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

By Julie Lessman

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San Francisco, Summer 1903

Merciful Providence . . . I smell a rat! Allison McClare sniffed with nose in the air, the unmistakable scent of Bay Rum drifting into her empty classroom of the Hand of Hope School. Although not uncommon for an antiquated Victorian house a stone’s throw from the sewers of the Barbary Coast, this smell of “rat” was altogether different and far more frightening. She wrinkled her nose.

The man kind.

“I think you took a wrong turn, lady, high tea is at The Palace.”

“Oh!” Body jolting, she whirled around at the bulletin board, almost inhaling the straight pin in her teeth. She blinked at a tall, disgruntled stranger cocked in the door of her classroom who might have been dangerously attractive if not for the scowl on his face. An unruly strand of dark hair, almost black—like his mood appeared to be—toppled over his forehead beneath a dark Homburg he obviously felt no courtesy to remove. He hiked a thumb toward the front door, his gruff voice a near snarl as he glared through gray-green eyes that seemed to darken by the moment, the color of stormy seas. “I assume that’s your fancy car and driver out front? Well, it needs to move to the back alley, lady, whether you’re here to teach or just out slumming with the poor folks.”

The straight pin in her teeth dropped to the floor along with her jaw. S as she gaped, hardly able to comprehend the rudeness of this Neanderthal who’d be better attired in bearskin and club than the charcoal suit coat draped over his shoulder. Rolled sleeves of what might have been a crisp white shirt at one time revealed muscled forearms thick with dark hair like the brainless caveman he appeared to be. It was only two in the afternoon, but already dark bristle shadowed his hard-angled jaw, lending an ominous air to a man who possessed less charm than found on the head of her pin. Her nose scrunched, the smell of “rat” surprisingly strong due to a keen sense of smell and three near misses at the altar. She fought the squirm of a smile over his high starched collar with its off-center tie—loosened as if in protest to fashionable attire he considered a noose ’round his neck.

Like the one I’m envisioning now . . .

He squinted as if she were the intruder instead of him, daring to invade his cave. “What, cat got your tongue?”

Yes, you pinhead . . . a polecat. She glared right back in silence, figuring if she waited long enough, his face would crack . . . something she’d pay good money to see. She almost wished she’d gone home with Mother and Cassie earlier instead of staying later on a Friday the week before they opened their new school. Her gaze flicked to the clock on the wall that indicated her elderly driver Hadley was on time to take her home. And not a moment too soon, if this barbarian was any indication of the rest of her day.

Her silence apparently ruffled his fur because his eyes narrowed, if possible, even more than before as he blasted out a noisy exhale, shaking his head as if she were the one with a pea for a brain. “Great—a rich dame as dumb as she is lost,” he muttered, and every word his insolence had stolen from her lips marched to the tip of her tongue to do battle.

“Pardon me, Mr. Personality,” she said in a clipped tone that suggested he’d just crawled out from under a rock, “but the one who is lost here, you cave dweller, is you, so I suggest you lumber back to whatever crater you climbed out of and search for the manners you obviously left behind.” In a royal swoop befitting the school’s new drama teacher, she snatched the dropped pin from the floor. With a swish of navy taffeta, she jabbed it into the bulletin board as if it were the backside of this unsavory baboon and every other who’d broken her heart. Before the baboon could speak—or grunt—she whirled around with a flourish, satisfied to see a sagging jaw that likely resembled the mouth of his cave. She’d obviously rendered the beast dumb. Good—a perfect match for his brain.

“And for your information, sir, I am the new English and drama teacher for the Hand of Hope School for girls, so I hardly need some surly wiseacre telling me I took a wrong turn. Because trust me, mister . . .” Lips pursed, she did a painfully slow perusal from the glare of those turbulent eyes miles down to laced oxford shoes that were surprisingly well polished. Her gaze sailed back up past a lean body with muscled arms and massive shoulders to settle on an annoyingly handsome face. “If I needed a compass, I’d buy one.”

The grouch caught her totally off-guard when the sullen slant of his mouth twitched with a hint of a smile, joining forces with a shuttered look that fluttered her stomach. “I don’t care if you teach angels to fly in the wild blue yonder, lady,” he said with a flip of a badge. “This is my beat, and you can’t park your fancy car out front. It’s an annoyance.”

Yes, I know the feeling. She jutted her chin. “You don’t look like a police officer,” she challenged, eyes narrowing at the stylish sack suit he wore that appeared of high quality even if it was as disheveled as his hair.

He exhaled with a slack of his hip. “Look, lady, I’m a plainclothes detective who’s off duty at the moment, all right? And if we’re going to get down to brass tacks . . .” He gave her a half-mast look that meandered from the diamond combs in her upswept hair, down the bodice of her silk shirtwaist, to her Italian kidskin shoes beneath her House of Worth skirt. The gray-green eyes narrowed in a squint. “I’m afraid you don’t look much like a schoolteacher either.”

If there was one thing she disliked more than a drafty classroom in an abandoned building in the wrong part of town, it was an obnoxious police officer scowling in that same drafty classroom as if she’d just committed a crime. Which, given the snide look on his chiseled face, she was sorely tempted to do. She folded her arms. “Well, then, if you are an ‘off duty’ officer, I fail to see what business it is of yours just where my driver parks our car.”

She stumbled back with a tiny squeak when he yanked his coat off his shoulder and barreled forward. His close proximity butted her to the bulletin board while he loomed over her like Attila the Hun. “Look, lady,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “I’m just looking out for your best interest here.” He stabbed a finger toward the front of the building, the heat in his eyes going head-to-head with the heat in her cheeks. “This is the bloomin’ Barbary Coast, not a tea party on Nob Hill. A pretty debutante in a fancy car and diamond combs is an engraved invitation to trouble in a district where I work my tail off to keep crime down.”

She blinked. Pretty?

He gouged the bridge of his nose with blunt fingers, venting with a blast of air that smelled faintly of animal crackers. “All right, okay,” he said in a civil tone that sounded forced. A hint of contrition laced his words as he held out a ridiculously large hand pert near the size of a baseball glove. “Maybe we need to start over. My name is Detective Nick Barone of the 14th precinct and you are—?”

Smitten. Allison stared at his hand, then peered up at his striking face, the man so incredibly tall, it put a crick in her neck. Up close he was larger than life, older and more intimidating, the gray-green eyes such an unusual color, he might as well have hypnotized her with a watch swinging on a chain—she couldn’t blink, breathe, or move. Mouth slack, she finally swallowed hard, his bold gaze and the scent of Bay Rum from his shadowed jaw doing funny things to her stomach. She tried to speak, but it was as if those incredible eyes had fused the words to her throat. Her apparent stupor actually tipped his full lips into a charming if cocky smile that sent the warmth in her face straight to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Now, I know you can talk, ma’am, because you shot enough barbs to qualify me as a member of the cactus family, Miss—”

“Mc—” She coughed, clearing the knot of awkwardness from her throat as she tentatively placed her hand in his. “McClare—Allison McClare.”

He hiked a thick, dark brow. “The McClares of Nob Hill—as in Logan McClare?”

“My uncle,” she said with a shy smile, wondering how a caveman could go from heating her temper to heating her skin within four powerful strides and a smile that could thaw ice.

He responded with a sharp rasp of air through clenched teeth. The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted along with her hand when he jerked his away, his smile as stiff as an iceberg during an Antarctica winter. “I see,” he said with a glacial look that broke the spell of his eyes. “A snob hill debutante used to doing whatever you blinkin’ well please.”

Her mouth sagged open before she snapped it shut with a plunk of hands to her hips. “Look here, Mr. Barone, when you see a sign out front that says ‘no parking,’ you come see me, all right, and I will make good and sure Hadley parks elsewhere.” She smirked. “If you can read.”

“It’s-pronounced-‘Ba-ron-ee,’ long e,” he ground out, slanting in with those mammoth hands planted low on tapered trousers. The motion parted his open waistcoat to reveal a shoulder holster with gun, stealing a rush of air from her throat. “Look, missy, I don’t have time to be a nursemaid to some spoiled rich kid who doesn’t have the sense God gave a gerbil. If you insist on rubbing your old man’s money into the faces of every sick and starving whoremonger, cut-throat, or murderer roaming these streets, be my guest—you deserve what you get.”

Gun or no, Allison stepped forward, head snapping up while she contemplated suing him for whiplash. “Well, Mr. Ba-lon-ee, long e, I’d like to see you ‘long’ gone from my classroom, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?” She jabbed a finger toward the door like a schoolmarm reprimanding a student, eyes burning more than her cheeks. “So why don’t you take your little gun and your little snide attitude right out that door, mister, because you are seriously putting a cramp in my neck.” She swished her fingers under his nose as if to shoo him away. “Go—pester somebody who’s actually breaking the law, you oversized bully, or I’ll give you something to arrest me for.”

The airheaded oaf actually stood there and laughed with a fold of arms. “Is that right? What are you going to do, Miss Mc-High-and-Mighty? Sic your butler on me? That dolt appeared as lost as you when I asked him to pull around back.”

“He’s deaf, you brainless barbarian!” she shouted, his insult to Hadley unleashing her Irish temper. “Okay, that’s it.” She stomped to the blackboard to snatch her pointer and smacked it on her desk before waving it at the door. “Out—now!”

“Ahem . . . excuse me, miss,” Hadley interrupted, “but is this hooligan disturbing you?” Straight and staunch at the door, her beloved butler stood impeccable as always in black jacket and tie, studying Mr. Pinhead with his usual air of calm. “I will be happy to escort him from the premises if you like,” he said, chauffeur hat in hand and silver head tipped in question.

The buffoon laughed again, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, mister, I’d hate to break any of your bones—”

“Oh—good idea!” Allison charged forward with stick in hand. She stopped two feet away to award Hadley her sweetest smile. “Thank you, Hadley, but that won’t be necessary—I’ll be out shortly.”

“Very good, miss,” the elderly man said with a click of heels, allowing an uncharacteristic hint of a scowl at Mr. Personality before disappearing down the hall.

She poked the pinhead’s chest. “Out—now!”

“Hey, that smarts!” he said with a laugh that bordered on a growl.

“Oh, as if you’d recognize anything ‘smart,’ you dimwit—out!” She prodded him toward the door without mercy while he fended her off with hands in the air, laughing so hard, she whacked him one good. “You think this is funny, mister? Let’s see you laugh when I file a police report for harassment.” She walloped him on the shoulder, which wiped the smirk off his face.

“Hey, lady, do that again, and I’ll arrest you for assault on an officer.”

“Assault on a moron, you mean—you’re off duty, remember?”

She clobbered him again, and the thug promptly plucked the pointer from her hand and broke it in half with a loud crack. “Okay, sister, you asked for it—I’m going to report you to the principal of this school.” He tossed the broken stick across the room with a clatter, eyes glinting.

“Good!” She slapped hands to her hips once again. “She’s-my-mother, you bully . . .”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he said with a grunt. “Another rich dame appeasing her guilt by dabbling in charity between high tea and tennis on the lawn.” He stared her down, knuckles clenched on the jacket in his hand. “She’d have to be blood related to hire a sassy mouth like you.”

That did it. Uncle Logan was right—some Italians were rude, obnoxious, and couldn’t be trusted, an opinion he’d held since his father clashed with Domingo Ghirardelli over derailed chocolate investments. Eyes blazing, she marched right up and thumped him on the chest. “She didn’t hire me,” she snapped, “I volunteered.” Hands back on her hips, she tilted her head, voice overly sweet. “Because rather than play lawn tennis or eat bonbons, my mother and I prefer to use our time and money to educate disadvantaged young girls so they don’t grow up to be bullied by pompous blowhards like you.” Chest heaving, she recharged with a harsh inhale, unleashing every bit of fury she harbored toward this dumb ox and every man just like him. “At least I have a mother and wasn’t born under a rock.”

His face paled. “Are you quite through?” A tic flickered in his jaw.

She elevated her chin, body quivering as all energy slowly seeped from her limbs. “No,” she whispered, tears sparking her eyes. “Please leave and don’t ever come back.”

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 marry 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 into 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.

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