Love at Any Cost (The Heart of San Francisco Book #1): A Novel

by Julie Lessman

  Her lips sloped into a dry smile. “Mmm—utter disposal.” She tilted her head. “Now, if that only meant ‘disposal’ of your plan to fill my children’s summer with nothing but frivolity.”

  “Ah, but not just your children’s summer, Cait,” he whispered, bending to give Cassie a squeeze while he smiled at Caitlyn, his shuttered gaze toasting her cheeks.

  “Please, Mama? It’ll be fun.” Maddie whirled on her lap, stubby arms clinging to her mother’s neck. “Meg and I want to go, and so will Alli.”

  “So will Alli what?” Allison asked, out of breath as she plopped in her chair.

  “Spend the Fourth of July at my estate in Napa,” Logan interjected. “A family event, and Jamie, Bram, Liddy, and Patricia are invited too.”

  A gleam lit Alli’s eyes. “Oooo . . . is your handsome neighbor home for the summer?”

  Logan gave her a wink. “He is, and asking when my nieces are coming to visit.”

  Pleasure glowed in Alli’s cheeks. “Then count me in.” She wiggled her brows at Cassie. “Just wait till you see Mr. Roger Luepke, Cass—he’s beautiful!”

  “I’ll have you know, Al, the term ‘beautiful’ does not apply to any man worth his salt,” Blake said, returning from a dance with a girl from the next table.

  “Sure it does,” Alli said with a tussle of Jamie’s hair. “Just look at Pretty Boy here.”

  “Hey, hands off.” Jamie batted at her. “These blasted curls are hard enough to restrain.”

  “Like the man, no doubt,” Cassie quipped, sending a ruddy flush up Jamie’s neck.

  His lips stole into a little-boy smile. “I’ll have you know restraint is my middle name, Miss McClare,” he said with a fake Texas drawl, “unless needlessly provoked.”

  “So . . . ,” Logan interrupted, scanning the table before honing in on Cait. “Everybody game? Dinner on the patio followed by fireworks Friday night, a swim picnic by the lake Saturday afternoon, dinner and games into the wee hours of the morning?”

  “Yes!” Maddie bounced on Caitlyn’s lap, her excitement echoed by everyone at the table.

  Except me. Caitlyn drew in a tight breath, quite certain spending the weekend at Logan’s would not be a good thing, at least not for her. Her mind scrambled for an excuse. “I’m so sorry, Logan, but we can’t miss church on Sunday.”

  “You won’t,” he said calmly. The edge of his mouth twitched at the groans that rounded the table, not the least of which was from Maddie who rattled Caitlyn’s arm with panic in her eyes. A deadly smile curved on his lips, once capable of reducing her insides to mush. She absently pressed a hand to her stomach as he continued. “You remember Harold Hough, don’t you?”

  Heat steamed Cait’s cheeks at the mention of Logan’s friend from college, the best man in their wedding before she’d broken the engagement. Mercifully, Logan didn’t wait for her answer. “Well, old Harry’s been Father Harry at a church in Napa for the last ten years now, so he’ll be staying over as well.” He took the chair next to Cait, giving her elbow a light tweak. “So we’ll all attend his church in the valley Sunday morning.”

  She blinked, eyes suddenly spanning wide at his words. Logan McClare? In church? Her voice came out as a croak as she pulled Maddie close on her lap. “All?”

  “I’m not the heathen you think I am, Cait,” he said quietly, his words warm and laced with tease. “Harry’s been working on me a long time, you know.”

  A muscle dipped in her throat. No . . . I didn’t.

  He tickled Maddie’s stomach, the effect unleashing a shiver through Cait when his fingers grazed hers in the process. “Come on, Cait, everybody’s on board but you.” He tugged Maddie from her arms, settling her into his lap with a kiss while his gaze fused to Caitlyn’s. A gleam of a dare lit gray eyes that sparkled like the sterling silver spoon her daughter aimed at his half-eaten dessert. “Besides, what if the Vigilance Committee actually coerces you into joining their ranks?” he teased, his cavalier tone making it clear he didn’t think she would. “Your family time will be cut short, so it’s best to make memories while you can, especially while Cassie is here.” He gave her a playful wink that likely painted her face the color of the strawberry garnish Maddie now spooned in her mouth. “Who knows? This could be your golden opportunity to coax me to side with you at the next Board of Supervisors meeting.”

  Her pulse slowed, knowing full well that as one of the most influential members of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, he could be a valuable ally in her efforts to clean up the Coast. Since Liam’s death, Walter and the other members of the Vigilance Committee had begged her to use her influence with Logan, but she had turned them down. She certainly held no sway over a man who had a vested interest in keeping the Coast alive. A lump thickened in her throat. Until now, apparently. Assessing the challenge in a gaze that boldly held her own, she paused, not a woman prone to coaxing, and yet . . . the stakes had never been higher. Nor the risks, she reminded herself with a queasy feeling. Especially since Logan had no idea she’d already accepted the position. She drew in a fortifying breath and released it slowly. “All right, you’re on. Allow me to share Walter’s plan and take us to church, and we have a deal.”

  Maddie sprang from Logan’s lap with a loud squeal, rounding the table to tell the others the good news. Logan chuckled, his husky tone for her ears alone. “Why, Caitlyn McClare, you little siren, you—who would have thought?”

  Lunging for her water, she wished she could cool her cheeks with it instead. Or douse a smirk on a handsome rogue’s face. She closed her eyes to shut him out, throat convulsing as she glugged, glass bottom up.

  “Mama, Mama, I’m so excited!” Cheeks flushed, Maddie skipped to her side, perching on tiny toes to plant a kiss to her cheek. “We get to sleep at Uncle Logan’s—isn’t that great?”

  Great? Caitlyn blinked. For the Board, maybe. She promptly upended her glass before Logan smiled and emptied his water into hers. But for her? Ice slivered down her throat after she bolted it down again.

  Most definitely not.

  13

  Tell me, Sugar Pie, don’t they dance in Texas?” Jamie said, seating Meg in her chair.

  Eyes in squint, Cassie glanced up, the wrinkle in her nose making him smile. “Yes, we dance in Texas, City Boy, so next time they play a two-step, you just let me know, okay?”

  Hooking a palm under her arm, he lifted her to her feet. “Oh no you don’t, Cowgirl, you’re in the big city now and your boots are at home, so come be civilized with me.” She attempted to sit back down, but he held on tight, eyes scanning head to toe in natural reflex while his skin warmed at the sight of a girl in folds of pale-blue satin. He swallowed hard, her off-the-shoulder dress trimmed with delicate garlands of chiffon and tiny pink rosebuds that dipped low enough at the neckline to cause a lump in Jamie’s throat. Wisps of gold loose from her graceful chignon fluttered over creamy shoulders with a hint of soft freckles, grazing her skin like he so longed to do. Even her scent of lilac water and Pear’s soap seemed to tease, making the dinner jacket he wore entirely too warm.

  Sucking in a quiet breath, he notched a brow. “You’ve been perched all night like a prairie dog on a dirt pile, Cassidy McClare, and lest you forget what happens when a pretty boy is needlessly provoked, I suggest we mosey out to the floor.”

  “Jamie, please . . . ,” she groaned, yanking as if battling in a tug-of-war before finally plopping back down. “You’re supposed to be my friend—please don’t make me.”

  Alli nudged from behind. “Oh, come on, Cass—it’ll be fun.” She laughed, pinching Cassie’s waist to prod her off the chair. “Jamie’s a good dancer, so he won’t embarrass you.”

  A deep flush swarmed Cassie’s cheeks, making her peaches-and-cream complexion look more like strawberry punch. “It’s not Jamie I’m worried about,” she rasped, heels digging in with a hard slant when Jamie pulled her to her feet once more.

  Jaw slack, he released his hold, and she plopped back in her chair with a so
ft thump. “You can’t dance?” he said, mouth agape. “Well, I’ll be—never seen a girl who can’t dance.”

  The green eyes narrowed, thin as a blade of grass. “You’ve never seen a girl hog-tie a skunk either, but keep it up and you may get your chance.”

  “Come on, Cass, we all took lessons in Paris, remember? You know how to dance.” Alli ducked to give her a smile, her thumb absently caressing the satin material of Cassie’s pale-blue dress at the very spot where it clung to her thigh, causing a knot the size of Cassie’s clenched fists to bob in Jamie’s throat.

  “That was over three years ago, Al, and I wasn’t any good then, either.”

  “But surely you danced a lot with what’s-his-name in Humboldt?” Jamie waved a hand in the air, unwilling to taint his tongue with Mark Chancellor’s name.

  The lushest, pinkest lips Jamie had ever seen—or tasted—quirked into a dry smile. “No, as a matter of fact, I did not, and it’s Humble,” she stressed in a clipped tone, “which is exactly what you’ll be if you force me to go out on that floor.”

  He laughed and hauled her back up. “Trust me, it’ll be fun. I’ll teach you how to dance.”

  “Trust you?” She attempted to quietly twist and tug on the way to the floor, the heels of her ballerina slippers sliding while she hissed in his ear. “You are nothing but a bully, Jamie MacKenna, and I’m rethinking this friendship, I can tell you that.”

  He pulled her into his arms with a decadent smile. “Rethinking the friendship, eh?” He pressed close to the side of her head, his words hot in her ear. “Uh-oh . . . you falling for me, Miss McClare?”

  “Bite your tongue.” She seared him with a nasty look that broadened his grin.

  He lifted her right hand in his and braced her shoulder blade with his other. “What if I’d rather nibble on something else?” he teased, chuckling when her cheeks bloomed bright pink. She tried to jerk away and he resisted, palm skimming to her waist to lock her close. His thumb suddenly feathered satin against skin, and his Adam’s apple jogged in his throat. “Merciful Providence, Cass,” he whispered, his voice little more than a rasp, “you’re not wearing a corset?” Shock laced his tone, both at her lack of undergarments and the humiliation of just blurting the question out, unleashing a rash of fire up his neck.

  She gasped, those full, pink lips agape while her face fused to scarlet. “That is none of your business, Mr. MacKenna,” she snapped. Her tone was as pointed as the thumbnail she gouged into his arm in an attempt to break free.

  He clasped both of her hands. “Okay, okay, Cass, I’m sorry, really. Truce?” His gaze and tone softened even if his grip didn’t. “Please?”

  She glared while her body finally relaxed. “Just because we’re friends does not give you the right to make inappropriate comments, is that clear? Sweet thunderation, you’re lucky my hands were restrained, or I would have dislocated your jaw.”

  Tone repentant, he offered a sheepish smile, massaging his jaw as if she had whopped him good. “Very lucky, indeed, Miss McClare, and you have my word it won’t happen again.”

  She expelled a weighty sigh that shimmered the satin of her bodice, then made a quick scan of the floor where couples whirled to a waltz. “Well, let’s get this buggy across the river, MacKenna, because heaven knows people won’t be staring any more than they already are.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He quickly tempered his smile and resumed position with her right hand in his left while he cupped a palm to her back, elbow out. “Now rest your left hand on my arm and just follow my lead. It’s basically a box pattern to a count of three—one step backward, one step to the side, feet together.” With his brief demonstration, she timidly glided along, a mere wisp of a woman floating in his arms while he counted out the pace. “One-two-three, one-two-three . . .” He paused and smiled. “See? Not hard. Ready?”

  A faint smile emerged through the pout. “Does it matter?”

  He grinned. “Nope.” With a firm clasp of her hand, he guided her through the steps, his pulse picking up when she moved easily to his flow, as natural and fluid in his arms as if she belonged there all along. And you do, Cassidy McClare, whether you know it or not.

  When the music ended, she looked up, green eyes glowing. “So, how’d I do?”

  “Like you’ve been dancing all of your life, Sugar Pie.” A grin tipped the corners of his mouth. “Congratulations, Cowgirl . . . you just graduated from the two-step to the three-step.”

  Her husky chuckle warmed his heart, and he laughed out loud when her feet did a little jig. “Oooo-oooo, can we do it again?”

  “You bet.” And again and again and again . . . “And this time I’ll even teach you how to hold a conversation instead of counting out loud.”

  She teased her lip—and his heart—at the same time. “Goodness, you may regret this, MacKenna, because now I’ll be dragging you to the floor.”

  One can certainly hope. “Naw, this is fun,” he said, drawing her close as the orchestra began to play, more than content to hold her in his arms for the rest of the night. He’d danced with many a woman before, but none attracted him like Cassidy McClare. Delicate fingers clasped his, not unlike a child’s hand in that of an adult, eliciting a protective urge he’d never experienced with a woman before. At six foot one, he towered over her by at least a foot, a slip of a thing adrift in pale-blue satin while wisps of corn silk fluttered her neck. The wide eyes and hint of freckles gave her a dainty, almost fragile air that made him feel more like a man than all the boxing matches, street fights, or innocent flirtations he’d shared in the past. She was absolutely, unequivocally everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Palm warm against her back, he spun her around, pulse accelerating when her head lazed back with eyes closed, unleashing a throaty giggle that vibrated his skin. His gaze traced from the curve of her neck to the hollow of her throat, and his breathing thickened at the thought of his lips doing the same. He exhaled slowly, desperate to project the air of casual confidence he’d honed to an art in a society in which he longed to rise to the top. Easy does it, MacKenna, he warned, smiling as he whirled her in his arms. “See? I told you you could trust me.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than a spin on the floor, Pretty Boy,” she said with a sassy smile. She tilted her head with an adorably eager look just as the song ended. “Again?”

  He laughed. “If you don’t make me carry you off the floor when I wear you out.”

  “Oh, as if you could,” she said, smirk firmly in place.

  Grinning, he drew her close when the orchestra began to play “In the Good Old Summer Time,” and Jamie couldn’t help but think how appropriate it was for this summer of all summers. Newly graduated, a promising career at Logan’s prestigious law firm, and maybe even marry a McClare. He grinned, sweeping Cassie wide to watch the soft tendrils of her hair flutter in the breeze. Once again she’d closed her eyes, and the song just naturally parted from his lips, his baritone rich if slightly off-key. “In the good old summertime, in the good old summertime . . .”

  Her lashes lifted in a slow sweep, and those green eyes held him spellbound while the lyrics slowed and softened on his tongue, his melody capturing her as much as her eyes had captured him. He continued his song, the lyrics fading to a whisper. “You hold her hand and she holds yours, and that’s a very good sign . . .” His gaze flicked to her lips and back while his voice grew husky and hoarse. “So, what do you think, Cassidy McClare . . . is it?”

  “Is what?” she whispered, gaze bonded to his as if hypnotized.

  “A good sign?”

  “Is what a good sign?” she repeated softly, a hint of that same starry-eyed look he’d seen when he’d kissed her in the billiard room. His heart swelled with pride and more than a little hope. She’s falling for you, MacKenna—almost as hard as you, so don’t mess this up . . .

  A smile glided across his lips as he allowed his gaze to drop to her mouth and back. “You know—me holding your hand, and you holding mine,” he whi
spered, “like the song says.”

  Her full lips parted as a lump shifted in that long, beautiful throat, and he was pretty sure the heat in her cheeks was catching when it hiked his body temperature by several degrees.

  “No, Ma, you can’t make me—she’s ugly!”

  Jamie glanced up, lyrics and song forgotten at the sight of a tall, gangly boy shrugging off his mother’s hand. He bolted from the table where a scarlet-faced girl hunched in apparent shame, eyes downcast as she knotted nervous hands in her lap. The woman, as red-faced as the young girl, appeared to be apologizing to the girl’s mother who hovered next to her daughter. Jamie’s gut clenched when he realized the young girl was crying, and his heart turned over at the cruelty of the young man. No more than sixteen, the girl’s nondescript brown hair was styled in the loose upsweep of the day, but her features were plain and marred by acne. Her red satin bodice heaved as she wept, causing her chubby body to quiver like the tomato aspic he’d had for dinner. The injustice of it stung deep, calcifying Jamie’s jaw. Years of slurs and taunts echoed in his brain—gutter trash, street arab, slum rat—causing his fingers to itch for just one shot at the little punk who’d rejected her. He thought of both Jess and Meg and all the ridicule they’d endured at the hands of hooligans just like this kid—Jess because she was crippled, Meg because she was plump—and it took everything in him not to hunt him down and throttle him good. He expelled a blast of air. “Why can’t people just leave each other alone?” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Cassie asked, her brows pinched as she attempted to follow his gaze.

  “Cass,” he said quietly, eyes glued to the girl, “would you mind terribly if I took you back to the table—there’s something I need to do.”