Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (23 page)

He mauled his face with his hands, the smell of fried chicken lingering on his fingers.
I need to be whacked with that stick of hers
for what I’m about to do . . .

“It’s the last time you’ll have to bother with me, I promise.”

Yeah, right.
His eyelids lifted to take in the glow of adventure in her innocent face, the thrill of independence in eyes that already held way too much sway . . . He huffed out a blast of air that branded him for the moron she’d believed him to be. “In and out, then home, got it?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” She launched into his arms with a hug that robbed his lungs of all air, thankfully paralyzing his body lest he respond in a way neither of them wanted.

Or
needed.

She pulled away with a giggle, the flush in her cheeks a perfect complement to creamy skin and ebony hair. “You won’t regret it, Nick, I promise,” she said with a bounce in her step.

Already do
. Clamping a hand to her arm, he all but dragged her down the street while she chattered on, unable to shake the feeling that this was a tactical error.

Her lively step kept pace with his long-legged gait, scurrying to keep up. “And after Chinatown, you have my word that I’ll hop on that cable car and go straight home all by myself.”

“Wrong. After Chinatown, I’ll get on that stupid cable car to see you home, nausea or no.”

“Seriously, Nick, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, Allison, I do,” he emphasized with a stern lift of his brow.
“The terms of my contract were to walk you home after each lesson and by thunder, I’ll honor them.” His lips thinned in disgust. “The last thing I need is your rich uncle on my back.”

Her excitement dimmed as she came to a dead stop, a hint of hurt in her tone. “You don’t like him, do you?” she whispered, sorrowful eyes indication she held her uncle in high esteem.

His jaw tightened as he secured her arm, tugging her on. “He’s not on my Christmas card list, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why?” she asked, voice quiet and gaze burning his profile. “Why don’t you like him?”

He shot her a sideways look, her uncle and Darla Montesino reminding him just why he didn’t trust the upper class. “Because I don’t trust rich men or their power-hungry families,” he said with a bite in his tone, wishing he’d never drawn close to Allison McClare.

“That includes me, I suppose?” The hurt in her voice made him feel like a jerk.

Expelling a weary exhale, he glanced both ways at the corner of Jackson and Montgomery. He gripped her upper arm to practically carry her catty-corner across the cobblestone street to Chinatown. “It did,” he groused, annoyed that he no longer looked at her that way. His voice softened despite the clip of his words. “But you’re different. Kind. Unpretentious. Giving rather than taking.” He released her arm on the other side of the street, continuing on with a brisk gait, hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched. His eyes narrowed as he stared straight ahead into the kaleidoscope world of Chinatown—as foreign to the city as Allison was to the greedy and pompous upper class that had ruined his life. Bitterness roiled, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. “And nothing like your uncle.”

She slowed him with a gentle touch, drawing his gaze when
she stopped. “You’re wrong about Uncle Logan, you know,” she said quietly. “He’s a good man, Nick.”

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I’m sure he is to you, but the simple truth is men with money like your Uncle Logan execute power with a sharp blade.” His eyes locked with hers, ignoring the curious stares of Chinatown residents as they milled around them. “Haven’t you heard the expression ‘power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely’?”

Her chin inched up the barest degree. “Of course I have, but Uncle Logan is not corrupt.”

“Says the woman with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He huffed out a noisy breath, tired of pussyfooting with a society dame who didn’t know which end was up. “I don’t mean to offend, Allison, but your head’s in the clouds up there on that hill, totally ignorant of the damage men like your uncle do to the poor beneath their upper-crust feet.” His jaw hardened along with his tone while he stared her down, hands loose on his hips. “Like my good friend whose grandson was murdered because of a quarantine
your
uncle Logan helped put in place.”

All blood siphoned from her face, making her wide green eyes and coal-black hair all the more stark and beautiful. “What d-do you mean?” she whispered, her hurt unleashing his guilt.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the seeds of a headache as he exhaled loudly. “Look, Alli, that was uncalled for and I apologize.” Glancing at his watch, he forced a tight smile. “It’s getting late, so let’s not ruin the last few minutes we’ll ever spend together, okay? I’ll give you a quick tour, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll even buy you a moon cake.”

That did the trick. Nick battled a grin when her eyes circled as wide as her mouth. “Oooo, what’s a moon cake?” she asked, clearly sidetracked from their clash over her uncle.

His grin broke free at her little-girl enthusiasm, pride swelling that he could be the first to introduce her to this Chinese tradition. “Don’t get too excited—they don’t taste all that great, but it’s part of the Chinatown experience. It’s a moon-shaped pastry with this awful lotus-seed paste, kind of fruity, but a bit sour in taste.”

His gaze flicked to where tattered red flags of a Chinese bakery waved in the breeze, and he pressed a palm to her back to speed up her pace. Which wasn’t easy. She was like Alice in Wonderland, jaw slack and reticule clutched to her chest while she gawked, drinking in every detail as if it were the green tea Ming Chao served in his restaurant.

He latched on to her arm to guide her where he wanted to go, but that didn’t stop her head from swiveling to and fro, mesmerized with something as simple as a neighborhood grocery where dead ducks hung limp and greasy in dirty windows. She wrinkled her nose at the putrid smell of garbage from baskets of rotten vegetables thick with flies, tainted further by the body odor of the milling crowd. Her pace slowed when she spotted a ragged little boy chatting with a white-bearded man in front of a ramshackle store, the boy’s knee-length queue snaking down his back. A cloud of sweet smoke drifted in the air, engulfing both the boy and the old man as he puffed on a long, carved pipe.

A frown marred her features as she swallowed hard, apparently no longer enthralled with the scent of opium now that she knew what it was. “Do a lot of people smoke opium in Chinatown?” she whispered.

Nick’s mouth crooked. “Enough.”

“Oh,” she muttered weakly while a knot shifted in her throat. Her gaze strayed across the street where ten-foot wooden doors lined the front of a chipped stone building. Emblazoned with garish yellow stars and grimy windows with tarnished brass grates,
it obviously intrigued her like everything else in Chinatown. “Oh my, what an . . . interesting building,” she whispered, a hint of reverence to her tone. “Is that a church or a temple?”

He couldn’t help it—he grinned. “It’s a brothel, Miss McClare—yet another reason why you need an escort, if you can’t tell a house of prostitution from a house of God.”

Her cheeks bloomed with color, and he shook his head. If ever there was an innocent, it was Allison McClare, and the very thought tightened his grip on her arm.

“Oh, my.” She peeked up with such an adorable smile, his heart did a flip. “You were right—this
is
too seedy for me alone, which makes me all the more grateful for your company.”

He pursed his lips, unable to thwart a flicker of a smile. “Yeah, well, it’s the last time, Miss McClare, so get your fill now because my days of playing escort are over.”

Her chin jutted high. “Yes, they are, and I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done, not the least of which is allowing me to experience a part of my city I’ve longed to see forever.” The color heightened in her creamy cheeks as she clutched his arm with a new bounce in her step. “And you have my word,” she continued in a bubbly rush, “after Chinatown, I’ll hop on that cable car and go straight home all by myself. Then your chore will be over and done forever.”

Over and done forever?
The rapid-fire tirade of a high-pitched Chinese argument interrupted his thoughts along with the tinkling of music. All at once, a man flailed through the air to land hard on the sidewalk in front of them, causing Allison to jump back with a squeak when he retched in the gutter. Nick hustled her past with a dry quirk of his lip while he stifled a grunt, returning to his former thought.

Wanna bet?

17

C
linging to Nick’s arm, Alli stared in awe, head back and jaw slack, eyes as round as the gape of her mouth. Never had she seen anything so exotic, so foreign, . . . so heartbreakingly poor!

Chinatown.
So close and yet so very far away. Where the air was alive with myriad smells and odors that whirled Alli’s senses—roast duck and ginger and fried noodles that Nick referred to as chow mein, all mingling with the mystical scent of perfume, opium, and something smoky and sweet Nick identified as incense burning on temple shrines. Groups of men dressed in dark shift-like jackets congregated in front of storefronts with wooden awnings and massive glass lanterns, eyeing her with curiosity through narrow eyes. Silver-haired matrons hurried by with young girls in tow, each arrayed in loose black silk coats and trousers, all casting furtive glances her way. Alli caught her breath at the beauty of amber skin aglow with dark, almond-shaped eyes and shimmering jet-black hair adorned with ornaments.

“Oh my, this is fascinating,” she breathed, her ears tingling from the melodic
shwish-shwish, sheee-shee
of conversations she didn’t understand, or the bumble-bee hum of a musical instrument Nick confirmed as a Chinese flute. Her body buzzed with adrenaline as he ushered her through the crowded streets, eyes flaring wide at myriad three-story structures—some brick, some wood, some with metal and wood canopies sheltering the sidewalk—
all
riveting!

She listened when Nick pointed out various sights and sounds
and smells, her gaze darting from faded silk and bamboo lanterns suspended from overhangs to hodge-podge balconies where large porcelain pots overflowed with spindly flowers and plants. Huge yellow flags with blue dragons held her spellbound, whipping over the rooftops in the opium-scented breeze. Impoverished yet fascinating, the fourteen-block square was as unique to the city as the people themselves.

Her initial desire to visit their laundress Lili Chen suddenly resurfaced and she spun to a stop, hands clasped in prayer. “Oh, Nick, here I am in Chinatown for the first time in my life and probably the last, and I’d give anything to meet some of its people.” Her teeth tugged at her lip. “Like maybe a visit to Lili Chen’s home? You know, just to say hello?”

His lips flattened into a scowl while he snatched her arm to continue on. “I already told you, you won’t be welcome there, so get that idea out of your head right now. This is a tight-knit community, Alli, where privacy is paramount.” He steered her safely past a parade of four laughing little boys who were waving sticks, marching single file with white and black skullcaps on their heads. “They don’t need you nosing around, visitors barging in where they’re not wanted. This is a city within a city for a reason—to maintain their privacy and tradition. Everything they need is right here—work, food, schools, entertainment, newspapers, education—you name it.”

A cramp squeezed in her chest, as tight as the grip of Nick’s hand on her arm. She slowed her pace, blinking hard to deflect the moisture that threatened over the keen disappointment she felt. Was it so wrong to want to experience the culture of this exotic place, to meet its people and learn of its customs so maybe someday she could reach out to them? Good heavens, she’d waited twenty-two years to explore this city she loved, and here she was—oh, so close!

Too close.
“B-but . . . but—”

“But nothing, Miss McClare,” he groused, “case closed.” He slid her a look and groaned when he obviously spotted the tears in her eyes. Halting on the sidewalk, he mauled his face with his hands, a mutter under his breath merging with a loud growl from his stomach. “You are one monumental pain in the posterior, you know that?” He huffed out a sigh and angled to face her, hand slung low on his hips. “I guess you’re hungry too.”

She caught her breath, not daring to believe what that comment might mean. She nodded, fingers pinched white on the purse in her hands.

“Figures.” Jaw tight, he snagged her arm and all but lifted her off her feet, barreling down the street so fast, she had to hold on to her straw hat.

She was winded and breathing hard when he finally came to a stop. Even so, the air heaved still in her throat as her eyes slowly scanned up. For surely the sixth time that night, her mouth gaped in amazement at the unusual sight of plaster walls emblazoned with mural paintings of exotic birds and landscapes. Interspersed throughout were colorfully clad Chinese figures depicted in various scenes. “Oh my . . . ,” she whispered again, the air in her lungs slowly seeping through parted lips.

Nick nudged her from behind. “I thought you were hungry,” he whispered, the warmth of his words in her ear causing her to whirl around with heat in her cheeks.

“I . . . I am,” she said, suddenly in awe of another massive structure looming overhead, only this one was eyeing her with a half-lidded gaze that caused her stomach to flip.

He hiked a brow, gruff manner now edged with a smile. “So, you wanna gawk or go in?”

“Ohhhh . . . ,” she whispered, clasped hands to her lips, “is this where we’re going to eat?”

“It is,” he said with a wry tilt of his mouth, prodding her in
with a hand to the small of her back. Her body tingled, both from anticipation and the touch of his palm guiding her through a wooden door carved with a three-tailed dragon. “This is my friend Ming Chao’s restaurant,” he said, bending close to be heard over the magical sound of a xylophone played by an Oriental beauty with silken black hair. “Home of the best Hunan chicken in Chinatown, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

Alli’s heart pounded as she stepped in, her mouth watering immediately at the delicious smells that assailed her senses. The room had a decidedly intimate air that spread a warmth in her chest rivaling the glow of candles flickering on scarlet-clad tables. The soft murmur of conversations melded with the delicate tinkling of music to create a surreal effect that swept her a world away. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she caught her breath at the rare sight of a room crowded with well-dressed businessmen in suits and ties dining with locals attired in traditional dark, boxy garb. It was a foreign country unto itself where people of all color and class defied social convention, filling her with a sense of hope that brought a mist to her eyes.

“Mr. Nick!” A small, wiry man bounded forward with arms stretched wide, flashing a toothy smile above a wispy silver beard that trailed his chest. A waist-long silver queue bounced over one shoulder of his black tunic while loose satin trousers flared in the breeze, revealing satin slippers with wooden soles. “You away too long!”

Embracing the tiny man with a hearty hold that Alli feared might crush, Nick grinned and slapped him on the back with a force that rattled the old man’s rusty laughter. “Are you kidding? I’m still licking my wounds from the last time, when you humiliated me in mahjong.”

The man’s high-pitched giggle made Alli smile, dark eyes thin
ning into happy slits as his head briskly bobbed up and down, flapping the tassel of his embroidered flat cap. “Ah, but true mark of humble man you come back, yes?”

Nick’s rich laughter boomed off gold-and-scarlet water-silk-papered walls, shocking Alli when she realized she’d never heard it quite so full and so free. “For a humble man, yes. For a jaded cop from Lower Manhattan? Not so much.”

Nodding, Ming Chao took a step forward, his gaze lighting upon Alli with a secret smile. Bending at the waist, he bowed in greeting, weathered eyes shrewd in assessment. “Ah, and you Mr. Nick’s woman, yes?”

Heat scalded her face as she shook her head, unable to speak for the tongue now fused to the roof of her mouth.

Nick shored her up with a casual hand to her back. “Sorry, Chao, she’s just a friend.”

A sly smile eased across the old man’s wrinkled face as his eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes, Mr. Nick, but pretty friend, yes?”

Nick’s husky chuckle did nothing for Alli’s composure when the scoundrel’s fingers playfully nipped at her waist. “
Very
pretty,” he responded with a laugh that told her he was enjoying her discomfort.

“Hello, I’m Allison McClare.” She extended a hand, finally managing to speak. “It’s nice to meet you . . . Mr. Ming?” she said, not quite sure which name to use.

The warm smile on his lips withered as he stared, ignoring her hand with an arch of a silver brow. “McClare?” he repeated, gaze thinning as he slid Nick a frown.

Nick’s weary exhale blew warm against her head. “Logan McClare’s niece, but nothing like him, I assure you.” He nodded toward the back where a couple just vacated a booth. “It appears my favorite table is available, Chao, and I did promise her the best Hunan chicken in the city.”

Eyes locked on Allison with a sharp stare, Ming Chao slowly nodded, chest expanding with a heavy draw of air. “For you, Mr. Nick—anything.”

A chill slithered Alli’s spine as the old man abruptly turned to pluck silk embroidered menus from a carved mahogany table before silently leading them to a booth.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?” she whispered as Nick ushered her behind their host.

“You’re a McClare, Allison, figure it out. The name doesn’t exactly endear you to the people of Chinatown, especially to a man whose grandson was killed during a quarantine riot.”

She whirled around, almost colliding with Nick. “Oh, Nick, no! It was Ming Chao’s grandson who was killed?” Pain seared at the personal connection with the spry, old man.

The hard angles of Nick’s face softened. “Yes, but Chao is a fair and courteous man who will treat you with the respect due both a lady and my friend.”

A knot jerked in her throat as she nodded, allowing Nick to seat her in the dark mahogany booth with gold embroidered cushions. With a stiff bow, Ming Chao handed her a menu and in a knee-jerk reaction, she clasped his hand with shaky fingers, unable to thwart the sting of hot tears in her eyes. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered, lips trembling, “for the loss of your grandson.”

He froze at her touch, eyes apparently glazed with shock at the boldness of her manner, and then as moisture swelled in eyes filled with pain, he nodded with an awkward pat of her hand. Pulling back, he placed Nick’s menu before him and quickly disappeared, leaving Allison to stare after him with a cramp in her chest. “Oh, Nick, I didn’t offend him, did I?”

Eyes tender, Nick assessed her with a somber look. “Normally I’d say yes, because the Chinese don’t like to be touched by strang
ers, but I think he was moved by your sincerity and grief, Allison . . . as was I.” With a clear gruff of his throat, he studied the menu.

She swallowed hard, picking at her nails. “Nick?”

“Yes?” He continued reading, obviously waiting for her to continue.

She peeked up beneath half-lidded lashes, desperate to understand the source of anger he and Ming Chao bore toward Uncle Logan. “Will you . . . tell me what happened? How Ming Chao’s grandson was killed?”

He glanced up, staring for several ragged beats of her heart before expelling a heavy rush of air and laying the menu down. He leaned forward to rest folded arms on the table. “Why?” he asked, gaze boring into hers as if trying to decipher the motivation of her request.

More muscles shifted in her throat as she swallowed her hesitation, determined to mend fences with a man who’d breached her own walls to become a good friend. “Because we’re friends, Nick, and my heart aches if I or my family wounded you or Ming Chao in any way.”

“You order?” A young man in a plain back tunic placed a porcelain teapot painted with scarlet dragons on their table along with matching cups. Offering a short bow, he stood before them with a question in serious brown eyes.

Nick looked up with a faint smile, shoving his menu to the edge of the table. “Yes, Ming Hai, thank you.” His eyes flicked to Alli’s. “Do you mind if I order for you?”

“Please,” she whispered, relieved when he rattled off a long list of Chinese words that somehow sounded so natural from his tongue.

With another curt bow, Ming Hai departed while Nick reached for the teapot, his casual tone at odds with the somber look in his eyes. “What happened to Ming Chao’s grandson,” he said quietly,
“doesn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation, Allison, so maybe after.” He sipped his tea. “I’ll have indigestion enough with all the hot peppers Chao uses. Don’t need to add to it.”