Love at Any Cost (27 page)

Tears threatened and Jamie nodded before quickly looking away, unable to speak for the swelling of his throat. He closed the door and leaned against it, lids closed to thwart all moisture. Swiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he returned to his office and at least thirty minutes of work before he was expected at Patricia's house for dinner, something he wasn't looking forward to. He'd much rather be home with his mother and Jess, playing dominoes or whist after one of Mrs. Tucker's meals, as was his custom of late.
Or sparring with Cassie at the McClares' . . .
A heavy malaise settled on his shoulders—also his custom of late.

He dropped in his chair to stare at the deposition before him, head in his hands. But all he saw was Cassie—so sweet and sassy, his throat ached. Steeling his jaw, he forced himself to think of Patricia instead—beautiful, smart, and the daughter of
an influential man with ties to Cooper Medical. His eyes shuttered closed. Something he needed if Logan didn't come through.

“Soooo . . . you've certainly been making yourself scarce lately.” Bram stood, hands in his pockets and hip cocked to the door, studying Jamie through pensive eyes that spelled trouble.

Jamie stifled a groan, gaze flicking to the clock on his desk that registered almost six-forty-five. Which meant Bram should be long gone by now, on his way to wining and dining at the McClares'. Nausea roiled in Jamie's stomach—the same sick feeling he'd had for the last two weeks. “Too much to do,” he muttered, doing his best to focus on his deposition.

“Yeah, I know,” Bram said, strolling in with a casual air. He ignored Jamie's obvious attempt at being too busy and plopped in a chair, brown oxfords crossed on top of Jamie's desk. “Avoiding Cassie's a full-time job.”

Fingers kneading the bridge of his nose, Jamie huffed out a sigh. “Come on, Bram, I feel like garbage as it is—don't you have someplace else to be?”

Bram propped hands behind his neck, his eyes far more serious than his relaxed manner warranted. “Yeah, I do, Mac—the McClares'. Remember them?”

Jamie slapped the papers down on his desk. “Look, Hughes, I already told you—Cassie threw me out. She doesn't want to see me again, all right?”

“I got that, MacKenna,” Bram said with a squint, “it's the ‘why' that has me in a fog.”

A tic twitched in Jamie's jaw. “It's personal,” he bit out. “Just let it go.”

Bram arched a brow. “You're right, it is personal, especially when it affects people I care about, and no, I won't let it go.” He sat up and leaned in, feet back on the ground. “The McClares
are family to both of us, and what's going on here is taking its toll—on them, on Cassie,
and
on you.” With a quiet exhale, he sloped back in his chair. “Not to mention me.” He probed Jamie with a questioning gaze, concern etched into every wrinkle of his brow. “You're more of a brother than a friend, Mac, and I hate to see you like this.”

“I know,” Jamie whispered, near depleted as he sagged back in his chair. He massaged his temple with the pads of his fingers. “Me too.”

“So, what's going on? How do you go from being crazy in love with a woman one minute and then she's out of your life the next?”

Jamie winced, Bram's question a barb with deadly aim. His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh, eyes trailing into a glazed stare. “Not without a lot of pain, I'll tell you that.”

“So, why are you doing this? You were walking on air the morning after the Fourth in Napa—what happened to change your mind between then and now?”

“We're just not a good match, Bram,” Jamie whispered, closing his eyes to rest his head on the back of his chair. “Friends, yes, but not anything more. I'm not the right guy for her.”

“That's horse manure, Jamie, and you know it. I've never seen you happier than the last few months, falling in love with Cass.” He hesitated, his voice quiet. “Falling in love with God.”

Jamie's eyelids snapped up like a tightly wound shade. “Yeah? Well, there's no love lost between God and me now, Padre, so just lay off, will you?”

Hurt flickered on Bram's face, and Jamie felt like a heel.
So, what's new?
Venting with a loud exhale, he gouged his forehead with the ball of his hand. “Look, Bram, I'm sorry, but I'm worried about my sister right now, and frankly, I'd rather not discuss Cassie, if you don't mind.”

Bram studied him for painful seconds before rising. “I do, but I'm not here to sling guilt.”

The edge of Jamie's lip curled. “But you're so good at it, Hughes, almost no effort at all.”

A sad smile lined Bram's lips. “Not good enough, apparently.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “The real reason I'm here is to extend an invitation from Mrs. McClare herself.”

Blood warmed his face, Bram's “guilt” evidently not through with him just yet. “Sorry, Bram, can't tonight.”

“Why? Plans with the senator's daughter?”

More heat infused Jamie's cheeks. “Maybe.” He rifled through his bottom drawer for milk of magnesia, the acid in his stomach churning into high gear.

Bram exhaled, the sound depleted of all energy. “I suspected as much. So, tell me, Jamie—why would you throw over a down-to-earth woman like Cassie for a socialite like Patricia?”

“We're better suited, okay?” Jamie snapped. He upended the bottle, then capped it and tossed it back into the drawer.

“No, it's
not
okay.” Bram knuckled the front of the desk, his expression tight. “Something happened between Fourth of July weekend and now, and I want to know what it is.”

Jamie stared, pulse throbbing in his ears. He wanted to tell him it was none of his blasted business, but the dangerous look in Bram's eyes told him he couldn't damage their friendship that way. Bram had taught him long ago that one of the liabilities of having people who cared about you was telling them the truth because they mattered more than your pride. Muttering a rare curse, he blew out a wave of frustration and put a hand to his eyes. “I swear, Hughes, you're worse than a nagging wife.” He huffed out another sigh and averted his gaze, unwilling to look his best friend in the eyes. “I can't court Cassie because she's . . . ,”
he gulped, realizing just how shallow it would sound, “dirt poor,” he whispered, the very words making him feel like scum.

His statement was met by silence, and Jamie reluctantly lifted his gaze, his gut threatening to pull rank at the look of shock in Bram's eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Bram breathed.

Harsh air expelled from Jamie's mouth. “Cassie's father lost his fortune when his wells ran dry. She's not an heiress,” he whispered. “She might even be as poor as me.”

“Tell me you're joking.”

Annoyance pinched his brow. “No, I'm not—I found out the day I left Napa.”

“
No
,” Bram said with deliberate emphasis, “tell me you're joking about turning your back on Cassie—because she's
not
rich?”

Fire engulfed him. “That's right, Hughes, something you would know nothing about because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, so don't judge me.”

Bram rose to his full height, the tic in his hard-chiseled jaw a completely uncommon occurrence. “Judge you? I don't even want to
know
you, MacKenna.”

Jamie slammed his fist on the desk, eyes burning in their sockets. “I have never lied to you, Bram. I told you from the beginning I planned to marry well, and now you act like it's some big shock to your system. Before you judge me, why don't you live in the streets awhile, share space with rats and vermin in the Barbary Coast, watch your sister rot before your eyes from some godforsaken injury, and then you come back and tell me I'm wrong.”

Facial muscles sculpted tight, Bram seemed to wrestle with a scathing response, cheek pulsing. And then with a deep exhale of air, a calm settled that bespoke the godly man Jamie knew him to be. “No, Jamie, I won't tell you you're wrong,” he whispered,
“just misguided.” He looked up, face composed, but eyes dark with concern. “You're a smart man, Mac, but when it comes to the spiritual side of life, you are a lost soul and not all that bright. Because if you knew just how much God loves you, you would know you could have your dreams and Cassie too.”

Fury flushed through his body. “Yeah? And where's my sister in all of this, Hughes? Somebody's gotta save her because God sure hasn't. Only money and influence will, and Cassie being poor is just another example of God shortchanging me like he's done all of my life.”

“You know what I think?” Bram said quietly. “I think it has less to do with your sister, and more with your pride. A Barbary Coast street rat, determined to prove to the world he belongs on Nob Hill instead of the gutter, a man putting himself before the people he loves.”

“That's a lie,” Jamie hissed.

Bram hiked a brow. “Is it? Think about it.” He reached inside his suit coat and tossed an envelope on the desk. “Cassie asked me to give this to you. I think it's her way of trying to restore your friendship, although to be honest, Mac, at the moment, I'm not sure why she would even want to.” He strolled for the door. “I'll tell them you can't make it tonight.”

Jamie fingered the envelope, his name written in Cassie's graceful script. “Wait . . .”

Bram halted, back stiff at the door. “What?”

“Tell them I'll be there next week,” he said, body bent from the nausea roiling in his gut.

Nodding, Bram walked out, leaving Jamie to stew in his guilt. He reached in his drawer for more milk of magnesia and threw back several hard swallows.

“A man putting himself before the people he loves.”

Issuing a silent groan, he dropped his head in his hands. Bram's words gnawed inside his chest like the acid that ate at his stomach, and he wished more than anything he had a remedy to alleviate his pain. Because at the end of the day, he could coat his nerves with milk of magnesia. But there wasn't a whole lot he could do about shame.

 22 

B
oom. Boom. Boom.
The strike of the gavel reverberated in the meeting room of City Hall to finalize the prior motion, the very sound thudding in Caitlyn's heart at the same time.

Eleven male board members presided over tables draped with the city seal, expressions ranging from intense to comatose as they studied the agendas before them. Stomach quivering at the prospect of speaking, Caitlyn's gaze flicked to where Logan sat on the board. Eyes cool, he gave her a short nod, his stone face weakening her knees at the prospect of butting heads with him now while the goals of the Vigilance Committee hung in the balance. For the briefest of moments, she almost wished she'd succumbed to his advances in Napa for the sake of this sacred cause.

And yet, not.
Logan was a man used to getting his own way, but some things were simply not up for barter. Certainly not her heart, especially with a man she couldn't trust. She noted the steel glint in his eyes, recalled his cool manner the last few weeks and knew that when it came to Logan McClare, there was only one thing she
could
trust—he would fight her tooth and nail over the Barbary Coast. Just like she'd fought him tooth and nail in Napa.

“Ordinance amending the San Francisco Administrative Code
Section 10.82 approved and motion carried by the ayes.” The Budget and Finance Committee supervisor glanced at the clock on the wall, then peered at the paper in his hand. “Next item on the docket, Vigilance Committee proposal presented by board president, Mrs. Caitlyn McClare.”

Caitlyn slowly rose to her feet, grateful she could stand despite the wobble of tendons at the back of her knees. Murmurs skittered through the hall, an unwelcome reminder that women had no business chairing a board, much less addressing the Board of Supervisors. Two points she had debated ad nauseam with Walter and the board, to no avail.

“Now, Cait,” Walter had said earlier with a reassuring look that missed the mark, “Liam still has friends on the board and as Liam's widow, so do you. Not to mention your brother-in-law, who is sure to throw his weight your way.”

Caitlyn smoothed her skirt to deflect the tremble of her hands.
Not likely—a
wounded ego hardly makes for a cozy endorsement.
She felt the gentle pat of Walter's hand and slid him a nervous smile, his presence a stabilizing force.

“You'll be fine,” he whispered, “trust me. Just be yourself, and your honesty and sincerity will win them over.”

“Mrs. McClare?” The president adjusted his glasses. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Caitlyn returned his smile, then scanned each face, stopping short of Logan, whose dour look did nothing for her confidence. “Gentlemen, thank you for allowing me to address the board this evening on a matter of utmost importance to the success and welfare of our great city. As I speak, degradation runs rampant, both in our city and in the lives of thousands of women who sell their bodies in the vilest of circumstances in the cribs and cow-yards of the Barbary Coast. Not only has this area become a
debilitating stain on a city destined for greatness, but a stain on the very soul of every human being caught within its tentacles of sin and corruption. Benjamin Estelle Lloyd was correct when he stated that ‘the Barbary Coast is the haunt of the low and the vile of every kind. The petty thief, the house burglar, the tramp, the whoremonger, lewd women, cutthroats, and murderers,' all thriving in a cesspool of dance halls, concert saloons, gambling houses, brothels, peep shows, and opium dens.”

Caitlyn rose up tall, legs weak but voice strong as she addressed the board, conviction ringing despite a tone that was humble and low. “A cesspool, gentlemen, that I'm afraid we've allowed far too long. Edmund Burke stated ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing,' and I hope and pray each of the good men on this board will join forces with the Vigilance Committee to do something rather than nothing to protect our city.”

A smattering of applause broke out, buoying her spirits as well as her shoulders. Replenishing with a deep draw of air, Caitlyn laid out the board's plan—a three-phase strategy she hoped they would consider due to gradual implementation that would give both the board and the city time to adjust. “Phase one,” she began with a lift of her chin, “will focus on closing two of the biggest blights on the Coast, the Nymphia and the Marsicania brothels. As you may or may not be aware, gentlemen, the Nymphia's 450 ‘residents' are required to remain . . . ,” Caitlyn swallowed hard, unable to prevent her tongue from stuttering over the next word, “. . . n-naked at all times in order to . . . e-entertain their c-customers, both those in close p-proximity and those who pay to watch through plentiful peepholes provided.” Heat broiled her cheeks as her voice weakened to a mere rasp, the clearing of throats from several board members clear indication she was not alone in her embarrassment. “And then, of course in conjunction
with the esteemed Father Terence Caraher, we hope to dismantle the Marsicania as well, which opened last month.”

Despite frowns and awkward looks from the board, Caitlyn continued to present phases two and three, encompassing a time period of two to five years when all businesses in the Barbary Coast would have to comply with stringent guidelines mandated and upheld, she hoped, by the Board of Supervisors. “Gentlemen,” she said in conclusion, “the Vigilance Committee has prepared a detailed brief on the plan itself, which Mr. Walter Henry will distribute to each of you at the close of this meeting. Please feel free to contact me or any of the board members with questions or concerns you might have.”

Logan leaned forward, and goose bumps prickled Caitlyn's flesh at the glint of challenge in his eyes. “Radical and abrupt changes such as you propose, Mrs. McClare,” he said slowly, emphatically, “often do more damage than good in an undertaking of this magnitude, polarizing many who believe the Coast provides needed tax revenue.”

Silence cloaked the room with unease so palpable, Caitlyn could taste it along with the bile in her throat. Steeling both her jaw and her nerve, she met his cool gaze with a steady one of her own. “I suspect, sir,” she said quietly, “that given the chance, most decent people would concur revenue obtained through debauchery is never ‘needed'—nor wanted—at all.”

She ignored the ruddy color that bled up Logan's neck and pressed on, desperate to deflect his disapproval. “That said, sir, I assure you most heartily that the Vigilance Committee has worked diligently to ensure this plan is neither radical nor abrupt, building in graduated time tables and sound provisions we believe will grow tax revenue rather than diminish it.”

Arms on the table, Logan slanted in with a hard smile that
quickly braised her cheeks. “Excuse me, Mrs. McClare,” he said, his manner far more relaxed than the look of defiance in his eyes. “I believe the appropriate word is ‘restrictions' rather than provisions. Restrictions I fear may trample the civil rights of legitimate businesses in an effort to eradicate the unsavory ones.” He patronized her with a paternal tilt of his head, causing her to bristle. “You understand, of course, Mrs. McClare—the danger of throwing the baby out with the bathwater?”

“Only if the ‘baby' is prone to licentiousness and obscenity, Mr. McClare,” she said carefully, “which is seldom the case when one is innocent, wouldn't you agree?”

The gavel hammered. “Thank you, Mrs. McClare, we'll take this under advisement,” the president said with a stiff smile. He dismissed her with a cursory nod and continued with the next course of business while Caitlyn slowly slid into her seat, knees all but giving way.

“You were wonderful,” Walter whispered, and Caitlyn offered a weak smile, barely hearing another word spoken until the gavel sounded moments later to dismiss the meeting.

“Can I give you a lift, Caitlyn?” Walter asked, helping her on with her wrap.

“No, thank you, Walter, Hadley is waiting outside.”

He leaned to embrace her. “Well, then, good night, my dear. You had them eating out of your hand, you know,” he whispered, sending a fresh rush of blood to her cheeks.

Her chuckle did not echo the confidence in his tone. “Eating certainly, Walter, but it remains to be seen whether that is out of my hand or chewing me up and spitting me out.” She linked her arm with his and headed for the door, her body weak from relief that the ordeal was finally over. A smile crooked on her lips. “Either way, I fear I'll have indigestion.”

His laughter boomed in the high-ceilinged corridor of City Hall as he escorted her to the front door. “Nothing a bromide can't cure,” he remarked with a smile. “Good night, Caitlyn.”

“Good night, Walter.” Heaving a heavy sigh, Caitlyn made her way to the Packard.

“Cait!”

Her eyelids flickered closed before she pivoted at the curb, said indigestion roiling at the sight of Logan striding her way. She lifted her chin, brows arched in question. “Yes, Logan?”

He halted mere inches away, so close another step would send her tumbling from the curb. “You handled yourself well in there,” he said, breathing winded as if he'd run all the way.

“Really? I didn't get that impression.” She smiled. “At least not from you.”

She watched a nerve pulse in his cheek, the grinding of his jaw, signs he was attempting to contain a temper she knew that he had. His smile seemed forced—like every conversation they'd had since Napa. “Come on, Cait—this isn't a sewing circle here, this is the government body for the city of San Francisco. I'll give no preferential treatment just because you're family.”

She blinked up with a sad smile, fighting the pull of late whenever he was near. “Of course not. Just if I'd said yes in Napa . . .”

The plains of his face hardened. “You don't belong in politics, Cait.” His whisper was harsh. “If you would just trust me, I'd fight this battle for you and win. But, no, you have to push in a time frame that isn't right, when too many on the board oppose what you're doing.”

“Including you?”

He hesitated, the look in his eyes confirming her question. He huffed out a sigh and gouged his forehead with the span of his head. “Blast it, Cait, people have investments. Not just me,
but almost every man in that room tonight, and a woman can't just waltz into a Board of Supervisors' meeting and expect them to see things her way.”

“Even if it's the decent thing to do?” she whispered, fighting the sting of tears.

He stared at her long and hard, facial muscles sculpted tight. “Even if it's the decent thing to do,” he repeated, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You're certainly proof of that.”

His words stung, conjuring unwelcome memories of Napa.
“No, Cait, the decent thing to do is to forget the past and admit you're in love with me.”

“I have to go,” she said too quickly, turning to the Packard as Hadley stood at the door.

Logan grasped her arm before she could get in, voice as strained as the fingers latched to her cloak. “Don't expect me to side with you on this one, Cait.”

She paused, eyes trained on the dark hairs on the back of his hand. “No, Logan,” she said quietly, “I would never expect that from you.” Slipping into the car, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the seat.
Or on anything . . . ever again.