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

by Julie Lessman

  Fingers welded to the pole arm of the seat, Mr. Barone’s eyes opened long enough to sear her with a dazed stare. A grunt escaped his pale lips when the cable car bell rang, eyelids sinking closed again as the car eased to a halt. The grip man called out the next stop, and Allison’s sympathy rose when Mr. Barone stifled a heave. “You’re taking your life in your hands,” he said with a groan, lunging for his handkerchief as the car began to glide.

  “That seems to be a trend in your company, Mr. Barone.” A soft smile tugged at her lips.

  “It’s Nick,” he said, jaw clamping when the car jolted from a particularly hard jog on the rails. “Yeah, well, this time I may ruin your dress instead of your stick.”

  “I’ll take my chances, Mr. . . . Nick,” she said quickly, relishing the independence of calling him by his Christian name. “Something I’m realizing one must do with a man of your ilk. And, please—call me Allison.”

  One eyelid peeled up. “A man of my ilk?” he repeated, rag to his mouth to ward off the threat of what appeared to be the rise of his last meal.

  She scrunched her nose, biting back a smile. “You know—cranky.”

  His lips pinched even tighter than before, obviously thinner than his patience. “You’d be cranky, too, lady, if your stomach was churning like San Francisco Bay during a squall.”

  “Goodness, does this happen every time you ride a cable car?” she asked, wondering how the man kept anything down while riding public transportation.

  “No idea,” he said with a growl that faded into a moan. “First time.”

  Her head wheeled to face him, eyebrows tented in shock. “What? This is your first time on a cable car? Then how on earth did you know you’d be sick? Do you get sick on boats?”

  “No.” It was a croak as he smothered what could have been a belch.

  She squinted. “Then I don’t understand. If you don’t get seasick, then why—” Her eyes went wide. “Wait—you’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  Well, that certainly helped his color. Blood gorged his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snarled, singeing her with a glare.

  Oh, good—familiar territory! “Sweet mother of mercy, you are, aren’t you?” She clamped a hand to her mouth to smother a laugh, the idea of this mammoth, gun-toting grouch afraid of anything delighting her more than it should. She forced a serious demeanor, noting from his ruddy color that their sparring had apparently taken his mind off the ride. “For heaven’s sake, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Nick,” she said sweetly. She tilted her head, attempting to contain the chuckles that bubbled up in her chest. “Unless, of course,” she whispered in a voice hoarse with restraint, “you’re afraid of mice too . . .” Her laughter broke free in a glorious swell of giggles joined in by the sloshed man beside her.

  The gray-green eyes narrowed over the handkerchief he held to his mouth. “Don’t tempt me, Miss McClare—I had kippers for lunch.”

  “Oh, look!” she cried when the cable car coasted to a stop. “There’s the Golden Era Building!” She jumped up to seize the brass-plated pole, hand holding on to her hat as she bounced on the platform. “I read a wonderful article in The San Francisco Examiner about its fifty-year anniversary.” She whirled around, breathless with excitement, shouting to make herself heard over a steam piano from a passing melodeon music hall. “Mr. Barone!”

  His eyelids snapped up. “What?” he croaked, wincing when the grip man bellowed the next stop.

  “This is history and culture at its finest, I’ll have you know. Why, that was home to The Golden Era,” she explained with a waggle of her purse in the building’s direction, “the city’s most important literary journal. Goodness, Mark Twain was a frequent contributor and so was author poet Bret Harte, who not only worked as a typesetter there, but penned his first poem in that very building.” They passed the Golden Era Building, and she dropped back onto the bench with a heady sigh, hands clasped on the leather purse in her lap. “Good gracious, do you have any idea how thrilling this is for an English teacher?”

  He stared through glossy eyes, mouth gaping. “Not a clue.”

  She offered a sheepish smile. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  His lips quirked in one of the few smiles she’d seen on his face all night. “I think that was established when I broke your stick, Miss McClare.”

  Her smile faded to shy. “Allison,” she whispered, suddenly painfully aware of his muscled arm pressing against hers and those long legs sprawled so close to her skirt. She peeked up beneath her lashes, able to see every dark whisker peppering his hard-chiseled jaw. “It appears some of the color has returned to your face, Mr. Barone. Are you feeling better, I hope?”

  “Nick.” His whisper was almost intimate as his eyes locked with hers, their intensity draining the air from her lungs. His gaze lowered to her lips for a stutter of a heartbeat before it rose again, tumbling her stomach with his faint smile.

  She quickly averted her gaze, deflecting the heat in her cheeks with nonstop chatter as the car rumbled on the rails. “California Street!” the grip man shouted, and Alli shot to her feet. “That’s m-my s-street,” she muttered, wobbling as the cable car slid to a halt.

  Heat scalded her skin when Nick braced her with a firm hand. “Steady there,” he said, face suddenly pasty as he peered up the steep and ever-climbing blocks of California Street that led to her home on Powell. “We have a ways to go—especially since we’re going to walk.”

  “Walk?” She whirled around on the step of the car. “But this is the best part—scaling those wonderfully steep hills via cable car. Why, it’s almost as exciting as the roller coaster at Ocean Beach!”

  “Yeah? Well, this isn’t Ocean Beach, Miss McClare, it’s a rickety cable car jerking up the hill, rattling my bones every time it jolts to a stop. No, thank you. If I’m seeing you home, we’ll scale by foot.” He hooked her arm to help her down, then sucked in a deep breath when his feet hit the sidewalk, exhaling slowly while a grin inched across his face. “My first—and last—cable car ride, unless somebody puts a gun to my head.”

  Giving a little skip, she laughed and twirled on the sidewalk, head back and arms free as she spun, reveling in the glow of the melon moon overhead. “Oh, come on, you big sissy, it wasn’t that bad, admit it.”

  He arched a brow, hands buried in his pockets. “So we’re back to that again, are we? Maybe I’m not the juvenile delinquent you are, Miss McClare, ever think about that?”

  “And maybe you spend so much time being a grouch, Mr. Cranky Pants, you don’t enjoy things like wind in your face or a sky heavy with stars glittering over the most beautiful city in the world.” She hugged her shawl close, breathing in deeply as she walked backward to face him, eyes drifting closed. “Or revel in the intoxicating scent of jasmine as it drifts by on a sweet breeze from the bay.”

  She stumbled on a crack in the walk, and he lunged to grab her, stabilizing her with two hands to her waist. “Speaking of intoxication,” he said softly, hands lingering while his voice lowered to husky, “I believe the jasmine may be making you tipsy, Miss McClare.”

  “Sweet mother of mercy,” she rasped, grateful no streetlamp was close enough to illuminate the hot flush in her face, “I best keep my eyes on the sidewalk, I suppose.”

  “And your hand on my arm,” he added with a dry smile, crooking his elbow.

  “Thank you . . . Nick.” She glanced up, studying him through curious eyes. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you, you know, about being afraid of the cable car. I just find it rather curious that an armed officer of the law would be afraid of something so harmless.”

  He slid her a sideways look with the barest of smiles. “Harmless to you, maybe, but you weren’t pushed down a steep street in a pram by a wicked cousin at the age of two.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Oh, Nick, truly?”

  “Yep. Flew through the air like a trapeze act gone awry, limp as a rag doll and bloodied up good. To this day I refuse to ride anything that can
careen down a hill. Near broke my skull.”

  “Merciful heavens, you fell on your head?” She paused, palm splayed to her chest and eyes warm with mischief. “So that’s what happened!”

  His gaze narrowed, but it didn’t hide a spark of humor. “That explains my fear of cable cars, Miss McClare, but not your sassy mouth.”

  She tilted her head, eyeing him with a smirk. “I’m afraid that’s nothing more than raw, unadulterated talent, sir, laced with a bit of temper.” A sobriety settled as she averted her gaze to the street, her voice suddenly softer than before. “But I do apologize, Nick, for treating you like a pompous, pigheaded, overbearing baboon.”

  His laughter was low and gruff, the sound warming her body more than the shawl. “And I apologize for treating you like a spoiled, stubborn, simple-minded snob.”

  Her smile bloomed. “Well, see? Then I guess we were both wrong.”

  He grunted. “Not about the stubbornness, I suspect,” he said with a droll smile.

  “Mmm . . . you may be right.” She closed her eyes to breathe in the familiar scent of the sea and the faint charred smell of cable car brakes. “Oh, I just adore San Francisco,” she whispered, drawing in a whiff of something she’d never noticed before—sweet, like the incense at church. “Oh my, that smells nice, what is it?”

  Nick’s mouth crooked. “Opium, Allison, more addictive than food.”

  “Oh,” she said weakly, a knot shifting in her throat. Her gaze snagged on a street sign, and instantly her focus shot down a narrow cobblestone road. Adrenaline rushed through her veins as her eyes expanded wide. “Stockton Street? Wait—that’s Chinatown!” she breathed, heart thudding in her chest. “Oh my, I’ve always wanted to visit Chinatown, but Mother never let us.” Heels skidding to a stop, she whirled to face Nick, a plea in her tone. “Oh, Nick—do you think we could stroll through, just once, so I can see what it’s like?”

  His profile stiffened along with his grip on her arm. “Forget it—your mother was right. Chinatown is no place for a naïve woman from the upper class. It’s not a pretty place.”

  “But I wouldn’t be ‘naïve’ if I had the chance—”

  “No,” he said with stern emphasis, his halt on the street so abrupt, she wobbled on her feet. “Or don’t you know what that means?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I know what it means out of the mouth of a pompous, pigheaded, overbearing baboon.”

  His broad shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh as he slacked a hip, dropping his hold to gouge the bridge of his nose. “Look, Allison,” he said, his manner considerably softer, “I promised Miss Penny I’d see you safely home as quickly as possible, and I assure you, a detour through one of the worst neighborhoods in this city is neither safe nor quick. Not to mention the fact that it’s well after dark and you are already late getting home.”

  It was her turn to sigh, disappointment lacing her tone. “I suppose,” she whispered. Her gaze darted down Stockton where a beehive of people buzzed and milled on a cobblestone street lined with tall, ramshackle buildings. Groups of men dressed in dark shift-like jackets congregated in front of storefronts with wooden awnings and massive glass lanterns, their strange dress and exotic faces enticing her to explore. Another wispy sigh left her lips. “I’ve read all about it in books, but I’ve so longed to see it for myself.”

  “Well, this is its border, so take a good, long look, Miss McClare, because it’s likely all you’ll ever see as long it’s one of the highest crime areas in the city.”

  She picked up her pace as he tugged her on, his words sending a shiver down her spine. The comforting sound of a church bell suddenly pealed in the air, and her gaze flicked to the old St. Mary’s Cathedral looming just ahead. Its Gothic brick bell tower rose like a beacon of hope. “‘Son, observe the time and fly from evil,’” she said softly, the inscription under the clock face imparting new meaning. “I suspect that was aimed at those tempted to frequent the bars and brothels in this area.”

  “No question about that.” Nick’s voice took on the same hushed note as hers, as if the presence of a cathedral amidst this downtrodden section of the city demanded a reverence that even sin couldn’t deny.

  They walked in comfortable silence for a while, their breathing more labored as they climbed the steep hill. Closer to Nob Hill, block after city block of meticulously manicured homes began to appear, their lush yards edged with trees and shrubs. Lamplight cast an ethereal glow while locusts and tree frogs provided a summer symphony backdropped by the fading music of the Barbary Coast. A sudden longing arose in Allison to explore this city she loved by night. To stroll the streets on foot rather than peering from the backseat of the Packard. A thrill surged at the thought of doing just that down Market Street, with its imposing wall of skyscrapers like the twelve-story Flood Building or the historic Palace Hotel. An adventure all her own where she could be an integral part of the sea of pedestrians who darted to and fro, oblivious to the blare of horns and clang of cable cars. Or even to revel in the beauty of Union Square by moonlight, one of her favorite places in the entire city. Her excitement rebounded as she tugged on Nick’s coat. “Do you know how Union Square got its name?” she asked, a schoolteacher quizzing her student.

  “No,” he returned, that secretive smile back in place. “How did it get its name?”

  “It was built and dedicated by San Francisco’s first American mayor, John Geary, in 1850, named for the violent pro-Union rallies that took place here before and during the Civil War.”

  “You’re quite a history buff.”

  She tipped her chin and offered a shy grin, certain she was glowing more than the streetlamp overhead. “And, I’ll have you know, I sat in the very first row when the Dewey Monument was dedicated by President Roosevelt in May.”

  “My, my, but we do rub shoulders.”

  She giggled. “Well, Uncle Logan is on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, of course, so naturally we all sat up front.”

  “Naturally,” he muttered, his tone sharper than before.

  She glanced up to see a nerve flicker in his cheek, and for some reason, it dampened her mood. Shaking it off, she continued, trying to make light out of his obvious disdain for her uncle. “Goodness, one would think you bear a grudge against either the president or my uncle.”

  He grunted. “Well, not the president, that’s for sure. I served under him in the war.”

  The whites of her eyes grew. “You fought in the Spanish-American War?” she whispered.

  He slid her a sideways glance. “First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry.”

  The hinges of her jaw dropped again, Nicholas Barone apparently full of surprises. “Oh my stars—you were with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders?” she breathed, his stature suddenly soaring as high as the ninety-seven-foot naval monument in the middle of Union Square. “Sweet heavenly days—the Rough Riders are legendary!”

  The plane of his handsome face softened with a hint of sadness as he studied her through somber eyes. “No, Miss McClare,” he said quietly, “just angry men who hate injustice.”

  Angry men. Allison fought the inclination to shiver, thinking that described Nicholas Barone a little too well and wishing she knew why.

  “Well, you’re not breathing too hard,” he said, neatly changing the subject when they reached Powell where she lived. “That is, for one who just scaled one of San Francisco’s tallest hills.” He nodded behind where the city sprawled out before them in an inky sea of lights that matched those glimmering on San Francisco Bay. “But then I guess heights don’t bother you living all the way up here on Nob Hill, not with these stunning views.”

  “No, they don’t,” she whispered, quite sure that when it came to heights, she could handle Nob Hill and more. But Nicholas Barone? She peeked up at his chiseled profile, his towering frame putting a crick in her neck while her stomach did a little loop. She swallowed hard, well aware she’d be wise to protect both her head and heart when it came to the handsome detective. Because despi
te the stunning views, she knew all too well—heights like that could make a girl dizzy.

  8

  Rich dames,” he muttered, shooting a narrow gaze over his shoulder at the fancy glass door of the three-story mansion where he’d just dropped off Allison McClare. Cuffing the back of his neck, he issued a harsh grunt and lengthened his strides, desperate to escape the spell of a pretty schoolteacher he had no desire to know better.

  Liar.

  Okay, okay, desire, maybe, but definitely the wrong kind, prompted by green eyes that sparkled and hair as black as night. His mind strayed to her lush pink lips and that sassy little mole that hovered so very close—like he craved to do—and knew he needed to put as much distance between Miss McClare and himself as humanly possible. His mouth crooked as he bounded down the patterned brick steps flanked by roses and boxwoods. Distance, right.

  Like another state.

  His legs and fingers twitched as he waited at their curb for a Mercedes-Benz motorcar to pass, determined not to go down that road again. A nerve flickered in his jaw. Not the one that led to Nob Hill—the one that led to getting mixed up with a spoiled society princess used to getting her own way. Nope, he’d already learned that lesson the hard way and wasn’t interested in another crash course from some la-di-da teacher. The Mercedes chugged by, and Nick loped across the cobblestone street that might as well have been paved with gold for all the wealth lining its curbs. True, Allison McClare didn’t strike him as the type of spoiled daddy’s girl who’d betrayed him back in Chicago, but Nick was in no mood to take any chances. Miss McClare may pose as a caring philanthropist, deigning to reach out to the disadvantaged and poor, but he knew better. Society dames like her never gave anything of themselves without ulterior motives. His lips took a twist. Except grief and plenty of it.