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

by Julie Lessman

  “Barone!”

  His muscles calcified to stone when his shoe hit the sidewalk across the street. Nerves taut over the mispronunciation of his name, he peered over his shoulder at an imposing silhouette looming in the doorway of the McClare mansion, light blazing around it like the second coming.

  “I need answers,” the shadow said in a near growl, “now.”

  Choking back colorful commentary, Nick didn’t know so many muscles could twitch in a body at one time, but if there was anyone who could set his teeth on edge, it was Logan McClare. And quite frankly, after a grueling day, he just flat out wasn’t in the mood. He kept walking.

  “Another step, Barone, and I’ll have your badge.”

  Nick halted, the urge to spit in McClare’s eye so strong, saliva pooled in his mouth.

  “Swear to me, Nick, now—that you won’t rock the boat. We can’t afford to tip our hand—the payoff is too big . . .” Nick’s eyelids weighted closed at DeLuca’s parting words, causing a cramp in his side. Blast you, DeLuca . . .

  “Inside, now!” The command hung in the air like a threat long after McClare slammed the front door. Nick sucked in a heavy dose of air, fists clenched as he exhaled his fury in a questionable word muttered beneath his breath. Gouging the back of his neck, he stalked across the street, taking his time to mount the steps to the burlwood and glass door he would have bludgeoned with his fist if the archaic butler hadn’t opened it first.

  “Good evening, Mr. Barone,” the man said with a polite nod of his head, no ill feelings evident in his tone or manner from that first day they’d sparred at the school.

  “Matter of opinion.” Nick strode into the foyer. “And it’s Barone, long e,” he snapped, jerking his hat off his head.

  “Right this way, sir.” The butler—Hadley, was it?—offered a courteous smile.

  “Thanks,” Nick mumbled, feeling a prick of guilt over his curt tone. After all, it wasn’t this poor joe’s fault that Logan McClare was a pompous idiot.

  “Mr. Barone,” Hadley said, pronouncing his name with a dignity few people ever did.

  Hat in hand, Nick charged in, well aware of Allison sitting ramrod straight on the edge of a love seat, eyes downcast and cheeks blooming bright red while she fiddled with her nails. He honed in on Logan McClare, who stood bent over the fireplace to light a cigarette, his back to Nick. “What do you want, McClare?” Nick bit out, his temper as hot as the tip of McClare’s cigarette.

  The supervisor turned, exhaling a rush of smoke that filled the room with the scent of wood spice and chocolate, and Nick instantly craved one of those Turkish cigarettes Darla had given him for Christmas. Too deuced expensive for his tastes—like Darla had been. He glared at McClare with as little civility as possible. Figures.

  “My niece tells me you escorted her home,” he said smoothly, assessing him through eyes that glittered with as much suspicion as Nick’s. “Thank you.”

  Nick refused to respond and Logan nodded to the empty sofa while he settled into a cordovan easy chair, his manner cooler, calmer than Nick tended to be when the two butted heads. “Have a seat, Mr. Barone, please. I assure you, I’ll make this brief.”

  “Ba-ro-ne,” Nick ground out. “Long e.”

  Logan ignored him with a deep draw of the cigarette before resting his arm on the chair, studying Nick through a curtain of smoke. “Why so late and why did you escort her at all?”

  Nick stared. “Excuse me?”

  “Uncle Logan, I already told you, I lost track of time and—”

  “I understand, Allison,” Logan said in a far softer tone, the concern in his eyes obvious. “And you also explained that instead of calling a taxi, you opted to board a common cable car in the worst part of town, something I can hardly believe your mother would allow.”

  A knot shifted in her throat before she met her uncle’s gaze with a repentant one of her own. “She doesn’t know,” she whispered.

  Logan glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Yes, well, she will soon—Rosie tells me they’ll be home shortly. But that’s not my chief concern at the moment. It was a foolhardy decision to take the cable car—”

  “Uncle Logan, please, let me explain—”

  The tenderness in his eyes cooled a degree as he halted her with a look. “There will be time enough when your mother walks through that door, young lady, but right now, my concern isn’t with you taking the cable car or even Mr. Barone escorting you to the cable car stop in the worst part of town.” His eyes frosted to ice as they returned to Nick, tone scathing. “What I want to know, Mr. Barone, is why my niece’s usually meticulous appearance is so disheveled?”

  Allison’s gasp echoed in the room while Nick shot to his feet, blood blasting his cheeks. “Just what are you accusing me of, McClare?”

  Logan rose to meet him, jaw to jaw, the tic in Nick’s temple keeping time with the one in McClare’s cheek. “Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Barone, since my niece’s hastily pinned hair and disheveled shirtwaist suggest she’s been manhandled—”

  “Uncle Logan, no!” Allison thrust herself between the two, facing her uncle with palms to his chest. “My shirtwaist got soiled when I fell outside the school, and the cable car blew my hair into disarray, that’s all—”

  “No, that’s not all,” Nick spit out, determined somebody in this hoity-toity household should know the truth. Heaven knows someone needed to keep an eye on Allison McClare, because she obviously couldn’t be trusted to take care of herself. “Your niece was—”

  She wheeled to face him so quickly, he caught the scent of lilacs while she pleaded with her eyes, hands folded to her chest. “Too clumsy for words,” she said in a rush, her wide stare imploring his silence. “Poor Miss Penny had to clean me up and enlist Mr. Barone to accompany me home, so we owe him our gratitude, Uncle Logan, not our accusations.”

  Logan gripped her shoulders, pivoting her to face him. “You’re telling the truth?”

  She nodded, black curls bobbing in affirmation.

  Nick’s gaze trailed from those lustrous locks chaotically reclasped with a gold hair clip, down a shapely silk shirtwaist and fancy cashmere shawl, and knew she was nothing but a magnet for trouble in the streets of the Coast. Oh, she’d hate him if he spilled her secret, no question, but that was for the best anyway because he sure welcomed the distance. He ignored the twinge in his gut that told him he was making a mistake getting involved with this family, but it was clear somebody needed to save Allison McClare from herself.

  He steeled his jaw, pretty sure enmity with a rich dame who raced his pulse was far safer than friendship. “She’s lying through her teeth,” he said calmly, boring into Logan’s eyes to make sure he knew he was telling the truth. He ignored her gasp when she whirled to glare, and continued to speak in a curt tone. “She was accosted by two men outside the school who, I assure you from daily reports at the precinct, would have raped, robbed, and left her for dead if Miss Penny hadn’t intervened. And if you don’t believe me, tell her to take off her shawl.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. “How could you?” she breathed.

  “Allison?” Her uncle’s voice was sharp. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Nothing,” she cried, lips quivering as she seared Nick with a look.

  Tired of her games, Nick blasted out an impatient sigh and jerked the edge of her shawl, prompting her shocked cry when he yanked it clear off her shoulder to reveal the torn sleeve. “She was mere seconds away from being raped, Mr. McClare,” he said, his statement as harsh as the look in his eyes, “and somebody in her family needs to be aware of that.”

  Wet fury glinted in her eyes. “You promised!”

  “I didn’t promise anything, Princess,” he said, his words a near snarl. He forced himself to be hard and callous in the face of an attraction he knew would bode him no good. His lip curled in a sneer. “I just let you talk your fool head off, so you never even noticed.”

  Another gasp rent from her lips right before she hauled of
f and stomped on his Italian oxfords, gaping his jaw. “Get out!” she screamed, raising her heel to bludgeon some more.

  “Enough!” her uncle shouted. He spun her around, hands gripped to her shoulders while a nerve pulsed in his temple. “Is this true, Allison? Were you accosted?”

  “I . . . I was, Uncle Logan, but I fended them off with the hat pin you gave me for Christmas, I swear!”

  Nick’s laugh was not kind. “Sure, right after Miss Penny chased them away with her shotgun.” He faced Logan dead-on, turning a deaf ear to the ragged breaths that sputtered from his niece. “Face it, McClare, your niece is a loose cannon who needs to be kept on a chain.”

  “Oooooooh, that’s it—where’s my hat pin . . .” She rushed to retrieve her hat, fumbling wildly to remove the pin while her face was as red as the scarlet rose that bobbled on top.

  She lunged for Nick, and Logan whisked her away with a hook of her waist before she could inflict damage. “Behave, young lady!” Logan said sharply, flinging the pin in her hands onto the coffee table while the little brat flailed and pleaded to poke Nick just once. “I suggest you take your leave, Mr. Barone,” he said, his demeanor decidedly cool, “before I unleash my niece. Your honesty is appreciated, but your insults are not welcome here.”

  Nick grunted and slapped on his Homburg. “Don’t have to ask me twice, because pardon my rudeness, but I want nothing to do with either you or your niece.” He stormed for the door, halting long enough to toss one final insult over his shoulder, hoping to ensure Allison McClare would hate him for life. “She’s nothing more than a spoiled brat who needs a firm hand,” he called, punctuating his statement with a hard slam of the door. He plunged his hands in his pockets and descended the steps, grateful to close the door on any chance of a relationship with another society dame.

  A firm hand. He issued a grunt that might have been laced with a smile if he wasn’t so riled, then grunted again. Or better yet, firm handcuffs.

  Preferably without a key . . .

  “I knew something like this would happen,” Logan muttered, soothing his sobbing niece with a gentle caress of her back while she wept in his arms. “Shhh, Allison, it’s all right now . . .”

  She lunged away, face blotchy and eyes rimmed red. “No, it isn’t, Uncle Logan—he’s ruined everything!”

  Logan fought the twitch of his lips as he braced Allison’s arms, her penchant for drama always making him smile. He ducked his head to peer in her eyes. “Barone? As much as I’d like to saddle him with the blame, he did the right thing by telling me about the attack.” He lifted her chin with a finger, gaze intent. “Why did you lie, sweetheart?”

  “I didn’t lie exactly,” she whispered, avoiding his eyes, “just postponed the truth a bit.”

  He exhaled and lifted her jaw. “Look at me.” Her eyes slowly raised to his, and his heart constricted at the tragedy in her face, reminding him once again just how fiercely he loved his family. “Then why did you postpone the truth?” he whispered.

  Fresh tears swam in her eyes as she nibbled at the side of her lip in that endearing way her mother often did, softening his stance. “Oh, Uncle Logan, you wouldn’t understand—you’re a man who can come and go as you please, completely free to do whatever you want.”

  Whatever I want. A dull ache thumped in his chest at the irony of her statement. Except make your mother fall in love with me. He released a weary sigh and tugged her over to the sofa, making her sit before he settled back, scooping her close. “And what is it exactly, Allison, that you so desperately want to do?”

  She sniffed and burrowed into his side like she so often did as a child. “I want to be free to make my own decisions and live my own life. To give back some of the blessings I’ve received by reaching out to disadvantaged young women.” Her body shivered, and he instinctively tightened his hold. “And to be independent and not beholden to a man . . . ,” she whispered, her voice trailing off.

  His eyelids weighted closed. Roger Luepke. Of course. Guilt stabbed anew that he’d ever allowed his neighbor’s apprentice to court his precious niece. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t, apparently, given the pain that charlatan wreaked in Allison’s life. No, he’d been too consumed with other things—Cassie and Jamie’s roller-coaster relationship and his growing feelings for Cait—to pay closer attention to the type of man with whom he allowed his niece to fall in love. The type of man who severed her trust and stole her confidence, making her heart bleed until it was raw. Just like her mother had done to him a lifetime ago when she’d broken their engagement and married his brother . . .

  Only I’d deserved it and Allison did not . . .

  Expelling a weighty breath, he pressed a kiss to her hair, vowing to keep her safe no matter the cost—both at the Hand of Hope School and in the affairs of her heart. He pulled back to stare in her swollen eyes, tenderly pushing ebony tendrils away from her face. “This is about Luepke, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  Her chin quivered as she nodded, the heartbreak in her eyes twisting his gut. “I don’t trust myself anymore, Uncle Logan, too afraid to take a chance, too scared I’ll get hurt. Don’t you see? I just can’t live like that anymore.” She swiped at her eyes with a hint of anger, chin jutting as if to prove her point. “And I won’t. Which means I need to strike out on my own as much as possible, maybe even moving into my own apartment closer to the school.”

  Alarm curled in his stomach. “Allison, no—”

  She clutched his hand so tightly, he could almost feel the desperation coursing her veins. “Not right away, mind you, but someday soon down the road, after I build my confidence and earn my independence. But I can’t do that with you and Mother holding my hand every step of the way, too afraid for my safety to let me out of your shadows and try my own wings.”

  “Your safety is nothing to balk at, young lady.” His voice held a harsh tremor that exposed his silent fear, that anyone might harm even a hair on the head of those he loved.

  “And I totally agree, truly. But please, Uncle Logan, let me learn to defend myself. Give me the freedom to take care of myself while I teach at the school or ride on the cable car.”

  He sat back against the sofa, his jaw as stiff as the arms he folded across his chest. “And how do you propose to do that, young lady? With nothing more than a hat pin?”

  “Yes, but a sharper and larger hat pin, easily accessible in my pocket or pinned to my dress.” Her hands clasped in a plea. “And a firearm like Miss Penny has and maybe boxing lessons from Jamie or even carrying that perfume atomizer bracelet you gave me last year.”

  “Perfume,” he said in a flat tone.

  She jagged a brow. “Have you forgotten the day you rushed me to the hospital with Daddy when I sprayed Mother’s perfume in my eye at the age of eight? Burned like the dickens and blurred my vision too—which, with the surprise factor, would temporarily disarm any attacker.”

  He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Only you, Allison.” The smile faded into a scowl. “But a gun? I don’t think so.”

  “Miss Penny told me a firearm is a must for any household in the vicinity of the Barbary Coast and that her nephew, the captain of detectives for the 14th precinct, actually taught her how to shoot. Claimed it was the only way he’d allow her to stay in her home—if she promised not to go out after dark and learn to use her husband’s old shotgun, which she did.”

  Logan’s lips compressed. “Yes, Harmon and I are close friends, which is the only reason I allowed your mother to purchase that property in the first place. He assured me his aunt’s house was on the edge of the Coast, away from the fray, and promised to beef up patrols.”

  “ ‘Allowed’?” Allison smiled, her eyes finally sparkling with something other than tears. “As if you could have stopped her. You know Mother when her heart is set on something.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said with a faint smile. Painfully well. His hand covered hers. “But I’m not sure about a firearm or even Jamie teaching you to box�
�both are dangerous.”

  “So is the Barbary Coast, and yet that’s where our school is.”

  “Against my wishes,” he said with a grunt.

  Allison cocked her head. “Well, I have been reading up on something else that might work,” she said carefully, the excitement in her eyes too obvious to miss.

  “I’m sure you have.” His stern look couldn’t mask his affection.

  She scrambled to hike a leg beneath her skirt, hands folded like a prayer of hope. “You see, I’ve been researching this new form of self-defense that originated in the Far East . . .”

  His smile crooked. “Chopsticks?”

  Her giggle made his heart soar.

  “No, silly, something that doesn’t require anything but my hands and feet.”

  “Really.” He couldn’t help the skepticism that crept in his tone. He held up her hand and then pinched the toe of her tiny shoe. “Pretty small weapons, sweetheart.”

  Mischief laced her smile as she wiggled her brows. “Not if you know jiu-jitsu.”

  “Jiu-jitsu?” He squinted, trying to recall where he’d heard the word before.

  “Don’t you remember Teddy Roosevelt’s secretary telling us when we had dinner with him in May how the president’s been practicing jiu-jitsu? He said the president brought a Boston jiu-jitsu master to the White House last year to teach him the Japanese art of self-defense and told us that even women and children can learn it.”

  Logan chuckled. “He also told us Teddy has a habit of skinny-dipping in the Potomac during the winter, young lady, but I’m not sure that’s something to emulate.”

  She nibbled on the edge of her smile, an innocent blush dusting her cheeks. “Uncle Logan, really—I’m serious here. Why, I’ve even read that some states are encouraging their police officers to learn jiu-jitsu as an excellent means of self-defense.”

  He drew in a deep breath and slowly released it again. “Well, I’m certainly in favor of anything that can restore your confidence and protect you in the process . . .”