Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (17 page)

He grinned at the way her elbows scrunched to her sides and her fists pressed to her mouth, eyes as round as saucers. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?” she rasped.

So far his patience was getting more exercise than his student. “No, Miss McClare—you’re going to hit me, but I’ll show you how as gently as possible, I promise.”

The fists lowered. “You also promised you wouldn’t tell my family about the attack . . .”

He shook his head and planted hands low on his thighs, opting to chuckle rather than break down and cry. “You are worse than a rabid hound with a bacon-greased bone, you know that?” He peered up, thinking he’d never seen a more stubborn woman other than Gram, only this one had a temper to match. And unless he wanted to be scalded by a glare, beat with a stick, or shamed into submission over the next six weeks, he decided the best course of action would be to simply end the feud right here and now. He exhaled slowly. “Look, Miss McClare, since you and I have to work so closely with each other over the next month and a half, what do you say we call a truce and start over?”

The brat had the nerve to wrinkle her nose. “I don’t know—three’s not my lucky number.”

He cocked his head with a squint. “Excuse me?”

“Well, this will be the third time we started over, you know,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders, “so what makes you so sure the third time will be the charm?”

He blinked, absolutely stupefied that the woman not only held a grudge, she counted them too. He shook his head again, unable to stop the grin that eased across his face. “Because contrary to popular opinion, Miss McClare, I am not a moron.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he laughed and finally held out his hand.
“I’d much rather be on your good side than your bad because I’m learning all too quickly it’s a lot less painful. So, truce?”

She nibbled the edge of her smile. “If you apologize for breaking your promise.”

“I did
not
prom—” He clawed at the back of his neck with a groan. “All right, okay, you win. I apologize for breaking the promise I did not make and getting you in trouble, all right?” Lips pursed, he raised both brows. “Satisfied?”

“Almost.” With a brisk fold of arms, she tapped a finger to her mouth, assessing him through narrow eyes. “If you also apologize for being such a grump the day you strolled into my classroom and insulted me when I did absolutely nothing wrong.”

Lips gummed tight, he stared at what was possibly the prettiest girl he’d seen in a long, long while and knew deep down that friendship with her would not be a good idea. And yet, he was equally certain that enmity would shear ten years from his life. Gusting out a sigh of surrender, he nodded his head like the dolt she believed him to be, realizing with a crimp in his pride that the woman was absolutely right. He had been a grump that day, taking out on Miss McClare his frustrations at Darla and rich women he assumed were exactly just like her. She had been absolutely correct—he was a “dim-witted moron.” But not dim-witted enough to stay on the wrong side of a stick-wielding woman who apparently apprenticed under Teddy Roosevelt.

He packed up his pride and put it away, well aware it would do him no earthly good with the woman before him. “You are right, Miss McClare—I took my utter disdain for spoiled society princesses out on you the day we met because frankly I don’t trust them. I had a bad experience with one, and she left a sour taste in my mouth for ladies of means such as yourself. But I was wrong for doing so because being spoiled and pampered is no reason
for me to be uncivil, no matter how annoying that spoiled and pampered princess may be.”

It was her turn to blink. “I’m sorry . . . was that supposed to be an apology?”

His molars started to grind before his brain even sent the signal. “Yeah.”

She folded her arms and hiked her jaw. “Well, then, perhaps I should apologize as well,” she said with a sincere pucker of her brow. “Please forgive me, Mr. Barone, for losing my temper with you that first day . . .” She paused and scrunched her nose. “Pardon me, make that on every day we have ever met. No matter how correct my assessment may have been, it was wrong for me to call you a Neanderthal, brainless caveman, polecat, half-wit, pea brain, cave dweller, unsavory baboon, grouch, Attila the Hun, Mr. Personality, illiterate, dim-witted moron, airheaded oaf, brainless barbarian, Mr. Pinhead, buffoon, big lummox, pompous blowhard, dumb ox, ill-mannered cretin, brainless bully, lecherous lout, rude, obnoxious, and born under a rock.”

His mouth fell open while a prickle of hurt stabbed in his chest. “I don’t remember you calling me all of those names.”

The pink lips leveled into a tight line. “Trust me, I did. Oh, and you have animal-cracker breath, Detective Barone, which isn’t awful except it makes you smell like a hooligan little boy.”

The hurt bled into his tone while the heat bled into his neck. “They calm my ulcers, okay?” His eyes thinned. “Which since I met you, have more than doubled.”

Her mouth squirmed enough for him to notice. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that you own the honor of tripping my temper more than any person alive.”

“I’m honored,” he said with a swerve of lips, “and likewise, I assure you.”

Her teeth tugged at the edge of what looked like the start of a smile. “I had no idea Italian tempers were as volatile as Irish ones, clearly suggesting a truce may be in our best interests.”

“Indeed,” he said softly, suddenly transfixed by that sassy little mole that hovered so close to her mouth. He cleared his throat and re-extended his hand. “And not just a truce, Miss McClare, but I think it would behoove us to take safeguards against our hair-trigger tempers.”

“Such as?” A sparkle lit in her eyes like a little girl on an adventure.

He rubbed the back of his neck, brows beetled in thought. “Well, when one of us starts to annoy the other and we feel our temper on the rise, maybe we should have a code word or name that warns us to step back and count to ten.”

“Oooo, a code word—I like that!” Folded hands to her mouth, she absently chewed on her thumb. “Maybe it can be something that will make us smile—you know, like Mr. Pinhead.”

His mouth crooked. “Or Miss Snob Hill or Princess.”

“Exactly,” she said with a grin, as if this were a game she were playing with her students. “Then if either of us ignores the code and continues to bully or insult . . .” She paused to jag a brow as if to make clear it was his problem and not hers. “That person has to apologize on the spot within ten seconds, all right?”

“I guess that sounds reasonable,” he muttered, pretty sure the fear of having to apologize to this female stick monger would be deterrent enough.

“And finally . . . ,” she gave a pretty tilt of her head, the twinkle in her eye veering towards diabolical, “to ensure the offensive party
does
apologize within ten seconds, there should be a consequence if they don’t. You know, something demeaning . . .”

His mouth took a slant. “You mean like the whack of a stick?”

Her giggle was so contagious, he actually grinned. “Oh, nothing so dire,” she assured him. “No, we need something a bit more humbling, say, kissing the other person’s feet?”

He grunted. “Don’t you get enough of that as it is?”

She arched a brow. “No, I don’t, Mr. Pinhead. One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Sorry,” he said in a near growl, thinking this may be harder than he thought. “At least your lips won’t put a dent in my shoe polish when you kiss
my
feet.” He thrust out a hand. “It’s a deal, Miss McClare.”

“Not quite, Mr. Barone.” The little brat hopped off the chair and darted from the room, tossing an evil grin over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

“If you bring the stick, the deal is off,” he called as she disappeared around the corner. He massaged his face with both hands, wondering what on earth he’d just gotten himself into. A smile tempered his mood as he thought about the little imp, clearly a dickens in a woman’s body. Heat ringed his collar.
But
sweet thunder, what a body.

“I’ll just need your signature right here,” she said in a breathless tone, dashing back in the room with pen and paper in hand. She placed the paper on the seat of the chair and handed him the pen with a disarming smile. “I’ve recorded the terms and signed my name, so it’s your turn.”

He stared, mouth swagging as if his jaw were broken. “A contract? You drafted a contract?” He rubbed his temple to ease a headache that was just beginning to throb. “What is it with you people and contracts?” he said, snatching the pen from her hand. He scanned it before slashing his signature across a rulered line, feeling as if he were signing his life away.

“Perfect,” she said with a pleased lilt in her voice. She finally
held out her hand. “You have a deal, Mr. Barone, and if I’m not mistaken, we have a legal business friendship.”

“Legal annoyance is more like it,” he muttered.

“Did you say something, Mr. Pinhead?” She cocked her head, assessing him through a flutter of lashes. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Sorry,” he snapped, whipping the pen and paper from her hand before she could blink. He tossed them both on the floor. Without further ceremony, he whisked her back up on the chair with another mouse squeak, then turned around again, determined to move this lesson along. “Quick review—with an arm choke, you yank down on the attacker’s arm with both hands, then elbow him twice in the side, stomp on his foot, turn and—” he spun around and jammed first his right fist forward, just shy of her stomach—“inflict a right vertical . . .” She flinched back as he leveled another lightning punch with his left fist. “Then a fast left vertical . . .” Her breath caught when he mock slammed a fist against her right forearm. “Finishing up with an inside forearm and front kick.” In a wide blink of her eyes, he jerked up to kick her abdomen, stopping a mere inch from touching her body. He steadied her when she nearly toppled from the chair. “You okay?” he asked, hands steadying her waist.

This time a lump bobbed in her throat as shallow breaths rasped from her lips. Chest heaving, she slowly peeled his fingers away. “Fine,” she said while a blush bled into her cheeks.

“Sorry.” He gave a gruff clear of his throat before stepping back, palms still tingling from the touch of her body. “Okay, do you think you can try it on me?” Fire crawled up the back of his neck when his voice cracked like a baby-faced adolescent.

“Sure.” She hopped down and marched to the center of the mat, shoulders square and chest still heaving before she turned her back to him. She sounded breathless. “Ready?”

“Let’s just go through the motions first, to make sure you have the steps down, then we’ll try it for real.” He moved closely behind her, once again amazed at how small she was next to his hulking frame. “When you feel my choke, I want you to say each step out loud as you go through the paces, all right?”

She nodded, and several loose curls bounced in agreement.

“Okay, here we go.” He curled an arm loosely around her neck.

“Tug on arms with both hands,” she said, doing exactly that, before she elbowed him twice in the side, following with a hard stamp on his foot. “Two side jabs, stomp, step and turn . . .” She whirled and punched him soundly, taking him by surprise as he issued a grunt. “Right punch, left punch, forearm . . .” Hesitating for the briefest of seconds, she finally plowed him in the stomach with her tiny foot, a satisfied smile inching across her face. “Front kick.”

“Perfect,” he said with a chuckle, “although I think you enjoyed that a little too much.”

She clapped her hands with a short little hop on the balls of her feet like a little girl at a birthday party. “Oh, I did, Mr. Barone. That was fun!”

One edge of his mouth curled. “Not for the guy behind you if I do my job right.” He steered her back around with a gentle touch to her shoulders. “Okay, for real this time, and don’t hold back, okay?” Her giggle floated in the air, and he grinned as he repositioned his arm in a chokehold much tighter than before. “Go!”

She was music in motion, not missing a beat as she executed every step perfectly, sending a cheer when her final kick caused him to stumble back. “I did it, I did it!” she shouted, reminding him of Lottie when she bounced in the air with a glow in her cheeks. “Again?”

“And again, and again . . .” He guided her back around and took his position. “Only each time I’m going to choke you a little harder,
dragging you backwards until we get to the point where you can deflect the type of chokehold you might encounter in an actual attack.” He felt her stiffen when he gripped her neck tighter than before. “And show no mercy, all right?” His tone veered toward a tease. “You know—like when you lose your temper.”

She nodded and continued with the routine, over and over, till she was breathing hard and his arms and chest were tender. He glanced at the clock over the door. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” He bowed when she turned around. “You’re going to be a formidable opponent, Miss McClare, which as the recipient of several whacks with your stick, comes as no surprise.”

Her cheeks were flushed when she returned his bow, and her breathing shallow, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that told him she thrived on this foray into independence. “Thank you, Mr. Barone, I feel like a new woman, and you can’t imagine how great that feels.”

He unrolled his sleeves and rebuttoned his shirt, strolling over to the stack of chairs to retrieve his jacket and tie. “Something wrong with the old one?” he asked with a cock of his head. A slow grin slid across his face. “Other than her tinderbox temper?”

Her smile was halfhearted at best. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” She replaced her shoes while he did the same, a weary sigh escaping as she reached for her hat. “She was too trusting,” she said quietly, as if their intimate session allowed the safety to reveal insight into the real Allison McClare. “Too wide-eyed and too willing to comply with society’s dictates as to what her future must be.” Bending to pick up the contract and pen, she stood with eyes downcast, absently twirling the pen in her hand. “Too vulnerable to hurt,” she whispered, “but never again.” Her melancholy broke with a firm square of shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough for taking this on, Mr. Barone. I know I haven’t been easy
to get along with, tonight or in the past, and for that I humbly apologize.” She offered a tremulous smile, and his gut clenched when he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I’m afraid we’re two of a kind, you see. Like you, I was betrayed and badly wounded as well, by a man much like yourself, and more than one, really, which I suppose gives credence to your prior claim that I am ‘a rich dame as dumb as she is lost.’ ”