Surprised by Love

by Julie Lessman

  “Logan, really . . .” Cait laid a gentle arm on his sleeve.

  Andrew offered a calm smile. “No, Cait, he has a point. In the future, I’ll confine my visits to evenings we can spend more time together.” With a short nod, he placed his fedora on his head and opened the door. “Till Monday evening, Mrs. McClare.”

  The door clicked behind him, and Caitlyn released a fractured breath. “Logan—”

  He turned his wrath on her, a rare flash of temper in gray eyes that gleamed like ice crystals. “That was your idea of ‘dispensing posthaste’? Wrapped in his arms like the blasted prey of a python?”

  She exhaled slowly and took his hand in hers, no energy left for another tussle with the man who already held too much sway over her heart and her life. “Please, Logan,” she said quietly, eyes flicking to the parlour and back. “May we discuss this in private?”

  He didn’t answer, his hand as stiff as his stance before he pulled it from her hers.

  “Please?” Ignoring his obvious ill humor, she moved into the study and waited.

  A near growl rumbled from his chest as he charged into the room, wheeling on his heels with fire in his eyes. “Blast it, Cait—Turner’s after you, and I don’t like it.”

  Her heart squeezed at the scowl on his face—a little-boy scowl that reminded her just how very much she cared for Logan McClare. And how much he cared for her, given the possessive look in his eyes. With a gentle dip of her head, she peeked up beneath a sweep of lashes, lips curved in a soft smile. “Yes, Andrew has made it abundantly clear he would like more than friendship, but you need to know that I’ve also made it clear that I would not.” She took his arm and led him to the love seat where she nudged him to sit before she eased down beside him. “Logan,” she said softly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Don’t I, Cait?” His Adam’s apple jerked while his hands swallowed hers in a warm grip. “He ruined what we had before, and he has every intention of doing so again.”

  Her chest rose with a heavy inhale before she released it again, her gaze tinged as always with that hint of regret both of them had lived with for over 27 years. “No, Logan,” she said quietly, unwilling to allow him to blame Andrew for his own sins, “he simply told the truth.” She steeled herself with a deep breath. “Just like I’m about to do right now.” Uncomfortable with the warm shivers his touch produced, she carefully eased her hands from his, locking him with a potent gaze. “I am not interested in courting anyone for the foreseeable future, but let me put your mind at rest.” She grazed his jaw with her fingers, the rough texture of his late-day beard raspy beneath her touch. “If I were,” she said with a rush of love, “it would be you.”

  He didn’t blink for several seconds, and then with a low groan, he swallowed her up in a crushing embrace, unleashing a warmth that stuttered her pulse. “So help me, Cait, I love you more than anything in this world, and I would do anything for you, you have to know that.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and a single tear trailed her cheek. “I know,” she whispered, the heady scent of lime and Logan taunting her with what might have been while her stomach skittered over what might be. But will you support me on phase two?

  With a kiss to her hair, he pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. “I’ll wait for you, Cait,” he whispered, voice gruff, “as long as it takes.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “But I won’t wait any longer to take you in cribbage.” He patted her arms and rose, extending his hand to help her up. “Prepare for the onslaught, Mrs. McClare.”

  “Logan?”

  “Yes?” He sat back down and she avoided his eyes, focusing on the beds of her nails at which she nervously picked.

  “I . . . have something I need to tell you,” she said quietly, finally meeting his gaze. “About news Andrew had to share regarding the Vigilance Committee.”

  “Yes . . . ?” He grabbed her hands to still her picking, those gray eyes boring into hers. “You’re nervous, Cait—what is it?”

  She swallowed hard. “Father Terence Caraher has agreed that a three-prong thrust—his organization, the Vigilance Committee, and the district attorney’s office—is in the best interests of our goal to clean up the Coast, so he’s driving the effort to close down the Marsicania.”

  Logan arched a brow. “That sounds like a good thing.”

  “Oh, it is,” she said quickly, giving him a shaky smile. “It’s just that . . .” She gulped, refocusing on the scarlet-and-gold Oriental rug beneath the claw-foot coffee table. “Father Caraher also wants to implement parts of phase two sooner than we anticipat—”

  “Which parts?” His voice carried an edge.

  She sucked in a calming breath and closed her eyes. “The gambling and dance halls,” she whispered, waiting for his explosive response.

  Silence.

  Holding her breath, she peeked up and stifled a groan. The tic in his cheek had returned. “How soon?” he snapped.

  “Six months,” she said quietly, knowing full well Logan would see this change of plans as a betrayal of sorts, almost a broken promise . . .

  “Your proposal cited up to five years, Cait.” His tone was curt, a total departure from his declaration of love mere minutes ago.

  “Two to five years,” she corrected softly.

  Those broad shoulders straightened while the cleft in his chin deepened enough to show he was transitioning to lawyer mode, setting her up. Her heart skipped a beat. Going in for the kill. “Which is fine for the dance halls, Mrs. McClare—everyone knows they’re little more than brothels in disguise. But you led me to believe you wouldn’t touch the gambling halls for five years, did you not?”

  “I . . . I b-believe my proposal to the Board of Supervisors stipulated two to five years.” Her voice trailed off and she sucked in a harsh breath at a sudden sting of pain, vaguely aware she’d picked one of her nails clean off, too close to the nub.

  He rose slowly, an imposing tower of intimidation with smoldering gray eyes and a jaw sculpted in steel. His words were clipped and cool, like the night he’d opposed her in the Board of Supervisors meeting two years ago. “Yes, but you assured me personally, Mrs. McClare, that the timeline would be closer to five, which is what I assured the board when the final vote was deliberated.” Body taut, he loomed over her with fists tight at his sides, his cool anger fairly shimmering off his body. “Board members who like myself, Madame President, not only have business interests on the Coast, but hundreds of employees dependent upon them for their livelihood.”

  She wobbled to her feet, legs so weak she had to steady herself with a hand to the carved wooden arm of the love seat. “Logan, I know this is a shock—”

  “Shock?” One thick brow jagged high. “No, Cait, I think this qualifies somewhere between sleight of hand and fraud, and I assure you any shock to be had will belong to the Vigilance Committee when the Board of Supervisors revisits phase two for a second vote.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “They . . . w-wouldn’t,” she whispered, never dreaming Father Caraher’s push on phase two might jeopardize the Vigilance Committee’s plan.

  A glimmer of compassion dimmed the fire in his eyes as he huffed out a noisy exhale, hip slacked while he mauled the back of his neck. “Blast it, Cait, I know this isn’t your fault—it has Turner written all over it, but I’ll be dashed if he thinks he can railroad the Board of Supervisors like he’s railroading you.”

  His comment prickled, squaring her shoulders. “No one is ‘railroading’ me, Logan, unless it’s you with your bullying and temper.”

  He paused, gaze wary before he finally shook his head, a smile skimming his lips. “And this from the woman who bullies me into friendship rather than courtship, then uses her influence with her brother-in-law on issues before the Board.”

  Face on fire, she thrust her chin up in self-defense. “Oh, now there’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

  A chuckle parted from his lips, dispelling the tension between them. �
��Come on ‘kettle,’ ” he said with a hook of her arm, tugging her back onto the love seat, “we need to scour the soot before we both get burned.”

  Shifting to face him, she clutched his hands. “Oh, Logan, I never meant for this to happen, truly. In my heart of hearts, I feel the Vigilance Committee needs to focus on shutting down the major brothels like the Marsicania and the Municipal Crib first, which would have ensured the timeline I originally proposed. But now with Father Caraher involved, insisting on putting all of our efforts into the Marsicania alone and leaving the Municipal Crib for phase three, I’m afraid to rock the boat.”

  Eyes suddenly tender, he slowly grazed his thumb along the edge of her jaw, sending an unexpected tingle through her body. “Trust your heart, Cait, not your fear. Isn’t that what Liam always tried to drum into our brains, no matter the situation?”

  She nodded, suddenly missing her husband so much, she wanted to break down and cry. Instead she sniffed and rallied with a square of her shoulders while contrition burned soft in her eyes. “I’m so very sorry, Logan—please forgive me.”

  Exhaling a weary sigh, he took her hand and squeezed it. “I know, Cait, and I’m sorry for losing my temper too, but this puts both of us in a very awkward situation, you know.”

  “I know,” she whispered. A tiny smile tickled her mouth. “And it’s not as if you actually lost your temper, I suppose . . .” She nibbled the edge of her lip, eyes warm with tease. “More like testy and tyrannical, I think.”

  He grinned. “Yes, well I’ll show you testy and tyrannical in a few minutes, Mrs. McClare, when we return to the game, but for now—we need to address the issue at hand.” He rubbed her hands between his, eyes intense. “What do you think the chances are of slowing Turner and Caraher down on phase two?”

  Her nibbling turned into a full-fledged grate as she peered up beneath lowered lashes. “Not particularly high, I don’t think. Andrew said Father Caraher’s partnership was contingent upon implementing parts of phase two sooner than we’d planned.”

  He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “contingent, my backside,” then gouged his temple with the ball of his hand. “Well, I’ll certainly expend my influence, Cait, but I can’t guarantee this won’t provoke a revote, and I sure can’t guarantee approval if it does.”

  Her heart sputtered in her chest, equal parts of fear and gratitude colliding within. “Oh, Logan, you mean you’ll support us in our efforts to expedite phase two?”

  His lips took a slant. “I mean I’ll support you, Cait, in your efforts to expedite phase two, not Caraher and certainly not Turner.”

  She couldn’t help it—she lunged into his arms, evoking a husky chuckle that tumbled her stomach. “Oh, Logan, you are absolutely one of the greatest joys of my life.”

  The warmth of his breath against her neck heated both her skin and her blood. “Then I’m on the right track, Mrs. McClare,” he whispered, his words caressing her ear and braising her cheeks. “Because joy is only the first of many things I hope to give you someday.”

  A lump bobbed in her throat. Oh, Logan, if only . . .

  He caressed her back for a moment, and her eyelids fluttered closed. His touch filled her with both longing and distress, an unsettling reminder that trust in a marriage was as important as love, at least to her. As if sensing her disquiet, he gently patted her back before he rose to his feet and extended a hand. “Of course, at the moment, there are other things I intend to give . . .” Covering the hand she placed on his arm, he slid her a dangerous smile that put a spike in her pulse. “Such as a sound defeat, which will put you at my mercy.”

  His mercy? Caitlyn swallowed hard as he escorted her from the room, painfully aware that when it came to Logan and his effect on her?

  There was no such thing.

  13

  Pure sludge. Megan peered inside the cup of coffee she’d just poured and scrunched her nose when its dark contents coated the side of the white ceramic mug like tar. Shaking her head, she actually missed Linda Marie today, wishing she were here instead of home with stomach problems. Meg’s lips quirked as she tossed the contents of her cup into the sink, certain that her fate would be the same if she actually drank the coffee Conor had made.

  A smile tipped the corners of her mouth as she thought about Conor and the others with whom she was privileged to work five days a week. Definitely low man on the totem pole, Conor had been delegated by George to make coffee on the days Linda Marie was absent, which—praise be to God—wasn’t all that often. Ribbed as a womanizer by everyone from Andrew to Linda Marie, Conor had actually turned out to be a pretty sweet guy with an honest-to-goodness appreciation for the opposite sex. It didn’t matter what they looked like—shy and willowy like Bonnie at the front desk, perky and petite like Jennifer Fuchikami, who manned the lunch cart in the lobby, or even sweet Wanda Barefoot, the night cleaning lady who was a grandmother of six. Flirt or no, Conor had a knack for making a woman feel beautiful, and it was his God-given ability to do that for Bonnie that had completely won Megan’s heart.

  Bonnie. Affection surged in Meg’s chest over the new friend who, if possible, was even more painfully shy than Megan had been before Paris. A friend with whom she had so instantly connected, that they now met early on workdays in the conference room to chat and pray before the office was open—their secret. A smile flitted across Meg’s lips. Their secret, yes, but the best-kept secret in the district attorney’s office was the fact that Bonnie Roof was a beauty in disguise who, unfortunately, carried herself like the frumpy, stoop-shouldered wallflower she believed herself to be. As a “wallflower” from way back, Meg had a keen sense of seeing the beauty in people no matter their outward appearance, something she’d learned the hard way at the cruel hand of ridicule. And something she learned to counter most effectively in Paris, teaching her that although the naked eye admires outward appearance, it’s in the mind’s eye where true beauty and confidence begins.

  Scouring the pot until the sludge was gone, Meg hoped to do the very same thing for Bonnie—scour the sludge of insecurity from her self-perception so she could blossom into the woman that Meg knew she could be. Just like Mrs. Rousseau had done for Meg, both spiritually and physically. Excitement flooded within like the clean water flooded into the coffeepot, filling Meg with anticipation for this shy new friend she’d gotten to know so well over the last two weeks.

  When Meg had arrived two hours early the second day of her internship, she had hoped for some quiet time alone to pray and prepare for the day. But to her surprise, she’d discovered it was Bonnie’s habit to do the same, spending devotional time in the comfortable conference room with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee. Now she and Bonnie began every workday chatting and praying before the others arrived, forging a friendship made all the stronger through prayer. It had been in one of these intimate sessions that Meg had mentioned a subject near and dear to her heart, and what Dr. Rousseau had cheerfully referred to as “soul surgery.”

  “Feed a mouth, feed a faith,” he used to say when they distributed bread to prostitutes and tended to their maladies. “Heal a body, heal a soul.” And Meg had seen it firsthand in the polluted streets and sewers of the Pigalle district, where her heart had been slashed to ribbons over the plight of sore-infested women inflamed with disease and shame. Few could escape their fate in the brothels, it would seem, and yet Dr. Rousseau had labored on, performing “soul surgery” in the name of Christ. He’d rescued hundreds over the years, be they mere babes in a brothel or on the deathbed of disease, ready to meet their Maker. Tears pricked Meg’s eyes as she set the coffeepot to boil. No matter their situation or scourge, Christ within infused them with hope, faith, and an inner beauty that all but glowed from pocked faces or ravaged bodies.

  Down the hall, the crisp tap-tap-tap of Bonnie’s Remington could be heard, and anticipation simmered in Meg over some soul surgery of her own. Not life and death in the Pigalle district, certainly, but a surgery of light where the dark was p
ushed away—be it a gloomy reception area badly in need of a boost or the poor self-esteem of a dear friend, badly in need of confidence. She slipped back into the conference room to work on research while the coffee brewed, jumping up moments later when the rich aroma wafted in the air. Pouring a steaming cup, she added cream and sugar the way Bonnie liked before carrying it down the hall to where her friend typed.

  When Meg poked her head around the corner, she couldn’t help but grin at the transformation Andrew had allowed her to effect in Bonnie’s waiting room. Her heart swelled with pride over the hazy shafts of sunlight spilling into an office area that now sported rolled-up blinds, clean windows, and a fresh coat of paint—not stark white as before, but a warm maple color that lent a cozy feel. Shoulders straighter than usual, Bonnie worked at a gleaming desk graced with a simple crystal vase of fresh flowers. The scent of jasmine happily mingled with lemon oil from furniture polish and lilacs from the French perfume Meg had given her.

  Yes, Andrew had quirked a brow when Meg asked if she could spruce up Bonnie’s area, but he’d grinned when he saw the Monet-style oil paintings of San Francisco Bay, Sausalito, and Cliff House hung on the walls. Paintings from her junior year art class, their deep mahogany frames and wide molding showcased the beauty of San Francisco in pastel hues that gave the space a light and airy feel. By the time she’d added a Tabriz carpet in soft hues of brown and gold she’d found in Mother’s attic, he’d laughed outright, never blinking when an old brass floor lamp appeared, which she’d polished herself. The warm and homey effect had not only transformed Bonnie’s perspective, but everyone who entered the office, causing her coworkers to mill and linger more often, chatting with Bonnie and each other over coffee and donuts Meg brought in on Fridays.

  She released a satisfied sigh. A lovely transformation, indeed. But not as lovely as Miss Bonnie Roof when I’m done! The hint of a smile squirmed on Meg’s lips. Poor Bonnie should’ve never confessed George was her crush, because if there was anything Meg loved more than reading, chess, and math, it was matchmaking. Quite certain she’d never have a romance of her own, she’d taken great joy in masterminding connections for girls in her class. Other than being the chubby child genius who won almost every spelling bee or science fair from first grade on, matchmaking had been her only claim to fame, and now she had the chance to do it all over again!