

“Who?” Cassie said with a tight hug. “I barely remember the sorry excuse for a man.”

“Good!” Alli bounced up. “Because your total lapse of memory begins at dinner tonight.”

“What?” Cassie jolted up. “Wait—it's just family tonight, right?”

Alli spun around without answering, hurrying to rifle through her cousin's dresses until she found one of the fussy evening gowns Cassie's mama had forced her to pack. “Here we go,” she said with a bright smile, holding up a sea-foam green taffeta Mama swore matched the pale green of her eyes. “Mother thought it might be fun to dress up for your first night, so this is perfect.” She gnawed on her lip. “Of course you'll have to wear the swan-bill corset . . .”

“Perfect-for-what?” Cassie enunciated carefully, quite certain she didn't really want to know. “Or maybe I should say for ‘whom,' because I refuse to truss up like a show horse.”

“Come on, Cass,” Alli said with a pout. “You're my best friend and I've missed you. It's your first night in San Francisco in forever, and we just want it to be special. Is that a crime?”

Cassie drew in a calming breath and released it in a show of
humility. “Okay, okay . . . I'll wear the stupid dress and straitjacket corset, only
please—
tell me it's only family tonight.”

“Absolutely,” Alli said with a flourish, laying the whispery pale-green dress on the bed. She stood up straight with a gleam in her eye, hands clasped behind her back. “After all, Bram is a fourth cousin, and Jamie spends so much time here, he's practically family anyway.”

The blood leeched from Cassie's face, no doubt tingeing her skin the same seasick green as the dress.
Oh, good—a perfect match.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her words were a rusty rasp like Daddy's cowhands the morning after a night in town. “J-Jamie? Bram?”

Alli all but preened, the same mischief in her face as when she used to dare Cassie to join her on forbidden adventures. “Oh, you remember Bram—you met him briefly the summer we went to Europe. He and Jamie are Blake's best friends. Trust me, you're going to love them.”

“Trust you?” Cassie croaked, eyes narrowing considerably. “You were the one who saddled me with Theodore Swaller at your eighteenth birthday party, if you recall.”

“Oh, boo, that's right.” Alli scrunched her nose, then quickly dismissed the incident with a wave of her hand. “Well, don't worry, Jamie and Bram are both taller than you, neither has lazy eye, and you know,” she said with a finger to her chin, “I don't think there's a single pimple between the two.” She squinted in thought. “At least I don't think so . . .”