Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (4 page)

“You spoil me, Rosie.” Her mother nodded when Hadley approached with the pitcher of tea, awarding him a bright smile. “Thank you, Hadley—just in time for our toast.”

“Yes, miss—and would you like butter with that toast?” Hadley said with a short bow, awaiting further direction.

Caitlyn’s voice rose in volume, masking the chuckles that rounded the table. She quickly reached for a cracker from a nearby tray before gently patting the butler’s arm. “No toast, Hadley, dear—I think I’ll just have crackers instead.”

“Very good, miss.” He proceeded to pour the tea before disappearing into the kitchen.

Scanning the table with a broad smile that finally settled on Logan, Caitlyn lifted her goblet of tea. “Yes, I do believe this calls for a toast.” She waited until everyone raised their glasses in unison, then chewed on her lip with a nervous grin. “To the Hand of Hope School, a dream-come-true long in the making, the culmination of a desire nurtured long ago between my husband and me, now fulfilled at the hands of my daughter and niece.” A sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes that sparked moisture in Alli’s own. Her mother’s voice continued, wavering with emotion as her eyes settled on Uncle Logan once again,
tender with affection. “And to Logan McClare for helping to make it all possible through his gracious and very weighty influence on the Board of Supervisors—I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“My pleasure, Cait.” Gaze warm, Uncle Logan nodded with a smile before taking a drink of his tea, eyes fixed on Alli’s mother over the rim of his glass while Rosie dispensed the soup.

“Whoops . . . clean out,” the housekeeper said after serving everyone but Logan, “which, given your ‘weighty influence,’ Mr. Beware, is just as well.” She whisked his bowl away with a smirk before flitting back to the kitchen. “I’ll fetch more—just hope it ain’t scorched.”

Uncle Logan bolted his tea, gray eyes darkening to charcoal as always when Rosie picked on him. “If you want to thank me, Cait, you can rein in your bull terrier.” He snatched a roll from the silver basket on the table and started buttering with a vengeance. “Sometimes I wonder why I even subject myself to dinner here three times a week.”

“Because she’s the best cook in the Bay Area, Uncle Logan,” Blake said with a grin, opting to butter his own roll. “Same reason Jamie’s always underfoot.”

“Hey, watch it, McClare, I’m almost family.” Jamie snatched the roll from Bram’s plate while Bram chatted with Meg.

“Yes, you are, Jamie,” Caitlyn said with a firm jut of her chin, “which is why you and Logan are more than welcome for dinner as much as you like.” Her gaze softened in her brother-in-law’s direction. “I’m truly sorry, Logan, and I will speak to her again, I promise.” She nibbled on the edge of her smile, brows tented in apology. “But it would make things so much easier if you would just . . . well, take Rosie’s . . . humor . . . in stride like the rest of us do.”

Logan grunted. “Easy to do, Cait, when the guard dog’s not chewing on
your
leg.” He chomped on his roll, throat ducking when he swallowed the bite whole. “I wouldn’t put it past the woman to lace my soup with something vile.”

Caitlyn’s smile was patient. “Really, Logan, Rosie may have a salty tongue at times, but she would never stoop to anything so devious.” She cleared her throat when he started to take another bite of his bread, a smile twitching on her lips. “But perhaps we should say grace first . . . just to make sure?”

He dropped the roll to his plate, lips flat when Caitlyn bowed her head to say the prayer. Her tone was sober until she ended with a special blessing for Logan’s food that carried a definite tease. “Amen.” She glanced up just as Rosie returned Logan’s bowl with a clunk on his plate, her tone as crusty as the bread. “Sorry . . . tail end. Not many clams left.”

“Thank you,” Logan said with a tic in his jaw.

“So, Allison . . .” Her mother delivered a smile, obviously hoping to steer the conversation to friendlier waters. “Did you happen to meet Miss Penny’s handyman? She mentioned she might send him over to meet us regarding any help we might need.”

Allison glanced up, spoon halfway to her mouth. “No, I don’t think so, or at least I didn’t see him.”

“Well, she says he’s wonderful, so I’m thrilled to find someone to help out while Mr. Bigley’s out with his broken leg. The poor man won’t be back for six weeks.”

Cassie blew on her soup. “I feel so sorry for Mr. Bigley. Can’t imagine being laid up for all that time with six mouths to feed.” She sighed and sipped from her spoon. “I’m glad you plan to continue his salary while he’s out, Aunt Cait, but I sure wish we could find a temporary replacement for odd jobs and general
protection till he returns. There was just something so comforting about having a man in the building, you know?”

“Yes, I do,” Caitlyn said with a wedge of worry in her brow. Her gaze settled on Uncle Logan, who appeared to be engaged in a serious conversation with Jamie, Bram, and Blake while Meg was busy cutting Maddie’s salad into smaller pieces. “As a matter of fact, I intended to check with your uncle tonight to see if he had any recommendations for a temporary watchman we could employ for a brief time. But in the meantime, I’m grateful Miss Penny offered the services of her handyman boarder.” Caitlyn sipped her chowder from her spoon slowly, eyes closed as if to savor the taste before she glanced up. “I understand he’s a strapping young man who works for her nephew, the captain of detectives for the Barbary Coast.”

The bite of roll Alli had just taken adhered to her throat like the butter was glue.

Her mother continued on as if hard-crusted bread wasn’t stuck in her daughter’s throat, depleting her air. “Apparently he moved into her spare room on the first floor about a year ago and has become like a son.” She laid her spoon aside and nodded her thanks when Hadley removed her empty soup bowl, allowing her to focus on her salad. “Miss Penny claims he’s a wonder at fixing everything and does it all in his spare time after his day job as a police detective, if you can imagine that.”

Alli started to hack, and Cassie pounded her on the back, tone laced with humor. “No, I can’t imagine that, Aunt Cait, can you, Al?”

Palms slick on the stem of the glass, Alli bolted her water before speaking, her voice a rasp. “You w-wouldn’t happen to know his n-name, would you, Mother?”

Stabbing a lettuce leaf in her bowl, Caitlyn paused, eyes in a
squint. “Let me see—I believe it was Mickey or Ricky or . . . no, wait—Nicky, I think she called him. Yes, that’s right.”

Fork sinking to her plate, Allison stifled a moan as her eyelids shuttered closed.

“Really?” Cassie said with interest, squeezing Alli’s knee under the table. “His last name wouldn’t be Barone, would it?”

Allison sucked in a sharp breath, pinching Cassie’s hand.

“Why, yes,” her mother said with a smile edged in surprise. “Only it’s pronounced Ba-ron-ee, long
e
according to Miss Penny.” She chuckled. “Apparently he’s very particular about the pronunciation and makes no bones about it.” She speared a tomato and winked at her niece. “A hot-blooded Italian, I believe she called him, and a law officer to boot—a lethal combination for anyone who crosses the line, I suppose.”

Oh, Mother,
you have no idea . . .
Grabbing her napkin, Allison fanned her face while fire pulsed in her cheeks.
And hot-blooded
?
She upended her water again, desperate to douse the heat of humiliation singeing her body. Well, at the moment, the Italian had nothing on her.

“Goodness,” Cassie said with a chuckle, “detective by day, handyman by night. Does the man ever sleep?”

Her mother smiled. “Not enough to suit Miss Penny, evidently. Claims he’s a demon when it comes to work, pushing himself night and day.”

Demon? I’
ll vouch for that
. . . Alli slumped back in her chair, eyes glazed.

“Goodness, Allison, are you all right, dear?” her mother asked. “You look flushed.”

“Fine,” she croaked, grabbing Cassie’s water to down half in one painful glug.

Caitlyn reached to press a palm to Alli’s forehead before gently
stroking her cheek. “Well, your forehead is cool, at least.” She resumed eating her salad, tone leisurely once again. “So you girls met Mr. Barone, I take it?”

“Nope, not me,” Cassie said, promptly stuffing lettuce in her mouth, gaze roaming the ceiling.

“Allison? Did you?”

Alli cleared her throat, impaling the salad while thinking of a certain hot-blooded Italian. “Uh . . . uh . . . I think so.” She avoided her mother’s gaze, studying a cucumber as if it were the most fascinating of all of God’s vegetables.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t keep me in suspense, darling. What’s he like? Young and strong, I hope? Does he seem like the type to tackle our antiquated building with a vengeance?”

With a vengeance?
Alli gulped. “Uh-huh.”

“And then some,” Cassie said with a chuckle. “Al says he’s younger than Mr. Bigley, maybe thirty or so.”

“Really?” Her mother gave Alli her full attention, eyes glowing with curiosity. “And . . . ?”

Alli vented with a heavy sigh, knowing full well her mother wouldn’t rest until she had all the facts. Peering up, she wrinkled her nose as if she’d just swallowed one of the dreaded mushrooms Rosie was so fond of burying in the salad. “Oh, you know the type, Mother—tall, brawny, long on looks, short on personality.”

Caitlyn blinked, her fork drifting to the side of her plate. “Oh my,” she said with a hint of worry in her tone, well aware of her daughter’s short fuse around men since Alli’s broken engagement to Roger Luepke. “You were courteous, I hope, Allison? After all, he
is
doing us a favor stepping in to help at the behest of Miss Penny, so I hope you hit it off.”

“ ‘Hit’ it off? Oh, I think that’s safe to say, don’t you, Al?” Cassie bumped her shoulder against Alli’s with a mischievous grin.

Allison swallowed a lump the size of the cherry tomato lanced on her fork. “Uh, sure,” she said and took a quick bite, smile tighter than the tomato now lodged in her throat.

Her mother released a sigh of relief that could have ruffled the sheers on the windows. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said with a wide smile that matched the revelry going on among the others at the far end of the table. She squeezed Allison’s hand, the relief in her face evidence of just how important it was they succeed with this school. “After all, we have the privilege of being a light in a very dark neighborhood, girls, so it’s very important to make a good impression.”

The tomato in Alli’s throat could have been an Adam’s apple as it dipped in her neck. The memory of whacking Nicholas Barone, long
e
, with her stick not just once, but three times, suddenly popped in her brain.
A good impression?
Oh,
you bet.
The tomato glugged as she swallowed it whole.

On both shoulders and more . . .

4

G
ood morning, Nicky.” Miss Penny sailed into the kitchen at the unholy hour of six a.m., the smile on her face as blinding as the sunlight shafting through the double kitchen window. She promptly poured him another cup of the hot coffee he’d just brewed and kissed the top of his head. “It’s going to be another beautiful day.”

He grunted.
If you don’t have to trudge through the
Barbary Coast on foot, tracking down slime. Or apologize to
a spoiled rich kid with a sassy attitude.
He tipped the mug straight up, the hot coffee scalding his throat as much as thoughts of Allison McClare scalded his temper. Eyes closed, he felt the burn all the way to his stomach.

“Thank you for brewing the coffee,” Miss Penny said, retrieving a cup from the cabinet to pour some for herself. “Did you eat one of Mrs. Lemp’s cinnamon muffins, I hope?”

He grunted in the affirmative, and she carried her coffee to the table to sit beside him, eyeing his empty plate that contained nary a crumb.

“Good. Busy day ahead?”

Blasting out a sigh that belonged at the end of a day and not the beginning, he rose to carry his dirty plate and mug to the counter, setting them down with a clatter. “Oh, you know—just
the usual. Following up leads on the robbery, investigating the murder at Dead Man’s Alley, butting heads with your nephew, groveling to a rich dame . . .”

“Nicholas . . . ?” Her tone held a warning. “Allison McClare is not a ‘dame.’ She is a beautiful young woman inside and out, and I expect you to treat her with respect.”

Beautiful?
On the outside, maybe.
He slung his suit coat over his shoulder, unwilling to brave heatstroke before Allison McClare could fry his temper again. “Maybe
you
should have this conversation with her, then. The woman has no respect for the law.”

Miss Penny took a sip of her coffee. “Depends on whose law you’re talking about, Nicky. That of the city of San Francisco or a surly Italian at the end of a hard day.” Her lips squirmed over the rim of her cup. “Or the beginning . . .”

“Only because I have your dirty work to do,” he muttered, making his way to the door.

“Ah-ah-ah . . .” Miss Penny lifted her chin, brows raised in expectation. “It’s not my ‘dirty work,’ Mr. Barone, it’s that of a grouchy detective who can’t hold his temper.” She tapped a finger to her cheek. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth, but he refused to give sway. Lips clamped in his usual frown, he returned to press a kiss to her head, the scent of lavender from her hair rinse reminding him just how grateful he was for Penelope Peel in his life.

“Could you bend down, please?” she requested, and he huffed out a loud breath, squatting before the woman who was as much a grandmother as his own. She patted his cheek, a blue-veined hand caressing him with the same affection glowing in her face. “Be nice,” she said softly, “she’s not an ogre like you, you know.”

“Ha!” He rose and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Not to you, maybe.”

“Or you either, Nicky, if you utilize some of that boyish charm you exude with me and the girls. You’d do well to keep in mind what our president says. ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’ ”

A big stick.
His lips quirked. Yeah, she’d probably whack him with it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said to appease the smiling imp that watched him with a gleam of pride in her eyes. “And speaking of sticks . . .” He reached for the new pointer on the counter, the one he’d purchased at the Emporium over the weekend, almost afraid to give it to Miss McClare for fear of what she might do with it. He aimed it at Miss Penny with the first crook of a smile since she’d walked into the room. “So help me, Mrs. Peel, if that da—”

A silver brow shot up.

“—
woman
. . . wallops me with this one, you are footing the bill when I snap it in two, is that clear?” He snatched his Homburg from one of the coat hooks and angled it on his head.

“I guarantee you, Nicky, if you smile at her like you smile at me, you won’t have to worry about her breaking anything but your heart.”

“Humph.” The idea of falling for a spoiled debutante was as appealing as getting bludgeoned with a stick. “No, thank you. I’d rather tangle with the sewer rats on the Barbary Coast than a rich da—”

The brow was up before he could even finish the word, and his lips ground tight.
“Woman,”
he bit out, making a break for the door. “Although
piranha
might be a better word. With any luck, she’ll still be home in her feather bed, dreaming of money.”

“Hate to break it to you, Detective, but she’s there—saw her classroom light on from my bedroom window. She’s a hard worker, our Miss McClare. Mind you, Nicholas, I expect a good report from the principal,” she called when he flailed a hand in the air on his way out.

“She’s not ‘our Miss McClare,’ ” he muttered down the weed-littered steps, popping animal crackers to cushion his stomach for another encounter with the lady and her stick. What the devil was a rich dame doing up this early on the Barbary Coast anyway, teacher or no? Or at least on the edge of it, on the southeast corner of Telegraph Hill, where a large contingent of the Irish had settled along with Mrs. Penelope Peel and her family. He noted the two straggly boxwoods along the short three-foot walk to the street and made a mental note to trim and pull weeds in front of Miss Penny’s three-story Victorian.

His jaw tightened. The same Victorian next to a larger one that now housed the Hand of Hope School. Unlike Miss Penny’s tired-looking Gothic Revival badly in need of a fresh coat of gray paint, the Hand of Hope School had received a complete sprucing up—from the brand-new steeply pitched roof to the freshly painted scrollwork and pointed arched windows with decorative crowns. Apparently Mrs. McClare had spared no expense, even knocking out walls on the first floor to create a small but cozy theater that ran the length of the right side of the house.

He grunted as he ambled up the brick walkway lined with the pinkest roses he’d ever seen. Three newly constructed painted steps led up to a pale-yellow gingerbread house whose covered entryway was flanked with urns of trailing ivy and flowers. His lips went flat. Too pretty and too prissy for a neighborhood where peep shows, brothels, and bars dominated the streets mere blocks away. He glanced up at a large brass nameplate—Hand of Hope School—above a carved wooden door with thick double-glass panes, then yanked on the brass knob. The smell of paint and new wood and lemon oil teased his senses the moment he entered, giving him the itch to build something with his hands like he and his father used to do. To his immediate left another brass plate identified
the office, a room that looked more like a library in a mansion on Nob Hill than a school on the Barbary Coast. Handcrafted oak bookshelves lined with expensive volumes flanked either side of an ornate oak desk where a Tiffany lamp perched on the far corner. A leather blotter lay front and center along with a stack of papers and an ink pen. Off to the side sat a brand-new Remington typewriter on its own table while a carved wooden credenza against the wall sported a crystal vase with flowers and wooden baskets three high.

How sweet—a touch of Nob Hill on the
Barbary Coast.
Nick shook his head on his way to the second room on the left where lamplight spilled across the honey-wood hall. Instantly the sound of humming put him on edge. Jacket over his shoulder, he halted at the door and cocked a hip to the jamb, fascinated by the form of one Miss Allison McClare. Stretching high on tiptoe to pin red letters that spelled “Welcome” to a bulletin board, she stood on an obscenely expensive-looking carved wooden chair with a mother-of-pearl pin box at her feet. Hershey bar wrappers were strewn across her desk along with paper-cut letters and numerals, as haphazard as the riot of ebony curls pinned at the back of her head.

In natural reflex, his eyes slowly trailed up, taking in the black hobble skirt that hugged slim hips before it belted at a tiny waist. A tailored blouse took over with puffed sleeves and high-neck collar. Stray wisps from her curly updo fluttered at the back of her neck when an early-morning breeze drifted in from a bank of three windows overlooking the alley. It ushered in the tangy smell of the bay and Fisherman’s Wharf mere blocks away along with a lighter, sweeter scent he suspected came from Miss McClare.

Apparently lost in her task, she continued humming a charmingly off-key rendition of “In the Good Old Summer Time.” Bending to retrieve more letters from a ledge below, she provided Nick
a generous view of a backside far more charming than the lady’s manner. About five foot six or seven, he guessed, she had an athletic grace about her that hinted at a formidable foe in athletic pursuits. One side of his mouth edged up. Like stick-whacking, for instance. He shook his head at how a pretty little thing could contain such a temper, and for the first time he considered just maybe Miss Penny was right. Maybe his tiff with the lady had been mostly his fault, his grouchy manner flaring in the presence of high-society dames he didn’t trust. After all, Miss Penny seemed to trust her, so maybe he could too. His jaw suddenly hardened at the memory of Darla, and all humility dissipated. Nope, not after Chicago.

Hat and pointer in hand, he approached her desk, indulging in one final perusal before making his presence known. “Ahem.”

“Oh!” She spun around with a little squeal, bobbling on the chair so much that he dropped both hat and stick to grab her lest she fall, hands to her tiny waist. She promptly slapped him away, saucer eyes as round as her full pink mouth, which now issued raspy heaves. Her crisp, white bodice rose and fell with every breath she took while her hand shot to her chest. “Merciful Providence, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” she shrieked, the soft blush in her cheeks a nice complement to rosy lips and startling green eyes. “Are you
crazy
?”

“Apparently,” he muttered, stooping to retrieve the pointer and hat. He tossed the stick on the desk with a clatter. “Must be to try and help a dame who almost bludgeoned me to death.”

She stood up straight on the chair and folded her arms tight, puckering the narrow pleats of her form-fitting blouse till it drew his gaze, which was almost dead center. “Don’t you ever knock?” she hissed, and his eyes flicked to her face, now burnished with a deep rose as dark as her lips. The green eyes fairly pulsed with indignation. “Or don’t they knock in caves?”

A muscle twittered in his cheek. “Look, lady, I didn’t come here to butt heads with you again, I came to . . . to . . .” He tried to get it out, that infernal apology Miss Penny was coercing him to say, but the words were like a pack of mules on the edge of a cliff, refusing to budge.

She dipped her head, the gesture quivering those green thingamajigs dangling from her ears, which were the exact color of the emerald squint of her eyes. With an impatient flick of her wrist, she back-circled a hand in abrupt motion, as if to hurry the process. “Spit it out, Detective Ga-roan.”

“It’s
Barone
, long
e
,” he ground out with a twitch of his jaw. He was so irked he decided to rile her with another slow scan, raking her from those pursed lips, down her bodice and skirt, and back up with a bold gaze purely meant to annoy.

It worked.

Her chin lashed up while the blush on her face nearly swallowed her whole. She slapped stiff hands to her hips. “You need to teach your eyes some manners, Mr. Long-E.”

He matched her stance and stepped in with a glare, almost eye to eye. “And you need to teach your mouth some manners, Miss McClare, especially if you expect me to lift one finger to assist you or your mother with this Snob Hill academy.” He splayed a hand to the front of his buttoned waistcoat, the whites of his eyes expanding. “Wait, let me guess—you’re in charge of teaching manners, right?”

Whatever he said, it snapped her mouth closed, those full lips suddenly as flat as his patience. Her thick dark lashes blinked so many times, he swore he felt a stiff breeze. With a sudden sheen of tears, she whirled around on that ridiculous chair to face the wall, hugging the sides of her waist so tightly, her shoulders hunched while her head bowed to her chest.