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

by Julie Lessman

  18

  Nick stared, body paralyzed as Allison bolted for the door, frustration hissing from his lips when he realized what he’d done.

  “So help me, I’m an idiot,” he muttered, jerking his wallet from his suit coat.

  He flung payment and tip on the table and gave a curt nod to Ming Chao as he flew past, hurling the wood door open so hard, it ricocheted off the wall. Several people approaching the restaurant jerked back at the sound, but he pushed past, mumbling an apology as he scanned the crowded street lit only by the dim glow of a streetlamp. He took off in the direction they’d come, sprinting down a cobblestone road rank with sewage and occasional clumps of manure, dodging a Chinese man swinging his load on bamboo poles balanced on his shoulders. Nick squinted, trying to catch sight of her amid clusters of men jabbering outside of a Chinese gambling house while white-haired ancients sat on crates, passing an opium pipe. His heart seized when he finally spotted her a block away, darting to cross the street in front of a man carting produce in a rickshaw wagon. A cramp split his side as he pursued, and he had no doubt he deserved any pain that came his way. Allison was a decent sort who didn’t deserve his wrath, no matter how much he’d been betrayed by a wealthy woman just like her.

  “Alli!” He kicked up his speed, heart pumping in his throat at the catcalls of several drunks when she passed a noisy saloon. Chest heaving, he gained on her in the next block, sweat licking his collar like guilt licked at his mind. “Alli—wait!”

  She turned, and his heart wrenched at the sight of her face, mottled with tears. “Leave me alone,” she screamed, stumbling over a cobblestone when she tried to dart from his reach.

  “I can’t do that,” he rasped, sweeping her up in his arms before she could fall to the pavement. Body wracking with sobs, she fought him like an injured animal, clawing and kicking while her sobs shuddered his soul, but he only gripped tighter, desperate to stem her anger. “Allison,” he whispered, breathing hard against the sweet scent of her hair, the clean starch of her hat, “I deserve your wrath and more, but I’m asking you to forgive me—please?” He felt the shift in her mood when her heaves quieted against his chest, his shirt now damp from mucous and tears. A rush of emotion swelled within, and he pressed his lips to her hair, murmuring his sorrow. The crowd flowed around them, like a stream around a boulder, and for the first time since Darla, Nick felt the flicker of something deep inside.

  “Allison,” he whispered, pulling away to cup her face in his hands, baring his soul to this woman who now held a piece of his heart. “I’m a wounded man striking out, so I’m asking you to forgive me, because hurting you is the last thing I want to do.”

  Swollen eyes blinked back, and he sucked in a harsh breath, the urge to kiss her so strong, he felt the air heave still in his lungs. His gaze lighted on her lips, and his belly instantly tightened at the desire that shivered his body.

  “Do I have your word you won’t make advances to my niece?”

  His muscles tensed while Logan McClare once again stood in his way, first with Nick’s hunger for justice on behalf of Ming Chao, now with his hunger for the man’s niece.

  “I forgive you,” she whispered, full lips parted and slick with tears. “But I thought we were friends, Nick—why would you attack me like that?”

  Cradling her face, he grazed her jaw with the pads of his thumbs, craving nothing more than to divulge every dark secret of his soul, but painfully aware he could not. “We are friends,” he whispered, “but I’m a man with more than his fair share of demons and temper.” He swallowed hard, socked in the gut by just how beautiful she was. “And I guess you got a little too close to both.” He bent to brush a gentle kiss to her forehead before slipping his arm through hers. “Let’s get you home, Miss McClare, before your uncle issues a warrant for my arrest.”

  “Nick?”

  He glanced down at her upturned face, the glow of the streetlamp illuminating an innocence more enticing than opium. “Yes?” he said, firming his grip as he steered her through the swarming crowd to Jackson where they would board the cable car.

  She nibbled at the edge of her lip, as if worried he’d snap at her again. “Have you always been this angry? Or did it happen when you lost your grandmother and uncle?”

  He blasted out a heavy sigh, well aware he owed her the truth on some points at least, as to why he had turned on her so. “No, I haven’t always been this angry,” he said quietly, his thoughts traveling back to when he, Mom, and Pop had spent Sundays after church fishing along the Chicago River, the only day his parents took off from the grocery store they owned. Mom would pack a picnic, and Pop and he’d wage a tournament for the biggest fish while Mom cheered them on and read her book. Nick had a fondness for church back then, his desire to please God as strong as his desire to please the two people who meant everything to him. A faint smile tipped the edge of his mouth as he guided Alli across the street to where people waited for the cable car. “Hard as it is to believe, I was a pretty happy kid and even a lead altar boy, I’ll have you know.” He slid her a sideways smile. “Father O’Malley was partial to me since I was one of the few boys who didn’t give him any trouble.”

  Her chuckle eased the heaviness that always settled when he thought about Mom and Pop. “Forgive me if I find it hard to believe, Mr. Ga-roan, after all the trouble you’ve given me.”

  He tweaked the back of her neck, causing her to hunch her shoulders and giggle. “Forgiven, Miss McClare,” he said with a wary eye on the cable car ahead, “although I can’t say the same about being forced to ride on that blasted cable car.”

  “Then, let’s walk instead,” she said with a sassy tilt of her head. “I’d rather not risk an incident with Hunan chicken, if it’s all the same to you.”

  His brows dipped. “You don’t mind? Hoofing that many blocks?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Not if you enlighten me as to why a sweet little boy with affection for God grows up into a grouchy man with a hair-trigger temper.”

  He released a weighty sigh, suddenly realizing it was time. Time to unburden himself of years of bitterness and regret . . . and maybe time to begin to trust again. But only with part of the truth . . . a part that wouldn’t give him away. He studied the woman beside him and decided she’d be a good place to start. A girl who knew his failings and seemed to care nonetheless. A friend who stirred deeper feelings he longed to explore. And a woman he’d been sworn to protect, not only from danger, but from the protector himself—the man who posed the greatest peril of all.

  With a noisy exhale, he proceeded to tell her a tale about being an orphan, not a complete lie since his parents died in a fire at their store the summer Nick turned eighteen. Their death was a painful part of his past that no one in San Francisco could know, lest they discover the dirty details that set him on his path of revenge. His gut tightened. A suspicious fire, to be exact, the very week Pop refused to pay for protection from thugs of a neighborhood “athletic club.” No one could prove the “accidental” death of his parents had been a message sent by “the Lords of the Levee,” a First Ward political machine who extorted protection money from small businesses. But Nick knew. He paused, waiting for a horse and buggy to pass before he ushered Allison across the street to Powell, the grind of his jaw evidence of a hateful vendetta he knew God could never condone. And although it wasn’t an eye for an eye, it was pretty close, a plan to put a gun to some heads and make some murderers bleed . . .

  “Who raised you then?” she asked quietly, sympathy lacing her tone.

  “An old woman who took me in like Miss Penny takes in orphans,” he lied, unwilling to divulge too much about his gram. “Insisted I call her Gram. Her son was like an uncle to me.”

  “How did she . . . die?” The hesitation in her whisper was obvious, conveying a concern that her question might upset him.

  “Cancer.” His tone was bitter and sharp, just like his life after Gram had died, taking with her any family he had left in this world. Any l
ove, any hope. Any faith. He stared straight ahead, but all he saw was Gram, wasting away in that ghastly bed.

  He heard her swift intake of air. “How old were you?” she whispered, her innocent query jolting him back. He blinked, his memory of those bitter days hazy like the lights glimmering on Nob Hill as the fog rolled in, but the pain as sharp as ever.

  “Older . . . and out on my own,” he said quietly, grateful he spoke the truth and didn’t have to lie on this one point at least.

  She peered up beneath the brim of her straw hat. “Gram was a godly woman?”

  His grunt was accompanied by the barest of smiles. “All of four feet eleven, and wielded a bigger stick than you, ready to take me to task if I missed church or ran with the wrong crowd.” He fought the sudden sting of tears in his nose. “Truth be told, I still miss her something fierce.”

  “And her son—the man who was like an uncle—he was the uncle who was . . . ?” Her voice faded to silence, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

  “Murdered, yes.” Every muscle in his body tightened at the mention of the uncle who’d protected him, fathered him.

  She halted him on the sidewalk with a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Oh, Nick, I’m so very sorry. Did they . . . ever catch who did it?”

  “No.” His voice was a hiss . . . a lit fuse sizzling away in his gut as revenge spewed from his lips. “But if it takes my last breath, I’ll find the slime who did it and gun him down too.”

  Her body went completely still, and then with no warning at all, she lunged to embrace him, paralyzing his limbs so much, all he could do was stand there inert. “You’ve had so much tragedy in your life, it’s no wonder you’re angry inside.” She pulled away to cup a hand to his cheek, eyes as tender as Gram’s used to be when she’d kiss him good night. The barest of smiles tipped the edges of her beautiful mouth. “Something tells me that underneath all that anger and pain, Detective Barone, is a sweet little boy so wounded, the hurt had nowhere to go.”

  He smiled. “Maybe, but if you expose me, Miss McClare, you’ll answer to Mr. Cranky Pants.”

  “And ruin my fun of calling you pet names?” She hiked her chin with an imp of a smile. “Not on your life, Mr. Pinhead.”

  Their laughter merged in the night, making him wish the bright lights of Nob Hill were farther away. Slowing his pace, he spoke, voice suddenly husky and low. “Allison . . .”

  She looked up—the trusting eyes of a girl he longed to love and protect.

  “Thank you for listening,” he said softly, tucking a silky curl back into her hat. “I haven’t been able to open up like that with anyone since Gram.” He exhaled slowly. “It feels good.”

  Her smile was as soft as the lips that framed it. “You’re welcome, Nick, but at the risk of inciting the ire of Mr. Cranky Pants, I’m compelled to say—it could feel a whole lot better.”

  Scanning the street both ways, he steered her across to her elegant Victorian, lips skewed in an off-center smile. “Now, why do I feel a lecture coming that would make Gram smile?”

  She scurried up the steps with the same energy with which she did everything, giving him a twinkle of a smile out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t know. Maybe because people who truly care will tell you the truth?”

  All but hopping onto the slate rock step beneath the marble portico, she turned to give him a tentative grin, nibbling on the edge of her lip as if worried she might offend.

  He moved in close, slowly grazing her jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Are you saying you care for me, Miss McClare?” he whispered, lips curving at the vulnerable look in her eyes.

  She blinked, gaze wide and lips parted. “I . . . I mean, of course I care for you, Nick,” she stuttered, “we’re friends, after all.” Her throat muscles convulsed as she took a step back, purse clutched to her chest like a shield. “Which is why my heart aches, knowing your anger not only changes who you are, but cuts you off from the only One who can set you free from the pain.”

  Her innocence captured him, convicted him, calling him to be the type of man who would have made Gram proud . . . and his parents. It was his turn to swallow hard and he did so several times, as if to clear the sour taste of bitterness that had tainted his tongue for far too long. Drawing in a deep breath, he nodded, eyes fixed on the tips of his expensive polished shoes—a habit Gram had instilled, citing a clean shine was a reflection of a good and prosperous man.

  Prosperous? Certainly, as the sole heir of his uncle’s ill-gotten gain. But, good? Not unless he took the veiled advice of Allison McClare and forgave the murderers who’d destroyed his family. Something he wasn’t sure he was willing to do, at least not yet. He felt his jaw stiffen as he eased away. No, he needed the hate and bitterness to follow through, to enjoy pulling the trigger on those who had pulled it on him.

  She must have sensed his reluctance because she took a tentative step forward, touching a gentle palm to his face to stroke the bristled plane of his jaw. “Promise me, Nick,” she whispered, “that you’ll start talking to God again. That you’ll open your heart and let Him back in. It’s what Gram would want, and as your friend, it’s what I want for you too.” Her lips curved in a beautiful smile. “Because frankly, Mr. Ga-roan, although Mr. Cranky Pants may be fun to tease—” an imp of a grin eased across her face—“to coin a phrase, he can be a ‘monumental pain’ to be around.”

  He grinned in spite of himself. “That’s better than a monumental pain in the posterior.”

  Her chin spiked up in mock indignation. “No it isn’t, and we both know it.” She lifted on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Good night, Nick.”

  She turned to go and against his will, he stopped her, staying her arm before tugging her near. “Alli,” he said softly, suddenly captivated by the graceful contour of her face, the lush curve of her lips. His fingers strayed to fondle the soft flesh of her ear and as if under a spell, he found himself listing forward, eyelids drugged as he hovered over that perfect mouth he craved to devour. His breathing was shallow and raspy—like hers against his skin—an innocent invitation to taste a forbidden fruit almost too tempting to deny.

  Almost.

  Exercising every ounce of willpower he possessed, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead instead, before straightening with a harsh draw of air. Fisting the brass knob of the burlwood door with way too much tension, he opened it wide, gaze guarded to deflect the desire still burning inside. “Good night, Allison,” he whispered, voice husky and low, almost wishing it were “goodbye” to save both of them the danger of anything more.

  She blinked, a hint of confusion in emerald eyes that wreaked havoc with his iron will. “Good night, Nick,” she said, a valiant attempt at nonchalance he didn’t believe for a second. “Thank you for taking me to Chinatown.”

  His smile was firm—like his resolve to keep a safe distance. “You’re welcome.” He watched her slip into the foyer, his heart as heavy as the door she closed in his face. “It was my pleasure,” he said, the sound of his weighty sigh following him down the steps.

  Unfortunately . . .

  19

  Mother, did you know the Eiffel Tower’s the largest building in the world? . . .

  Caitlyn laid Meg’s letter in her lap. “Yes, darling, I did,” she whispered, lips tipped in a melancholy smile at the memory of Liam telling her the very same thing on their honeymoon to Paris.

  A lifetime ago.

  Resting her head on the back of the wicker love seat in the conservatory, she sighed, the earthy smells of mulch and loam failing to soothe as her gaze trailed from Meg’s letter to the sliver of moon overhead. The panes of glass reflected her sorrow while her thoughts took her back to a time when her four precious children were only a glimmer of love in her husband’s eyes. Expelling another weighty sigh, she grazed her fingertips across the surface of the soft vellum sheet scented with the perfume she’d bought Meg for Christmas, and knew her daughter would thrive in Paris. Her exuberant letter contained n
ot a hint of being homesick, for which Caitlyn was truly grateful, although she couldn’t say the same for herself, a mother deeply “homesick” for a daughter sorely missed. But knowing Meg was happy at last was one of the few comforts Caitlyn enjoyed from the absence of a shy and gentle daughter who’d always been a balm to her mother’s soul.

  Out of nowhere, the thought struck that Meg could possibly meet a beau in Paris and want to stay through college, and suddenly all air heaved still in Caitlyn’s lungs, fear cramping her heart at the painful prospect. Tears immediately stung at the reminder that not only had she lost Liam, but someday in the not-too-distant future, she would lose each of her children as well, their loyalties and lives belonging to another instead of to her, and rightfully so. The very notion pierced her mother’s heart anew, and a frail heave parted from her lips as she put a hand to her eyes, weeks of mourning a child’s departure finally taking its toll.

  Eyes closed and letter limp in her hand, she was grateful the house was still tonight so she could weep in private, her emotional state a bit of an embarrassment that she’d react so strongly to Megan’s departure. And yet, here she was blubbering like a baby while Maddie was sound asleep. Rosie had retired early due to a headache, Cassie and Alli were out with Jamie and Bram, and Blake was only heaven knows where, a contemplation that caused Caitlyn to cry all the more. Not to mention she had begged off on a committee meeting with Andrew, the poor man at a total loss when she answered the door with red-rimmed eyes.

  She laid back against the chaise, head lolling and mood mellow, the dirt-pungent smells of the conservatory usually a balm to her soul, but not tonight. Abandoning herself to a rare moment of release, she gave vent to the deep, hidden sobs that rose from within, purging her of a sadness as intermittent as the mood swings and cycle disruptions that plagued her of late. With shaky, little heaves, she fished her handkerchief from the pocket of her empire tea gown and blew her nose. She so felt like a lost little girl, body scrunched sideways on the settee, legs tucked to her chest and arms folded as she buried her head and continued to bawl.