Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (25 page)

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 not 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.

“Cait?”

Her heart seized mid-sniffle, head jolting up.
Logan?

“What’s wrong?” he said, a fierce edge of concern in his voice and eyes glowing with an intense protectiveness that always made her feel safe. Sitting alongside, he placed a large palm over the hands she now clasped to her knees. “Why are you crying?”

She shook her head, mortified to be caught in such a pitiful state, cheeks burning from both tears and humiliation over her obvious lack of control. She grappled with the heirloom watch pinned to her dress. “W-what are you d-doing here?” she rasped. “It’s well past eleven . . .”

His eyes pierced with a look of worry that embarrassed her all the more. “Blake and I came back to play pool awhile ago, but the house was so quiet, I thought everyone was in bed.” He grazed a thumb across her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong, Cait—please.”

“Nothing,” she insisted, her nasal tone branding her a liar. With a frantic sweep of legs to the floor, she hefted her chin in a valiant attempt at composure, arching a brow to turn the tables on him. “Haven’t you ever had a mood where you break down and cry to clear your head?”

The edge of his mouth crooked as he studied her with tender eyes, head bowed as if comforting Maddie. “Yes, but I usually just take it out on the bag at the gym.”

Issuing a rare grunt, she dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, well, that’s a luxury I don’t have.”

“Sure you do,” he said with a hint of jest, voice gentle. He scooped her close as he would any of her daughters, casually resting his head against hers. “I can easily install one in your study or even let you take potshots at me.”

He gave her arm a tender pat as she’d seen him do hundreds of times with each of her children, and to her horror, a floodtide of water welled in her eyes.

His words softened to a compassionate whisper. “Why are you hurting, Cait?”

Heaven help her, that’s all it took for the floodgates to open, and with a ferocious need to be held she didn’t quite understand, she collapsed against him in a fit of painful weeping. Sobs wrenching her body, she clenched his silk waistcoat and promptly drenched it with tears, huddling close when his arms surrounded her with a strength that made her feel sheltered and loved. The familiar scent of lime shaving soap and wood spice both comforted and stirred, but she chose to focus on the need to be held by someone for whom she deeply cared.

Her eyelids shuddered closed.
Even if it’s a brother-in-law who
poses a risk to my heart.

Cocooned in his silent embrace, she wept until her sobs trailed off into frail whimpers that finally slowed and settled into an intimate silence. The steady beat of his heart merged with her own, a beautiful harmony that was oddly comforting. Both the tension in her body and a wispy sigh seeped out with every gentle stroke of his hand to her hair, reminding her just how long it’d been since she’d allowed herself to weep in the arms of another.

She reveled in the gentle glide of his thumb to her cheek. “Whatever it is, Cait,” he whispered, “you won’t shoulder it alone. I’ll be here for you—always.”

Emotion swelled in her throat and she nodded, the clean scent of starch and lime and Logan filling her senses with a peace and security she hadn’t expected in the arms of this man. “Thank you,” she said quietly, finally pulling away to dab the handkerchief to her face. Her cheeks immediately heated at the abundance of
water stains on the silk of his waistcoat. “Sweet heavens, but I’ve soaked you good,” she said with a nervous chuckle, peeking up with contrition in her gaze. “If you leave it, Logan, I’ll have it cleaned.”

The faint tilt of his lips clashed with the sobriety in his eyes. “It’s not the vest I’m concerned about, Cait.” With the utmost gentleness, he tucked a loose strand of hair over her ear, the warmth of his fingers lingering far too long for her peace of mind. “What’s wrong?”

She scooted back to her side of the settee, suddenly feeling quite foolish. Barricading her arms to her waist, she forced a bright smile. “Actually, it’s quite silly—a grown woman making a fool of herself over missing a daughter who’s merely away at school.”

He settled in to face her, arm draped over the back of the settee. “It’s never silly to make a fool of ourselves over those we love,” he said softly, “only proof of just how deep that love is.”

She blinked, lips wobbling into a smile. “Why . . . what a beautiful way to look at it, Logan—thank you.”

His smile was sheepish. “Had to come up with some rationale for mutilating the bag in my gym since Megan boarded that train.”

Her lips parted in a delighted chuckle, hand to her mouth. “Oh no, you too?”

“Yep, me too.” He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’ve already told you, family is everything to me, just like it is with you. That means if one of us hurts, we all hurt. If one of us leaves, we all grieve the loss.” His mouth quirked. “Of course, some of us opt for more manly ways in which to vent our frustrations.”

She stared, the tumult of emotions that had prompted her crying jag now welling into a deep affection for the man before her. Overcome with intense gratitude for Logan in her family
and life, she reached out without thinking to gently cup the scruff of his jaw, shocked when his late-evening beard quivered her stomach. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you,” she whispered, “just how much joy you bring into our lives.”

———

Logan froze, pulse thudding to a stop at the touch of her hand.
Oh, Cait, give me the chance
to bring more . . .
Her words warmed his heart as much as her lips would warm his body, and he fought the inclination to swallow hard lest he betray the need to love her the way he so longed to do. But if Napa had taught him anything, it was that Caitlyn McClare was the most skittish of fawns waiting to bolt. He dare not risk tenuous months of restoration to a friendship badly damaged by a kiss taken too soon. Battling the impulse to cup the hand she held to his cheek, he offered a calm smile instead, limbs deathly still lest he scare her away. “No, Cait, you haven’t, but my heart rejoices to hear it.” His eyes burned with an intensity he longed to convey through his touch. “Now more than ever—I live to bring my family joy,” he whispered.
And none more than you . . .

Her eyes softened with a tender sheen of moisture as muscles shifted in her throat, and when she leaned to press a kiss to his cheek, his heart seized. Heat ricocheted at the touch of her lips, and the urge to turn his head mere inches and partake of her mouth was so strong, his body shuddered as he forced it away. Clearing his throat, he quickly stood, voice too husky and hoarse. “Up for a game of cribbage?”

The green eyes blinked. “At this late hour?”

Glancing at his watch, he grinned and extended his hand. “It’s only eleven on a Saturday night, Mrs. McClare, and if it’s not too late to blubber alone in the conservatory, it’s not too late to get our minds off Meg with a game to lift our spirits. Besides, I
think it’s only fair if your son fleeced his uncle in pool, the uncle should at least have a shot at his mother, don’t you think?”

The most perfect lips he’d ever seen—or kissed—curved in a dubious smile as she took his hand to rise to her feet. “I fail to see how you fleecing me in cribbage will lift
my
spirits.”

Bracing her arm firmly with his own, he led her from the room with a low chuckle. “Why, I’ll let you win, of course,” he said, patting her hand. “After that heart-wrenching display of melancholy, Cait, how dare I do anything else?”

Her laughter warmed him inside and out, the glimmer in her eyes no longer because of her tears. “Ha! Do-or-Die McClare laying his pride aside to let someone else win? Especially his pitiful sister-in-law whom he demoralizes in cribbage each week?” She tilted her head, affording him a patient smile. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Believe it, Cait. Whether you realize it or not, there are some things more important than my pride, the welfare of my family being one. So, yes, to bolster your mood, I may just let you win.”

“Oh, now it’s ‘may’?”

“
Will
let you win,” he emphasized with a playful jag of his brow as he ushered her into the parlour.
At cribbage, that is.
Seating her in her chair, he settled in his own with a confident air. At the game of love? He reached for the cards to shuffle the deck before offering the cut.

Not a chance . . .