Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel (39 page)

Nick sucked in a stabilizing breath and eased back in the chair like Logan, palms limp on the arms of the chair while his eyes trailed into a hard stare. “I thought I loved her,” he whispered, the pain of betrayal still raw. “But right after the file disappeared, Maloney’s thugs leveled Gram’s house with a pipe bomb in the middle of the night, obviously hoping to destroy me and any files I had.” A harsh laugh erupted from his lips while his vacant gaze wandered back to that night. “Blew me and the walls of the outhouse clear into the neighbor’s yard, where I watched Gram’s house go up in smoke.” His voice sounded lifeless to his own ears. “Just like any love I thought I had for Darla, leaving me nothing but cold, dirty ashes and a shell of a house that smoldered as much as my hate.”

“So you were forced to hide.”

Nick peered up, facial muscles taut. “I didn’t want to—I wanted to go after Maloney right then and there, but DeLuca was right—we needed time. The few records that had survived at his house were enough to maybe slap Maloney’s hand, but not to cinch him up, and basically worthless without my testimony and translation. And it was pretty clear Maloney wanted me dead—the one man who could put him away forever if we could dig up even a shred of evidence linking him to the murders.” He exhaled a wavering breath while he gouged the socket of his eye with the pad of his thumb. “So DeLuca wanted me as far away
as possible. And since I’d promised an army buddy from San Francisco I’d pay a visit one day, it seemed like a safe bet while he scoured Maloney’s district high and low for the one thing that could put him away.”

“And did he find it?” Logan peered up with an intensity that told Nick he’d won an ally.

A hard grin curled on Nick’s lips as satisfaction surged through his veins. “Oh yeah, got that arrogant son of a viper bragging about the murders in a phone conversation via wiretap, compliments of the D.A., who prewired Darla’s parents’ phone the night before. Led that scum right down the path to his own personal noose.” His smile slanted toward dry. “Right before his thugs pumped me full of lead.”

Surprise flickered in Logan’s face. “And you survived?”

Nick grinned, rubbing the permanent knot on the back of his head. “I have a hard head, sir, and DeLuca had police swarming the place mere seconds after the first shot was fired.”

A genuine smile eased across Logan’s face as he stood. “Well, that’s good, Lieutenant, because a hard head will come in handy if I agree to let you court my niece.” He glanced at the clock before extending his hand. “If you hurry, you’ll catch her at the school before she leaves, Nic—” He paused, a wedge between his brows. “I’m afraid this name thing won’t be easy, Ryan.”

Nick reached across the desk to shake Logan’s hand. “I’ll just stick with Nick, sir—it’s my middle name and easier all around, and heaven knows I’ve caused you and your family enough problems.” He turned to go.

“Uh, one last question, Nick.” Head cocked, Logan stared, brows jagging low as he leaned forward with a sniff. “Do I smell animal crackers?”

Heat ringed Nick’s collar. “Gastric ulcer,” he said with an
awkward grin, “exacerbated, I might add, by you and your niece. They settle my stomach.”

Logan nodded slowly, eyes in a squint as he issued a reflective grunt. “I’ll have to give it a try. Her mother does the same thing to me.”

Nick paused at the door, hand on the knob. “So . . . before I risk getting whacked with a stick, Supervisor, I need to know—do I have your blessing?”

“Hard head, guts, good taste in shoes, and Irish instead of Italian?” Logan slid his hands in his pockets. “Other than being a penniless cop, sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”

“Uh, not exactly penniless, sir.”

“No?”

Nick exhaled. “Sole heir of my uncle’s estate, which is considerable, but I never wanted to touch it because it’s tainted money.” He peered up, his decision made. “But I think I may have a way to redeem both it and my reputation with Alli, her mother, and Miss Penny.”

Logan’s smile slid into a grin. “You’re a shrewd one, Detective—I like that in a man.”

“So I have your blessing?” Nick held his breath, suddenly wanting Logan’s approval almost as much as Alli’s consent.

The supervisor made him wait while he appeared to mull it over before finally expelling a weary breath. “After all Alli’s been through, Nick, I’m sure you’ll understand I need time to know you better before I make my decision. But at the moment, Lieutenant, it’s not my blessing you need.” He strolled around his desk to sit on the edge with a fold of arms, lips flat in a show of sympathy. “After four broken hearts, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alli’s written off all men.”

“Good.” Nick’s smile was dry. “She won’t be needing them
anymore.” He opened the door and squinted at Logan, a mock scowl on his face. “And pardon my French, sir, but just when in the devil am I going to know if I have your blessing or not?”

Logan laughed and absently scratched the back of his neck. “When you find a huge crate on your front door, Detective.”

“Yeah? Containing what?”

A twinkle lit Logan McClare’s eyes for the first time since Nick had known the man. “Animal crackers, Lieutenant,” he said with a faint smile, “and I suggest you use them wisely.”

30

W
ith a less-than-graceful hop, Alli boarded the California Street cable car, the shiny wood benches that once promised adventure leaving her surprisingly flat. “Thank you for the escort, Mr. Bigley,” she called, turning to grip the steel pole. Several questionable men boarded behind her, the strong stench of alcohol almost enough to make her tipsy.

“You’re welcome, Miss McClare.” The school janitor fidgeted with a battered fedora, brows bunched in concern. “You’re sure you don’t need me to accompany you home, miss?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Bigley. This is the only leg of the journey on which I need help, I assure you, especially with sunset still an hour away. And I actually enjoy the solitude to reflect on my day.”

Her smile went stale.
Ha
! Reflect on your miserable life, you mean.
Hand gripped to the pole, she flailed her reticule in a one-handed goodbye, its black-beaded fringe dancing with an excitement she’d once felt herself before Nick Barone. “Have a good weekend, sir, and my best to your family.”

Digging in her pocket, she handed the needed fare to the driver, then made her way to the end of the outside bench, as far as possible from several seedy-looking men eyeing her with interest. She dusted the seat with her hankie and shimmied in with her
purse on her lap, back square and eyes ahead, never seeing the faces milling on the street for the one in her head.

Nick “Pain-in-the-Brain” Barone.
The man whose image followed her everywhere she went. She blinked to clear the sudden moisture in her eyes, jaw suddenly clenched as tightly as her fingers on the pole as the cable car pulled away. She hadn’t heard from him since the night of the attack three months ago, but then she hadn’t really expected to after Uncle Logan had divulged what a rat he’d turned out to be. She issued a shaky sigh.

Rats shouldn’t be this hard
to forget . . .

Eyes sinking closed, she found she was no longer interested in the sights along Montgomery that once fascinated her so. But that was the key problem with rats. Not only did they break your heart, they robbed you of the very essence of life itself—the passion to live it, the spirit to explore it, and the ability to enjoy it.

Her lips took a sad tilt. And the hope that true love would ever happen at all.

She sucked in a deep breath, and a whiff of body odor assailed her along with the idea that perhaps she wasn’t meant to marry. Perhaps the Hand of Hope School was to be her husband and focus for the rest of her life. Surprisingly, the idea held appeal. At least she wouldn’t have to go through this awful heartbreak again. Opening her eyes, she jutted her chin in resolve, deciding that the good her mother insisted God would bring from this unfortunate incident could well be the independence for which she’d always longed.

“Washington Street!” the grip man called, and Alli jolted to attention, determined to make the most of today’s adventure on the cable car. Her eyes scanned up the fifteen stories of the Merchants Exchange Building, a brand-new skyscraper that now reigned as San Francisco’s tallest building, stirring Alli’s pride over the progression and beauty of her city.

Clack-clack
-clack.
The cable car groaned to a stop, admitting a number of passengers before it continued to chug along. The whir of the cables suddenly merged with the wheezing of some poor soul who sounded like he’d just sprinted all the way from Los Angeles. Fearful of eye contact with any man on the cable car, Allison peered straight ahead, ignoring a hulk of a person shuffling her way. He sat beside her, and she attempted to inch away without notice, his huffing and puffing worse than a cable car climbing Hyde Street with a cargo of elephants.

“Uh, I think you took a wrong turn, lady,” a low voice intoned, its winded quality making it more of a rasp. “High tea is at The Palace.”

For a split second she froze, body adhered to the bench like the varnish on the red-painted seat. And then with a gasp of air that literally choked in her throat, she whirled around, the hinges of her jaw sagging more than the cable.

“Out slumming again, I see,” Nick Barone huffed, the green tinge of his face a nice holiday complement to the shiny red bench. He put a fist to his chest as if to ward off the rise of his lunch, then fixed her with a glassy-eyed stare that was more of a plea. “Can we get off this infernal thing to talk? I think I’m about to be . . .” He heaved, cheeks puffing with air as if to stop whatever wanted to come up. He swallowed hard, his face a tinge greener than before. “Sick.”

She vaulted to her feet and jumped back, both to steer clear of the man and the contents of his stomach, her tongue unglued and ready to fire. “Ohhhhh . . . ‘sick’ will be the least of your problems, mister, if you think I am going to go anywhere with you!”

“Alli, please,” he groaned, lumbering up to grasp her arm, “two minutes is all I need . . .”

She whopped him with her purse, disgusted that the rat even looked good in a green face peppered with stubble. “Two min
utes?” she shouted, backing toward the exit. “I’d like to give you two decades, you pinhead—in Alcatraz!” Spinning around, she spotted a police officer strolling the sidewalk and quickly gripped the pole by the step, raising her voice over the clank of the rails. “Next stop, please.”

The cable car jerked, and Alli glanced back, satisfied that the lurch of the car had left the rat staggering and slow. When it came to a halt, she hurdled the step in a near leap, making a beeline for the officer a half block away.

“Alli, wait!”

Darting a nervous gaze over her shoulder, she started to run. “Officer, please—I need your help.” She panted to a stop in front of the gray uniform and pointed toward Nick, who was striding forward with a clamp of his jaw. A ruddy shade of Mr. Cranky Pants appeared to replace the green he’d worn on the cable car. “That man is attempting to accost me,” she sputtered, ducking behind the officer just as Nick approached.

The officer’s hand rested on the nightstick attached to his belt. “This young woman claims you are accosting her, sir—is she correct?”

Nick ground to a stop. “No, I’m not accosting her,” he snapped, “I’m trying to talk some sense into her, which given our prior experience, might take till kingdom come.”

“Prior experience?” The officer fixed Alli with a suspicious stare. “Is this a lovers’ spat, ma’am?”

She faltered back with a hand to her chest, her horror evident in the gape of her mouth. “Good heavens, no! I’d rather be bound and gagged than associate with this . . . this . . .”

“Officer of the law,” Nick supplied, producing a badge from his coat pocket for the officer to study. His gaze narrowed on her. “And it can be arranged, Miss McClare, trust me.”

The officer nodded and returned the police identification. “My apologies, Detective, but do you mind if I ask your business with the lady?”

Nick replaced the badge, eyes locked on Alli. “Yeah, I’m trying to propose to the pigheaded woman, but she won’t stop yammering long enough to hear me out.”

“Propose?” Alli shrieked. “Ha! Right before you skip town again, I suppose.”

The officer took a step back, palms up. “Look, folks, I’m sorry, but unless there’s threat of bodily harm here, it’s against policy to interfere in domestic disputes.”

She glared at Nick. “I assure you, officer, the ‘threat’ is
very
real.”

“Only if she gets ahold of a stick,” Nick muttered.

Chin high, she continued undeterred. “Because if this snake-in-the-grass felon thinks—”

“Uh, ma’am, a little respect, if you will,” the officer interrupted with a frown. “The detective is an officer of the law—”

“Ha! Law-breaking, is more like it,” she said with a fold of her arms. “The man’s not even a policeman, for pity’s sake, and he probably stole that badge.”

Nick huffed out a noisy sigh and shoved a letter beneath the officer’s nose.

The officer let loose a low whistle. “The D.A. of Chicago, huh? You’ve got friends in high places, Detective.”

“Yeah, enemies too,” he said with a grunt, shoving the letter back into his suit.

Brows crimped in apology, the officer backed off with a tip of his hat. “I’m sorry, miss, but you and Detective Burke will have to hash this out between yourselves.”

“His name is
Barone
,” she shouted as the officer walked away,
volume rising along with her desperation. “And he’s obviously impersonating poor Detective Burke, whoever he is.”

Nick grunted again. “Poor Detective Burke is right,” he said, cinching her arm to lead her in the opposite direction. “And it’s Burke, long
e
,” he shouted. He blasted out a sigh. “What the devil am I getting myself into?”

“A jail cell, if I have anything to say about it.” She slapped him away, bolting for home before he could weaken her defenses. “And don’t you dare lay a hand on me, Nick Barone.”

“Burke,” he said through gritted teeth, hot on her heels. “It’s Ryan Burke, long
e
.”

She ground to a halt, pivoting with hands on her hips. “Oh, so you’re not only a thief, murderer, and fugitive, you’re an imposter as well.”

Her breath snagged in her throat when he hoisted her up at the waist, his jaw grinding while her feet dangled in the air. “
Wit-ness
, Al-li-son,” he bit out, giving her a little shake. “Not fugitive, not imposter, and not a criminal. An officer of the law forced undercover because his life was in danger for turning state witness.”

She blinked. “I don’t believe you,” she said, voice draining along with the blood that coursed from her pale face to the tips of her suspended toes.

He blasted out another noisy sigh and dropped her, leaving her teetering while he reached for the letter again. With an abrupt brace of her arm, he steadied her before shoving it in her face. “Read it.”

Gaze thinning, she snatched it from his hand, all anger seeping out as she scanned the piece of paper. “Oh, good heavens,” she whispered, eyes blinking wide, “you almost died?”

“Yeah,” he said, jaw clamped until the barest hint of a smile
nudged at his lips. “Made sure he threw that in—figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“B-but . . . but . . . is it all true?” she asked, hand to her chest.

His gaze softened along with his jaw. “Yeah, but I couldn’t tell you, Alli, because I took an oath.” He moved in close with hands so massive, they shouldn’t have been gentle, slowly caressing her arms with a touch so soft, she felt light as air. “Forgive me?” he whispered, those lethal gray-green eyes hypnotizing her with a half-lidded plea.

Her heart began to thud, barely able to believe Nick Barone was back in her life. “So you’re not . . . engaged?” A lump bobbed in her throat. “Not a father who abandoned his child?”

A lopsided grin eased across his lips. “Nope—not engaged, not a father, and not a crook,” he said in a husky tone, his smoky gaze bolting her to the sidewalk tighter than the cast-iron streetlamps. He slipped his hands to her waist and drew her near. “Just a man guilty of falling in love against his will . . .” He nuzzled the lobe of her ear, and her eyelids drifted closed, the caress of his mouth all but liquefying the tendons at the back of her knees. “
And
your uncle’s.”

Her eyes popped open. “Oh, Nick, Uncle Logan will never—”

Her words dissolved into his kiss, strong arms locking her limp body to his. “If you’re going to talk, Allison,” he whispered against her lips, “say something useful like ‘I love you, Ryan Nicholas Burke, and yes, I will marry you.’ ”

“B-Burke?” she stammered weakly. “B-but, but how—”

“It’s a long story, Princess, but then we have lots and lots of time.” He skimmed her jaw to take her lips with his own. “Like the rest of our lives.”

Dazed, her eyelids flickered open. “B-but does that mean you’re Irish instead of Italian?”

He feathered her mouth with soft, little kisses, the scent of animal crackers making her heady. “It does—with a touch of English just to make it interesting.”

“Ohhhh . . . I like that,” she breathed. “Mrs. Ryan Nicholas Pinhead Cranky Pants Burke, long
e
.” She perched on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. “Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”