Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (24 page)

A slow exhale breezed from her lips as she smiled with a neat fold of hands, grateful he’d sidestepped the serious question. “So . . . what exactly did you order for me, Mr. Barone—Hunan chicken seasoned with extra red pepper for all the times I’ve whacked you with my stick?”

A dangerous grin traveled his lips, causing her stomach to flutter. “And risk you throwing up on the cable car too? I doubt a green face would enhance your emerald eyes, Miss McClare, no matter how close a match.”

She laughed, feeling the tightness in her chest slowly unravel.

“Hunan chicken, of course,” he said with a lazy smile, studying her through shuttered eyes as he took another taste of his tea. “Not as hot as your temper, but enough of a wallop you’ll think you’ve been hit with your own stick.”

She arched her brows, enjoying this playful side of Nick Barone she’d only just begun to see. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Ga-roan, I’m a grown woman who revels in the thrill of the cable car, not a weak-kneed little boy likely to lose his supper.”

His smile took on a life of its own as his voice turned husky. “Oh, I’ve noticed, Miss McClare, you can bet your stick on that.”

She blinked, cheeks suddenly going head-to-head with the scarlet linens. Deflecting with a large gulp of tea, she upended the cup, loathe to put it back down and face him again.

His low chuckle taunted. “I’d go easy on that, Alli, you’ll need it later to put out the fire.”

Fire?
Her cup shook as it rattled into the saucer.
Fire, indeed
!
The one in her face, the one from the chicken, and the one when he looked at her like that.

He raised his cup in a toast, a sparkle of approval in gray-green eyes that warmed her more than the tea. “To the Snob Hill princess who made a liar out of me.”

She grinned and sipped. “How so?”

The laughter in his eyes melted into a tender smile. “You’re different, Alli, a privileged woman who gives of herself to those who are not. You seem to really care about the kids at the school.” His bold gaze locked with hers, unleashing a heady swirl of heat in her belly. “You’re a very special lady, Allison, and I consider it an honor to be your friend.”

She swallowed hard, quite sure she was glowing more than the candles. “Me too, Nick.”

Ming Hai returned with heaping plates of Hunan chicken and more tea, and never had she enjoyed a meal more. Whether it was Nick’s colorful stories, the sound of his laughter when she regaled him with hers, or even the sumptuous taste of glazed chicken with scallions and red and orange peppers, never had she felt more languid and warm. She even mastered the art of eating with chopsticks, noting with satisfaction the gleam of approval in Nick Barone’s eyes.

After Ming Hai delivered a plate of orange slices and her moon cake to end their meal, Alli rested her head on the back of the booth like him, both comfortable with the silence as they listened to the music with eyes closed.

And then from across the room, a clear, sweet tone arose, and for a moment Alli thought the xylophone player had begun to sing, so plaintive was the sound. Her gaze was instantly drawn to the young musician who sat in a chair, wearing a white silk embroidered jacket and matching silk trousers. She held a stick-like fiddle against her upper thigh while she slowly grazed a bow across two vertical strings like a violin, creating a sound so melancholy, it was as if the instrument were weeping. Allison stared, mesmerized.

“It’s called an erhu,” Nick said softly, interrupting her trance. “An ancient Chinese stick fiddle that almost wails with grief, like the Chinese people when they lose one of their own.”

Her gaze returned to his, heart thudding at the emotion she saw in his eyes, as if the music mourned for him as well as Ming Chao. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, “albeit haunting.”

A trace of a smile—and yet painfully sad—shadowed his lips. “And starkly appropriate when tragedy strikes for those that you love.”

All at once he seemed so very far away, eyes in a distant stare. She longed to reach across the table and take his hand, to offer comfort for the grief she saw in his face, but knew she could not. Nick Barone was, indeed, too far away—not only in distance across the table, but in his heart, which had been barricaded as thoroughly as her own. With a gentle caress, she absorbed the warmth of her teacup instead, conveying her sorrow with a tender look.

“How much do you know about the quarantine three years ago?” he whispered.

“Not much,” she said quietly, shame warming her cheeks over how little attention she’d paid to the abuse Chinatown suffered during an outbreak of the bubonic plague. She’d been too engrossed in her own social life, school, and fancy-free trips to Europe to consider the import of these people’s lives. Fragrant steam misted her face as she took a sip of her tea, the warmth of the liquid coating a throat suddenly all too parched.

She sensed he needed to talk because he spoke in a low drone, telling her of his close friendship with Ming Chao’s son Lee during the Spanish-American War along with Ito Akira, the Japanese friend who’d taught them jiu-jitsu. The three were inseparable during the campaign, part of the tight-knit group known as Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. Nick’s voice wavered at the mention
of Ming Lee’s death on San Juan Hill, only the first of Ming Chao’s many heartbreaks.

“The next year Chao lost cousins in Honolulu,” he continued, eyes fixed on the steaming cup in his hands, “when its Chinatown there was burned to the ground by city officials during a quarantine for the bubonic plague. The year after, he lost his only grandson in a racial conflict during a similar quarantine here when a Chinese laborer died of the plague.” His gaze lifted to hers, voice suddenly as hard as the bitterness in his eyes. “Without definitive proof, city officials strung rope and barbed wire around Chinatown in the dark of night, inflicting great hardship on an unsuspecting and gentle people.”

He leaned in then, fingers gripped white on the table while his words mounted in anger. “Instead of isolating buildings in which the victim lived and worked, instead of seeking out those in which the sick man came in contact, instead of hunting the rats that carried the disease, they chose to blame all of Chinatown instead.” He eased back in his seat, the flecks of gold fire in those gray-green eyes all but searing her to the spot. “Cutting them off from the rest of the city and much-needed supplies.” A harsh bite infected his tone. “Except, of course, for enterprises owned by wealthy men like your Uncle Logan, which were conveniently exempt from the blockade.”

Alli swallowed hard, fighting the sudden prick of tears. “I’m so sorry, Nick, for all the pain Ming Chao has had, but I don’t understand why you think Uncle Logan was at fault.”

The tender smiles were suddenly nowhere in sight, vanished in the twist of a sneer. “The Board of Supervisors empowered the Board of Health to quarantine Chinatown, and your Uncle Logan is on the board, is he not?”

“Yes, but he would never do anything to hurt these people—”

He grunted. “I know better. I’ve butted heads with your uncle
more than once on issues that would aid the Chinese, not the least of which was in support of his good friend, Gage.”

Allison shook her head, her own ire rising along with Nick’s. “I may not know all the details, but I do know for a fact that Uncle Logan withdrew his support from ex-governor Gage long ago, well before the plague hit the city. I’ve heard him discuss it with Mother many a time.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when Ming Hai refilled their tea, the quiet void between them as stiff as the smile on the young boy’s face. When he left, Nick focused on the orange slices, silence reigning while Alli stared at her plate. The beautiful moon cake pastry he’d ordered suddenly roiled her stomach.

“What’s wrong?” He peered up beneath a crimp of dark brows.

“Nothing,” she whispered, “I just hate to see you so angry.”

He grunted and finished off the fruit, jaw tight as he chewed and ignored her gaze.

She stared at him through a sheen of tears, this man so gruff and angry and yet so tender and kind to those he loved, and longed to know the pain he harbored inside. Pain far beyond his anger over Chao, she suspected, or Uncle Logan, or even a world where greed prevailed. She grazed an idle thumb across the smooth wood of her chopsticks. “The hurt festers deeper every day, you know,” she whispered, knowing full well of what she spoke. “When you hold on to the bitterness with both hands.”

Looking at him now, she saw the same distrust she’d harbored herself far too long, until Cassie had prompted her to pray and let the pain of Roger Luepke go the only way that she could—through forgiveness. A forgiveness that could heal Nick’s past like it was healing her.

Her eyes softened along with her tone. “God’s called us to forgive, Nick, and none of us can truly be happy or experience
His blessings until we let go of the bitterness that stands in the way.” She ducked her head, a faint smile hovering. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you peace comes through forgiveness?”

His head shot up while fire flashed in his eyes. “Yeah, my grandmother, but she died right before my uncle was murdered by rich men like Logan McClare.”

The blood froze in her veins while tears of shock pooled in her eyes. “Oh, Nick, no . . . ,” she whispered, her heart bleeding for his loss . . . but more so for the awful anger that kept him chained to the pain of his past. Swallowing hard, she tentatively reached across the table, grazing his fingers with her own. “I’m so very sorry. Please—tell me how I can help.”

A tic flickered in the stiff line of his jaw, a hard veneer settling on his features that shivered her to the bone. “Forgive me for being frank, Miss McClare, but I don’t want your help.” He shoved his plate away, the abrupt motion jarring the teapot. He reached for the bill that Ming Hai had laid at the edge of the table. “I’ve had quite enough ‘help’ from you rich types who espouse virtue and forgiveness right before you knife a guy in the back. The only help I want is your cooperation in seeing you safely home so I can wash my hands of the lot of you.”

He may as well have slapped her, given the heat stinging her cheeks. Limbs quivering, she rose, no power over the tears that slipped from her eyes. “No, please, I’ll spare you the trouble. I’m quite sure I’m safer with riffraff than a man with so little regard for me or my family.”

“Allison, wait—”

She ignored his command, shoving her plate across the table with a clatter when it careened into the pot. “Enjoy my moon cake, Mr. Barone, please. Not much harmony, I’m afraid. But the prospect of never seeing you again?” She thrust her chin high, her words as harsh as his before she spun on her heel. “Good fortune, indeed.”

18

N
ick 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 love, 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.