His jaw tightened. The same Victorian next to a larger one that now housed the Hand of Hope School. Unlike Miss Penny’s tired-looking Gothic Revival badly in need of a fresh coat of gray paint, the Hand of Hope School had received a complete sprucing up—from the brand-new steeply pitched roof to the freshly painted scrollwork and pointed arched windows with decorative crowns. Apparently Mrs. McClare had spared no expense, even knocking out walls on the first floor to create a small but cozy theater that ran the length of the right side of the house.
He grunted as he ambled up the brick walkway lined with the pinkest roses he’d ever seen. Three newly constructed painted steps led up to a pale-yellow gingerbread house whose covered entryway was flanked with urns of trailing ivy and flowers. His lips went flat. Too pretty and too prissy for a neighborhood where peep shows, brothels, and bars dominated the streets mere blocks away. He glanced up at a large brass nameplate—Hand of Hope School—above a carved wooden door with thick double-glass panes, then yanked on the brass knob. The smell of paint and new wood and lemon oil teased his senses the moment he entered, giving him the itch to build something with his hands like he and his father used to do. To his immediate left another brass plate identified the office, a room that looked more like a library in a mansion on Nob Hill than a school on the Barbary Coast. Handcrafted oak bookshelves lined with expensive volumes flanked either side of an ornate oak desk where a Tiffany lamp perched on the far corner. A leather blotter lay front and center along with a stack of papers and an ink pen. Off to the side sat a brand-new Remington typewriter on its own table while a carved wooden credenza against the wall sported a crystal vase with flowers and wooden baskets three high.
How sweet—a touch of Nob Hill on the Barbary Coast. Nick shook his head on his way to the second room on the left where lamplight spilled across the honey-wood hall. Instantly the sound of humming put him on edge. Jacket over his shoulder, he halted at the door and cocked a hip to the jamb, fascinated by the form of one Miss Allison McClare. Stretching high on tiptoe to pin red letters that spelled “Welcome” to a bulletin board, she stood on an obscenely expensive-looking carved wooden chair with a mother-of-pearl pin box at her feet. Hershey bar wrappers were strewn across her desk along with paper-cut letters and numerals, as haphazard as the riot of ebony curls pinned at the back of her head.
In natural reflex, his eyes slowly trailed up, taking in the black hobble skirt that hugged slim hips before it belted at a tiny waist. A tailored blouse took over with puffed sleeves and high-neck collar. Stray wisps from her curly updo fluttered at the back of her neck when an early-morning breeze drifted in from a bank of three windows overlooking the alley. It ushered in the tangy smell of the bay and Fisherman’s Wharf mere blocks away along with a lighter, sweeter scent he suspected came from Miss McClare.
Apparently lost in her task, she continued humming a charmingly off-key rendition of “In the Good Old Summer Time.” Bending to retrieve more letters from a ledge below, she provided Nick a generous view of a backside far more charming than the lady’s manner. About five foot six or seven, he guessed, she had an athletic grace about her that hinted at a formidable foe in athletic pursuits. One side of his mouth edged up. Like stick-whacking, for instance. He shook his head at how a pretty little thing could contain such a temper, and for the first time he considered just maybe Miss Penny was right. Maybe his tiff with the lady had been mostly his fault, his grouchy manner flaring in the presence of high-society dames he didn’t trust. After all, Miss Penny seemed to trust her, so maybe he could too. His jaw suddenly hardened at the memory of Darla, and all humility dissipated. Nope, not after Chicago.
Hat and pointer in hand, he approached her desk, indulging in one final perusal before making his presence known. “Ahem.”
“Oh!” She spun around with a little squeal, bobbling on the chair so much that he dropped both hat and stick to grab her lest she fall, hands to her tiny waist. She promptly slapped him away, saucer eyes as round as her full pink mouth, which now issued raspy heaves. Her crisp, white bodice rose and fell with every breath she took while her hand shot to her chest. “Merciful Providence, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” she shrieked, the soft blush in her cheeks a nice complement to rosy lips and startling green eyes. “Are you crazy?”
“Apparently,” he muttered, stooping to retrieve the pointer and hat. He tossed the stick on the desk with a clatter. “Must be to try and help a dame who almost bludgeoned me to death.”
She stood up straight on the chair and folded her arms tight, puckering the narrow pleats of her form-fitting blouse till it drew his gaze, which was almost dead center. “Don’t you ever knock?” she hissed, and his eyes flicked to her face, now burnished with a deep rose as dark as her lips. The green eyes fairly pulsed with indignation. “Or don’t they knock in caves?”
A muscle twittered in his cheek. “Look, lady, I didn’t come here to butt heads with you again, I came to . . . to . . .” He tried to get it out, that infernal apology Miss Penny was coercing him to say, but the words were like a pack of mules on the edge of a cliff, refusing to budge.
She dipped her head, the gesture quivering those green thingamajigs dangling from her ears, which were the exact color of the emerald squint of her eyes. With an impatient flick of her wrist, she back-circled a hand in abrupt motion, as if to hurry the process. “Spit it out, Detective Ga-roan.”
“It’s Barone, long e,” he ground out with a twitch of his jaw. He was so irked he decided to rile her with another slow scan, raking her from those pursed lips, down her bodice and skirt, and back up with a bold gaze purely meant to annoy.
It worked.
Her chin lashed up while the blush on her face nearly swallowed her whole. She slapped stiff hands to her hips. “You need to teach your eyes some manners, Mr. Long-E.”
He matched her stance and stepped in with a glare, almost eye to eye. “And you need to teach your mouth some manners, Miss McClare, especially if you expect me to lift one finger to assist you or your mother with this Snob Hill academy.” He splayed a hand to the front of his buttoned waistcoat, the whites of his eyes expanding. “Wait, let me guess—you’re in charge of teaching manners, right?”
Whatever he said, it snapped her mouth closed, those full lips suddenly as flat as his patience. Her thick dark lashes blinked so many times, he swore he felt a stiff breeze. With a sudden sheen of tears, she whirled around on that ridiculous chair to face the wall, hugging the sides of her waist so tightly, her shoulders hunched while her head bowed to her chest.
He waited, thinking they may be able to forge a friendship yet as long as she kept her back to him all the time—the view was definitely friendlier.
“I . . . apologize, Detective Barone,” she whispered, actually pronouncing his name correctly for the very first time. “I’ve been—” he could almost hear the swallow of pride in her throat—“unforgivably rude and I just hope . . . ,” she pivoted slowly, the humility in her eyes jolting him when it heightened her beauty, “. . . you can forgive me for being such an obnoxious brat.”
A leisurely smile curved on his lips. “Forgiven, Miss McClare,” he said with tease in his tone, “and I sure hope apologies are on the curriculum, ma’am, because you do them so well.” He extended his hand with a cock of his head. “May I help you down so we can start over?”
She drew in a deep breath and released it with a nervous smile of relief, placing her palm in his. “Yes, please.” Voice as soft as her touch, she startled when the dainty tip of her oxblood kid leather shoe accidentally kicked the pin box to the floor. “Oh!” she squeaked, the crash of the pins apparently leaving her off-kilter. With a look of abject horror, she flailed in the air for several panicked heartbeats before finally thudding hard against his chest. His arms fused them together in a state of mutual stun as his hat dropped to the floor a second time.
He blinked, paralyzed by the warmth of her body, the flare of her eyes, the scent of chocolate from parted lips so lush, t
he fire blazing through him could have melted the candy in her bowl. As if hypnotized by the shape of her mouth, his gaze lingered there, feeling the pull . . .
“Uh, Mr. Barone?” The lips appeared to move in slow motion, their soft, pink color luring him close . . . so very close.
“Mmm?” Barely aware, he felt his body lean in, breathing shallow and eyelids heavy, that perfect mouth calling him home . . .
“Mr. Barone!”
Her tone could have been a whack of her stick, jerking him from his fog with the reminder that a woman still dangled in his arms. Sucking in a harsh breath, he dropped her to her feet so fast, the poor thing teetered like his sanity in even thinking about kissing a dame from Snob Hill. “Forgive m-me, Miss McClare,” he stuttered in a gruff tone, “I . . . I don’t know what came over me.” Swallowing hard, he quickly squatted to retrieve her pin box and pins, rising to carefully place both on her desk.
“Thank you,” she whispered, a heavy dusting of rose in her cheeks as she took a step back. Head in a tilt, she offered a timid smile while she frittered her nails. “So, Detective Barone, was there something you wanted?”
He collected his hat from the floor with a crooked smile. “To apologize, Miss McClare, for my despicable behavior last week, under duress by Miss Penny, of course. But I have to admit—I admire a lady who can steal my thunder with an apology of her own.”
She expended a sigh, smile awkward as she reached for the pointer on her desk and absently grazed the wood with her fingers. “Yes, well, I wish I could take credit for being so noble, but it’s my mother who is the true lady in this case, I’m afraid.” She scrunched her nose as she held up the pointer. “She’d use this on me if she knew how rude I’d been to the gentleman who’s offered to assist us around the school.”
He grinned. “Move over, Miss McClare—Miss Penny already threatened me with a stick of her own if I didn’t make amends first thing this morning.”
Her chuckle sounded like music as she placed the pointer on the ledge of the blackboard. “Now that would be a sight to see—a tiny, little thing like Miss Penny taking a stick to you.”
His lips took a slant as he rubbed at his shoulder. “You didn’t have a problem, as I recall.”
She granted a shy smile, teeth tugging at the nail of her thumb. “Did I leave a bruise?”
“Only on my pride,” he said, fiddling with his hat. He glanced at his pocket watch and frowned, suddenly reluctant to go. “Well, I need to get to work, but anything you or your mother need done, just give the list to Miss Penny, and I’ll tackle it after work, all right?”
“Thank you, Detective—I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”
His lip quirked as he strolled to the door. “Keeping the stick away is a start.”
She motioned to a cup of tea on her desk, her beautiful smile walloping his heart more effectively than any stick. “Can I at least offer you a cup of tea before you go? It’s peppermint, you know.” A sparkle lit her eyes. “Known for its calming effect . . .” She let the word dangle while she nibbled on the edge of her smile, totally captivating him against his will.
He cleared his throat. “No, ma’am, but thank you. I need to go.” Annoyance pricked when those perfect pink lips broke into another glorious smile, parching his tongue to cotton.
“Well, goodness, I hope you won’t be late.”
He turned at the door, rubbing the felt brim of his hat. “The 14th precinct is only a few blocks away.” He paused, concern wedging his brow. “I don’t mean to be pushy, Miss McClare, but if your driver could drop you off and pick you up around back in the alley, that would be a lot safer than out front, across the street from the worst neighborhood in Frisco, you know?”
“Of course, Detective Barone.”
He inclined his head toward the front door. “Also, I know students will be coming and going at the beginning and end of each school day, but after classes start in the morning, I’d feel a whole lot better if you kept the front and back doors locked during the day, just as an extra precaution. That’s what Miss Penny does with the orphanage.”
“Certainly. I’ll tell Mother.”
He nodded. “And under no circumstances walk these streets after dark or alone, if you can help it, all right?”
She nodded, suddenly looking like a little girl he felt compelled to protect. He steeled his jaw. “Well, then, have a good day, Miss McClare.”
“Oh, Detective?”
He turned, annoyed that this highbrow dame—woman—elicited such a protective response out of him. “Yes?”
“Might I ask where the nearest cable car is?”
He blinked. “Pardon me?”
The smile she gave him would have tripped his pulse if it hadn’t tripped his temper first. “You see, there will be days when I’ll need to work late in the classroom, and I don’t want Mother to wait or Hadley to make another trip.” Her chin notched up with a hint of the stubbornness he’d seen on their first encounter. “So I plan to take the cable car home.”
He cocked a hip, jaw dropping while his voice rose. “Excuse me, Miss McClare, but have you ever stepped foot in a cable car before?”
The green eyes tapered the slightest bit. “Well, no, there’s never been a need—Hadley drives us everywhere.”
Head bowed, he shook his head, then peered up beneath tightly knit brows. “You obviously aren’t aware of this, ma’am, but the closest line is two blocks south at Jackson and Montgomery, in the heart of the Barbary Coast.”
Her brows lifted. “So?”
His jaw started to grind. “So, it’s no place for a lady, Miss McClare, especially one who’s been carted around town in a Packard.”
Her chin rose to new heights. “It’s-public-transportation, Mr. Barone,” she bit out, dropping his title along with her previously humble manner. “And-I’m-part-of-the-public.”
His grip tightened on his hat, fingers crushing the brim. “No, ma’am,” he said in a clipped tone, “you’re part of the upper crust that think they can go off half-cocked and do whatever they bloomin’ well please.”
She swiped the pointer and slapped it on her desk. “Go—I hope you’re late!”
“And I sure hope you’re smarter than you sound, lady, because if you think it’s safe for a fancy dame in diamond combs to sashay through the worst part of town to sightsee on a bloomin’ cable car, you are way too stupid to teach in a school.”
Crack! He actually winced at the sound of wood on wood, thinking Miss McClare may just have a vocation—she and the nuns at St. Patrick’s had a lot in common.
“No,” she said through clenched teeth, the smile suddenly nowhere in sight, “ ‘stupid’ would be an ill-mannered cretin who thinks he can bully people with insults and bad manners.”
A nerve popped in his jaw. He stepped forward, fingers itching to snatch that stupid stick and splinter it till he could toss a fistful of toothpicks in her pretty face. “If you want ‘ill-mannered,’ I suggest you look in the mirror, sweetheart, because I’ve seen better manners from the floozies on Morton Street.” His statement froze her stiff to the spot while the roses in her cheeks faded to chalk. He immediately regretted his words. “Look, Miss McClare, I’m sorry I riled you again, but if you would just listen to reason—”
With a sharp suck of air, she shot forward, eyes blazing and stick flailing. “Reason?!” Two circles of bright pink bruised her creamy cheeks, clear indication he had effectively triggered her ire—for the umpteenth blessed time. “There is no reasoning with a brainless bully like you,” she shrieked, voice so high-pitched, it hurt his ears. “Oooooo, you are simply the most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune to encounter—out!”
He put his hands up to fend her off. “If you would just hear me out—”
Whoosh! The stick nearly sliced his ear before he dodged, snatching it from her fingers so fast, it hit the wall before her gasp hit the air. He loomed over her, temple throbbing. “One more stunt like that, lady, and I’ll arrest yo
u for assault with a deadly weapon.”
“I’ll give you assault!” She hiked a heel and stomped his foot, further singeing his temper when she marred his freshly polished shoe.
He gaped at the half-moon indentation on the tip, hardly able to believe what the little brat had done. His ire swelled while his head lashed up. “Okay, lady—nobody scuffs my Italian leather oxfords.”
“No?” Whirling around, she grabbed a wooden ruler off her desk and jabbed it toward the door. “Out—now—or I’ll be scuffing more than your shoes.”
He stared open-mouthed, hands on his hips. “What is it with you and sharp instruments, anyway—your tongue isn’t enough?”
“Oh, you . . . you . . . !” Green eyes glittering, she flew at him with stick raised, promptly popping him with the ruler.
“That’s it,” he muttered, and shoving his hat up, he wrenched the ruler from her hand and snapped it in two before hurling it away. He yanked his waistcoat closed and buttoned his vest with fingers as thick as the insults on the tip of his tongue. “I’m warning you, Princess, for your own good—stay off both the cable car and the streets by yourself on the Barbary Coast, especially after dark, understand?”
She scrambled for the blasted yardstick again, holding it out with two hands as if to prevent him from coming anywhere close.
Ha! No problem there.
“I understand that you’re not only rude and obnoxious, you’re also a bully, you, you—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He glared, cauterizing her and her stick with so much heat, he was surprised one or both didn’t go up in flames. “Suit yourself, lady,” he said with a press of his jaw, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And yanking his hat on too hard, he strode down the hall and slammed the door behind him, a style of departure that was quickly becoming a habit where Miss McClare was concerned.
Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel Page 5