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

by Julie Lessman

  He might have flinched, the motion almost imperceptible, so she couldn’t be sure as he stared, the gray-green eyes a glittering vat of molten steel, smoldering hot. “Please accept my apologies for ruining your day, Miss McClare,” he said softly, a tight hint of regret in his tone. Turning away, he strode for the door without so much as a glance back, his footsteps echoing down the deserted corridor before they faded with the hard slam of a door.

  Emotionally drained, Allison dragged herself to her chair and collapsed on her desk, head buried in her arms as she wept over a temper she’d promised her mother she’d keep under wraps. She had no patience with men at all since Roger Luepke had broken her heart, sniping at everyone from eligible friends of her brother to the hapless young men who’d ask her to dance at The Palace charity balls. Whether potential suitors from trusted families in society or a poor courier delivering a message from the Vigilance Committee over which her mother presided, Allison begrudged every male who darkened her door. Her pain over Roger was so deep, she was quite sure each and every one were liars, frauds, or fortune hunters like the man she had hoped to marry. It seemed those type of men were to be her lot in life, and now she supposed she could add churlish civil servants as well.

  She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. But no matter how rude that awful man had been, she’d had no right to chastise him like she did, belittling him like he’d belittled her. He was obviously a pitiful soul who didn’t know the love of God in his life and heaven knows he hadn’t seen it in her. She sniffed and blew her nose before slumping back in her chair, gaze drifting into a glossy stare. “I’m sorry, Lord,” she whispered, upset she’d allowed another man to toy with her emotions, causing her to lose control.

  Was it any wonder she’d sworn off men since Roger, no matter how much her cousin Cassie tried to change her mind? Cassie had found the love of her life in Jamie MacKenna, but somehow Allison didn’t believe there was a Jamie for her. No, she’d fallen for three phonies so far, and to be honest, she didn’t trust herself anymore. When it came to croquet, badminton, or athletics of any kind, she seemed to be a natural—strength, balance, and a competitive streak fueled by an Irish temper. A deadly opponent, indeed, who seldom lost. But when it came to love? She grunted. She couldn’t seem to win to save her soul, her taste in men obviously flawed. Her chin jutted high. Well, she’d just have to “save” her heart instead, devoting her life to enriching the lives of impoverished young women rather than marrying a fraud, despite Cassie’s insistence she just hadn’t met the right man.

  Huffing out a weary sigh, she fished her reticule from the bottom drawer of her desk and rose from the chair, pushing it in. Her gaze snagged on the broken pointer strewn in the corner, and she slowly bent to retrieve the pieces, absently fingering them on her way to the wastebasket. She knew she should apologize for her tirade if she ever saw him again, but she didn’t relish the thought. He was just the type of man she needed to avoid—too handsome to trust, too cocky to bear, and too pushy to tolerate. A groan slipped from her lips over a splinter embedded in her hand. “And just the type to get under my skin,” she muttered as she sucked on her finger. Nope, the need to apologize or no, she hoped and prayed she never saw Mr. Ga-roan again. She tossed the broken pointer into the basket on her way out the door, releasing a wispy sigh. Because heaven knows . . . better a broken stick than another broken heart.

  2

  What a day. Nick Barone nudged his Homburg up and lumbered down the dark steps of the 14th precinct, grateful he could finally go home and sleep. Sleeves rolled and tie loosened, he tossed his jacket over his shoulder, wondering why San Francisco was like an infernal oven in June. For pity’s sake, the locals always swore it never got above the high 60s and yet here he was, roasting in a suit like it was Chicago in July.

  Of course it wasn’t only the heat spiking his temperature today. Nope, he’d been in a foul mood since after lunch, when he’d stopped by the orphanage to tell Miss Penny he wouldn’t be home for supper. The muscles in his jaw grew taut. Right before he’d been bludgeoned with a stick by some society dame clocking her charity time at the school next door. And not just any spoiled society dame. He kicked somebody’s half-eaten apple down the street before popping the last of his animal crackers into his mouth, the acid in his stomach beginning to churn. No, this was the sassy-mouthed niece of one Logan McClare.

  He wrinkled his nose as he passed an alley where rats feasted on garbage and sewage, reminding him of the bubonic plague outbreak that had fueled anti-Chinese sentiment the last two years. A plague privately blamed on Chinatown, but publicly denied by ex-governor Gage and Mayor Schmitz for the sole purpose of protecting business interests. They’d allowed the disease to establish itself among local animal populations, creating a volatile environment for the city. Nick’s jaw hardened to rock. Especially for his good friend Ming Chao, whose only grandson was killed during a racial incident after the Board of Supervisors quarantined Chinatown. Chiefly Supervisor McClare, a man Nick had all but come to blows with at a board meeting earlier in the year. High-and-mighty rich men destroying people’s lives for the sake of the almighty dollar. Hate bubbled in his stomach.

  Just like they’d done to Mom and Pop.

  Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the shuffle of feet from the alley. The steam pianos and gramophones blasted from dance halls where half-naked women called from windows above. No stranger to the slums, he was usually vigilant to a fault, scouring the streets and alleyways for any sign of trouble. Except for tonight, he thought with a grim press of his lips, when Logan McClare and his niece had derailed his attention.

  “Aye, nice jacket there, guv’ner.” A gap-toothed man strolled out from a dark corner with two slimy friends, the stench of whiskey and body odor thick in the air. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Nick exhaled heavily and kept walking, in no mood to tangle with riffraff after duty. “As a matter of fact I do, boys, so why don’t you just run along.”

  Snorts and cackles rose in the air along with a nauseating cloud of cigarette smoke. “Lookie there—he wants us to ‘run along,’ mates, now ain’t that sweet?”

  “Sure is, Hugh,” a rusty voice said from behind.

  Somebody flicked a glowing cigarette stub over Nick’s shoulder, and he stopped, exhaling a weary sigh when Gap-Tooth stepped in his way. Fingers easing around the waistband of his grimy trousers, the hoodlum produced a flash of steel, blocking Nick’s path while he grazed the blade of his knife with the pad of his thumb. He inclined his head to one of the men who stood to the right. “What say you hand that handsome jacket to my friend Stu here, guv’ner, along with your wallet, and maybe you’ll live to talk about it, aye?”

  Nick expelled another heavy blast of air, annoyance furrowing his brow. He jerked his badge out and flashed it at the dung heap before him. “Yeah? Well, what say you and your scum-of-the-earth chums crawl back into the sewer, pal, and you won’t rot in jail, aye?”

  “Well, well, now, mates, what have we here?” He peered at Nick’s badge with glassy eyes. “Detective Nicholas Barone, is it now?”

  “It’s Baron-ee, long e,” he said, actually contemplating changing his name. He slipped his badge into his wallet and leaned in, nose-to-nose with the half-wit. Hand perched low on his hips, he issued a near growl, stomach souring at the reeking smell of Hugh’s putrid breath. “So I suggest you and your weasel side kickers take a hike before I lose my temper.”

  Hugh laughed, exposing yellow teeth until his smile died an ugly death. With a nasty hock of his throat, he spit a wad of phlegm on top of Nick’s perfectly polished shoes.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” Nick said softly, never more grateful for the defense training a Japanese army friend had taught him in the Spanish-American War. With a harsh grunt, he delivered a lightning thrust to Hugh’s throat with the ball of his foot, sending the knife—and Hugh—flying backward. Hugh never knew what hit him, striking the pavement with a moan before he crumpled
to the cobblestones in a dazed heap. In a fluid turn, Nick challenged the other two with a hard smile, arms raised chest high. “Who’s next, mates?”

  A brawny one as big as Nick spit to the side and lumbered forward, circling raised fists. “I’ll take you on, you blimey copper.”

  Nick flashed a wicked grin. “Hopin’ you’d say that, guv’ner.”

  “Fell ’im like a bloomin’ tree, Olsen,” Stu cheered, easing around as if to secretly pick up the knife.

  Nick struck Olsen with a palm chop to his neck, collapsing him like a bag of broken bones. He spun to counter the creeper who lunged with the knife, seizing his wrist to twist him around. Hooking his neck, he pressed the blade to his throat. “What say you, guv’ner,” Nick breathed in his ear, “shall I draw blood?”

  “No, please, I’m beggin’ you . . .”

  Nick shoved him to his knees and shackled his wrist with the handcuffs he kept in his vest pocket. The man howled when he dragged him over to Olsen, who was just beginning to stir. With a second snap of cuffs, he hooked the two together before glancing to where Hugh lay, writhing in the street. “You gentlemen have had a rough night, I know, but with a little rest, you should be good as new.” He nudged the tip of the knife into Stu’s neck, his whisper almost diabolical. “Get up,” he hissed, “and drag that rancid sack of lard with you. I’m going to provide you gentlemen with lodging for the night.”

  He jerked Hugh to his feet and thrust him forward, marching all three single file to the precinct jail, wishing the blasted idiots had just left him alone. He had more than his fill of dealing with the dregs of society while he was working the beat; he sure didn’t need it after a hellish day on the job. He slammed the precinct door hard behind him as he left, his lousy mood ramping up to vile. A red-banner day all around—from being beaten with a stick to threatened with a knife, and somehow he wanted to blame it all on Miss Allison McClare.

  Blasting out a noisy sigh, he stormed home, finally charging into the large, well-ordered kitchen of his landlady, Miss Penelope Peel, which also served as the spacious dining area for her Mercy House Orphanage. He launched his jacket and hat onto one of twenty brass hooks he’d screwed to the wall, then stalked to the double-well sink to pour himself a drink, ignoring the wide-eyed stares of Miss Penny and her cook, Mrs. Lemp. Throat glugging, he upended the glass of water until it was gone, then slammed it onto the counter. Dishes rattled, stacked on floor-to-ceiling shelves he’d built on a better day. “So, help me, I’d rather be drawn and quartered than ever step foot in that blasted school again.”

  Seated at the head of the long oak table he’d built to Miss Penny’s specifications, the tiny mistress of the orphanage arched a silver brow. “Excellent, Nicky,” she said with a bit of the imp. “More of you to go around.” A smile twitched on weathered lips that told him his rant didn’t ruffle her feathers in the least. “Mrs. McClare needs a handyman for a few odd jobs around the Hand of Hope School, so I hope you don’t mind—I volunteered your services.”

  He stared, mouth ajar, the twitch in her smile becoming a twitch in his eye. “You what?”

  Miss Penny blinked. “Why, I volunteered you, darling boy, to assist Mrs. McClare with a few odd jobs, just like you always assist me, yes?” She laid a towel over the bowl of bread dough she’d been kneading and dusted flour off her hands. A mere sprite of a woman at five foot, the seventy-year-old dynamo was as nimble and spry as any of the ten girls she cared for at Mercy House. She approached Nick with a sparkle of affection that reminded him of his dear departed grandmother when he was growing up in Chicago. Patting a veined hand to his cheek, she assessed him through rheumy blue eyes. “What’s got your nerves in a knot, Nicky?” she said gently, tone as soothing as the frail palm that cupped his bristled jaw.

  He was thirty years old, but like Gram, Miss Penny had the knack of settling his stomach like a bromide with just the tranquil touch of her hand. No matter how foul his mood after a day in the gutters and sewers, the woman could disarm him faster than a stick of dynamite in a pot of water. He’d only known her for the year he’d rented the extra room on the first floor, but every gentle stroke, every soft-spoken word told him he was important to her . . . and she to him.

  Inhaling deeply, he released his frustration with a slow exhale of air. “I’m sorry, Miss Penny,” he said, rubbing his temple, “but it’s been a grueling day. The captain took us to task for not turning up leads on the bank robbery at Fifth and Mission, I got the runaround from the barkeep at Dead Man’s Alley over a murder last night, and then some drunk takes a potshot at me, causing me to miss lunch. I get mugged on the way home and had to backtrack to book ’em, and if that isn’t bad enough . . . ,” he huffed out a sigh, “I find a Packard parked out front this afternoon like they own the place, just begging for trouble.”

  Miss Penny promptly herded him to the table where she pulled out a chair, nudging him to sit. “Now, you just rest your bones, Nicky, and I’ll fix you up with milk and a sandwich.”

  Mrs. Lemp gave Nick’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Ah now, Nicky, it won’t be so bad helping out at Mrs. McClare’s school. Why, she’s a gem, she is, offering me a healthy sum to clean the school once a week when I have time. A generous soul, to be sure, and she’ll pay you fairly for your work as well.”

  Nick grunted. “Don’t need the aggravation or the money.”

  “No, but you do need your favorite dessert, I’m thinkin’, eh?” Mrs. Lemp winked. “Fixed lemon meringue pie, I did, so your evening’s sure to improve.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Lemp,” Nick said with the seeds of a smile that helped thaw his ire.

  Miss Penny handed him a tall glass of milk before heading to the counter to cut thick slices of Mrs. Lemp’s bread, piling it high with slabs of leftover roast beef. “What exactly happened at the school, Nicholas, to put you in such a state?” She carried the sandwich plate to the table and slid into her chair, eyeing him with concern. “Surely the McClares’ car parked out front didn’t upset you like this, did it?”

  Nick grunted his thanks and snatched the sandwich, chomping it with a vengeance, but thoughts of Allison McClare gave him indigestion before he even swallowed a bite. “An expensive automobile parked at the curb is nothing but trouble in a neighborhood like this, Miss Penny, and you know it. Don’t you remember what happened to those fancy boys who parked their newfangled Stanley Steamer in front of The Living Flea? They were mugged and the car smashed to smithereens.” The scowl was back. “Those society dames may as well post a sign out front, detailing the contents of their purses and the value of their jewelry. Parking a Packard in front is just plain stupid, especially when it jeopardizes the orphanage by luring unsavory types. And her driver outright ignored me when I suggested he move to the back.”

  The elderly woman quirked a brow. “Now, Nicholas, those ‘society dames’ as you call them are generous and God-fearing ladies of the utmost gentility. Who, I might add, have taken it upon themselves to open a school with their own funds and time. Goodness, they’re risking their very safety to reach out to young women who may never have a chance for schooling otherwise, including our own precious girls here at Mercy House.”

  He choked on a lump of roast beef along with a hefty dose of guilt, while Mrs. Lemp jumped up to pound him hard on the back. Lunging for his milk, he immediately bolted down half of it. “Sorry, Miss Penny,” he said with an awkward clearing of his throat, “it’s a very noble thing Mrs. McClare is doing and I’m sure she’s a lovely lady, but her daughter?” He grunted again. “I have no patience with spoiled, little rich girls who waltz into the slums so they can feel good about themselves before they scurry home to their Nob Hill mansions.” He tore into another bite of his sandwich, grinding it like shoe leather on sourdough. “Especially one with a sassy mouth.”

  “Sassy mouth?” Miss Penny blinked. “Allison McClare? Why, I met Miss McClare several times, Nicholas, and she’s an absolute delight, glowing with charm.”

  “Humph . . . i
s that what you call it?” He shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and washed it down with the milk. “I find nothing charming about a smart-mouthed snob of a princess whacking me with a stick.”

  “Mercy, what on earth did you do?” Miss Penny stared, hand to her chest.

  Mrs. Lemp chuckled. “Offered her a wee bit of the Italian grump, I’ll wager.”

  “Now, why do you assume it was my fault?” Nick said, defenses edging up. “She was the one who struck me.”

  Miss Penny folded her arms, studying him with pursed lips. “Oh, and I suppose you nicely knocked on her classroom door, introduced yourself, and graciously relayed your concern over parking out front rather than back?”

  Heat circled his collar. “Something like that.”

  “Good heavens, you didn’t snap or growl at the poor girl, did you?”

  He gummed his lips, refusing to answer.

  “Oh, Nicky, you did, didn’t you?” Miss Penny slumped in her chair, face aghast. “The Hand of Hope School is our neighbor, young man, whether you like it or not, and that includes Mrs. McClare, her niece, and her daughter.” She lifted a formidable chin, her tone soft even if the steel blue of her eyes was not. “You need to apologize first thing Monday morning.”

  “But I didn’t do any—”

  She hiked a brow.

  He muttered something under his breath, feeling all of twelve again when Gram had washed his mouth out with soap for calling Sister Bernice an old bat.

  “I heard that,” Miss Penny said with another notch of her chin, “and we do not swear in this house, young man.”

  His jaw ground tight. Great. A thirty-year-old police detective tongue-lashed by a silver-haired leprechaun.

  “Now, I’m sure the poor girl flew out of there either crying or vexed—”

  Yeah, on a broom . . .

  “—given the rants I’ve seen when you’re out of sorts, so I’m hoping you’ll make it right Monday morning with an apology to that sweet thing—”