God willing, indeed . . . A nerve twitched in his cheek. The same God in which Caitlyn accused him of not believing the night in Napa when she’d turned him away. His jaw firmed. So help him, he’d convince her he was a man of faith if it took every breath in his body, and he’d begun the very next week. A man of carnal appetite all of his life, he now avoided his former dalliances like the very plague that had ravaged the city two years prior. Governed by morality for the first time since he’d entered college, he’d become a homebody—Caitlyn’s home, to be exact—unwilling to be seen with any other woman lest the evidence be splattered across the front page of the society papers. Where once he’d attended mass with the family only on Christmas and Easter, he now met them in Cait’s pew each Sunday, after which he treated them to lunch at the Palace, his permanent residence when not at his Napa estate. Well aware of Caitlyn’s teetotaler tendencies, even his drinking habits had changed, never imbibing at her home or touching anything harder than wine at dinners out and only one glass at that. No, he’d taken great pains to pursue her with meticulous planning and care, as if she were one of his court cases where life and death hung by a thread. He issued a silent grunt. Because it did—his life and his thread of hope—for the woman he longed to hold in his arms for the rest of his life.
“Logan?”
He jerked from his thoughts, glancing at Cait as he turned onto Powell. “Yes?”
A ridge popped above her nose. “Are you all right? You seem to be somewhere else . . .”
I am, Cait—in your arms. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, a lot on my mind.”
“You wanted to talk about Alli?” A passing streetlamp highlighted the delicate rise of her brow while a breeze played with the tendrils of hair at the back of her neck, drawing his gaze.
“Alli, yes,” he said slowly, downshifting as the phaeton slowly chugged up the steep hill. A grin tipped his mouth. “She sure took the wind out of Jamie’s sails with that jiu-jitsu demonstration.”
She laughed, lips settling into a soft smile as she stared over the dash. “Not necessarily a bad thing, the way that boy gloats when he wins.”
A grin eased across his lips, his affection deep for a man who’d become the son he’d always longed for. “He’s a cocky thing, that’s for sure, but one heck of a fine man, I’ll tell you that. He’ll make Cass a wonderful husband.” He quickly jerked the wheel to the left, deftly avoiding an oncoming horse and buggy. The smell of manure rose to his nostrils, obliterating the familiar scent of fish from the wharf. “But back to Alli,” he said with a sideways glance. “How are she and Barone? Still polite enemies, I hope?”
Head tilted in question, she pursed her lips in thought. “At first, yes, but given way to a polite friendship, I believe, which pleases me. I’d rather they be friends than enemies, Logan.”
“Not with his reputation, Cait. I suspect he’s a womanizer, and a penniless one at that.”
A wrinkle appeared above the bridge of her nose. “And how would you know that? I’ve seen no indication of anything to support that accusation. Did Harmon tell you that?”
His lips went flat. “No, but I can spot a womanizer a mile away, Cait, trust me.”
A smile flickered at the edges of her mouth. “Oh, I see—takes one to know one?”
He peered at her out of the corner of his eye, her jest barbing more than he liked. “Regrettably, yes,” he said quietly, “but that’s part of my unfortunate past, Cait. My family is the most important thing to me now, and you need to know that.”
She averted her gaze to the dash once again. Drawing in a deep breath, she buffed her arms in an antsy avoidance of the truth. “Well, I like him. He seems straightforward and honest.”
He frowned, slowing to let a cable car pass as he approached her street. “So did Roger Luepke, if you recall.” Downshifting, he took the corner and glided up to the curb, turning the engine off with a weary expulsion of air. He angled to face her, jaw tight at the memory of the charlatan he’d introduced Alli to. “Look, Cait, as long as I draw a breath, what happened with Luepke will never happen to any of my nieces again. The last thing I want to hear is that this Barone character is getting cozy with Alli. We know nothing about the man.”
“But Harmon hired him, for goodness’ sake—surely that vouches for his credibility?”
He tossed his fedora on the seat, raking fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture. “As a detective, yes. As a man I can trust with Alli on a more intimate level? Not on your life. Even Harmon knows nothing about him—just that he’s a friend of a friend who called in a favor. When is Mr. Bigley back?”
“Next week. Why?”
“Good. I promised Barone six weeks, which is next week, and quite frankly, if he and Alli are hobnobbing as friends, I’d rather have him out of her life.”
A flicker of alarm flashed in her eyes. “So he . . . won’t be seeing her home anymore?”
He grunted. “Oh, he’ll be seeing her home all right—she just won’t know it.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, two tiny ridges appearing at the bridge of her nose.
“I mean I plan to continue to pay him to be on call—and quite well, I might add—to protect her without her knowledge so she can exercise that independent streak she inherited from her mother.”
Her eyes softened. “You’re a wonderful uncle, Logan,” she whispered, “and a wonderful friend.”
His gaze penetrated hers, causing a dip in her throat. “No, Mrs. McClare,” he said softly, “just a man desperately in love with his family.”
She looked away then, fingers fiddling with the strap of her purse as she quickly changed the subject. “So, how is this going to work with Nick after Mr. Bigley comes back?”
He folded his arms. “That’s where you come in. How often and how late will Alli stay after school, do you know?”
Creases puckered her brow. “Well, she’s put together a fund-raiser play, so if I know Allison, she’ll want to practice two or three nights a week after school for the next month at least. That shouldn’t go any later than four o’clock or so, but I’m certain she’ll find some excuse to dilly-dally well up unto dusk.” A smile softened the lines in her face. “We both know the girl has no sense of time, especially when she’s focused on a task.” She shook her head, the smile on her lips blooming into gentle affection. “Goodness, she gives everything her all, so between that and her stubborn pursuit of perfection, she’d stay at the school until midnight if I let her.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Mmm . . . wonder where she gets it?”
A twinkle lit her eyes in the glow of the streetlamp. “Oh, her uncle Logan, no doubt.”
He grinned. “I doubt that would stand up in a court of law, Mrs. McClare.” Clearing his throat, he forced his attention away from the soft curve of her lips. “As far as Alli goes, that makes it more difficult, but not impossible, although I doubt Barone will like it. But that’s too bad because Harm will give him no choice. So whenever Alli stays late, you’ll simply alert Mrs. Peel and she’ll advise Barone. You’ll need to insist Alli telephones prior to leaving, of course, and then you’ll immediately contact Mrs. Peel. She’ll make sure Barone follows at a distance to ensure she gets home safely.”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, clasping hands together like a little girl privy to a juicy secret. “You’ve thought of everything! Now Alli can be independent and safe at the same time, and she need never know you’ve arranged for a flesh-and-blood guardian angel.”
Logan’s lips slanted as he hopped from the carriage seat and rounded the car. “I doubt Barone qualifies for celestial duty, but the ‘flesh and blood’ aspect is precisely why I want those two apart.” He raised his arms to help her down, fighting a grin at the tug of teeth against her lip while she avoided his gaze. Hands to her waist, he swooped her to the ground, pulse sprinting at the feel of her body against his palms. His release was immediate, as if her very touch had singed, and in a way, he supposed it had. Touching Caitlyn Mc
Clare was not a good idea if he hoped to forge a friendship, no matter the attraction that stirred on either side. And, oh, it stirred all right. He felt it in the tension in the air, as thick as the knot that bobbed in her throat when she fidgeted with her skirt. And as warm as the blood pulsing through his veins when he offered his arm.
“No, Logan, really.” She took a step back. “It’s late and there’s no need to walk me in.”
With a firm clasp of her arm over his, he promptly ushered her up the brick steps leading to her Nob Hill Victorian, his tone as decisive as his hold. “Come on, Cait, what do you take me for, a cad? A gentleman always escorts a lady to the door.”
“Yes, but I’m family,” she said with a sideways glance that darted away when it connected with his. “Not one of your many ladies you escort about town.”
He fisted the brass doorknob of the arched burlwood door, pausing to give her a sober stare. “Family, yes, but let’s be clear about something,” he said quietly. “You—and my nieces—are the only women I see or escort about town anymore, and I count it one of the greatest pleasures I’m privileged to have.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise before she laughed, the awkward sound indicating her disbelief. “Really, Logan, an eligible bachelor like you? That must break quite a few hearts.”
He opened the door with a slow push, fixing her with a steady gaze. “I hope not,” he whispered, stepping aside for her to enter. “I have no desire to break anyone’s heart ever again.”
With a shift in her throat, she nodded and hurried into the foyer. Turning with shoulders square, she held her head high in that regal way she resorted to whenever she struggled to regain control. “Thank you for the ride and for seeing to Alli’s safety. My children are blessed to have you in their lives.”
With a short bow, he gave a brief tip of his head. “Good night, Mrs. McClare. Tomorrow I’ll see you for dinner and cribbage.” Before she could close the door, he turned on his heel and strode to his car, the faintest of smiles curving on his lips.
And tonight? I’ll see you in my dreams.
16
But I don’t understand—why aren’t you going to teach Miss Alli anymore?”
Nick glanced up while he rolled the jiu-jitsu mat for the last time, heart squeezing at the solemn look in Lottie’s eyes. The little tyke sat cross-legged on the edge, the new blue serge “uniform” Mrs. McClare furnished sagging on her tiny frame as much as the sad expression on her face. He huffed out a sigh and continued rolling, nudging the rubber against her knees until a tiny smile crept across her lips. “I already told you, La-di-da—Miss Alli has learned everything she needs to know.” He bopped her legs several times, finally rolling the mat over her knees. “Now, unless you want to be a big bump in this mat, young lady, I suggest you get up so I can give you a horsey ride.”
She hopped up with a throaty giggle that made him grin, then promptly launched onto his back, clinging to his neck like a spider monkey to its mother.
“Hold tight, all right?” Tucking the mat under his arm, he rose and anchored her little legs to his chest. “Let’s get you home before Miss Penny whacks me with Miss Alli’s stick.”
Her giggle tickled his neck. “But aren’t we going to wait for Miss Alli?” she asked, digging her knees into his side to make him go faster.
“Naw—no telling how long it’ll take her to change. She has a tendency to dawdle—”
“I beg your pardon . . .” Allison stood in the doorway, arms crossed and chin high while a small hobo-style purse dangled from her wrist. The lavish silk bow on her straw hat was a pretty match for a fitted navy suit that more than complemented her curves. Reticule swinging in hand, she sauntered in with a cocky air that was purely for show, her flair for drama evident in every single thing the woman did. She slapped a hand to pearl buttons that meandered down a very distracting satin shirtwaist. “And this from the man who took a full two weeks to paint a single coat of paint on the back of the school,” she said with a plunk of hands to her hips. Lush, slender hips, to be exact . . . leading up to a tiny waist and—
Jerking his gaze away, he strode to the door. Focus, Barone, and not on the dame. Despite the heat creeping up his neck, he refused to be cowed, offering a tight-lipped smile while he and Lottie sidled past. “Only because the drama teacher demanded stage scenery for a small hamlet the size of Rome.” His gravelly tone made Lottie giggle.
Allison spun around to follow, quickly locking the front door before racing to catch up so she could tickle Lottie, who immediately flailed heels into Nick’s ribs with a loud squeal. He wasn’t sure who was the bigger pain in his side, but he’d lay odds on Miss McClare. She darted past like the ruffians he’d seen in the hall before recess—skipping backward with a mischievous grin on her lips. “Come on, Detective Ga-roan,” she teased, “Mr. Bigley would have had the scenery built and the house painted in the time it took you to crawl up that ladder and back.” In a flash of teeth, she whirled around with her nose in the air, sashaying down the hall like she owned the place. His mouth crooked. And she did, he supposed, with as many hours as the woman put in, giving every moment of her time and talents to the outcast children of the Barbary Coast. Lottie giddyupped his ribs with another squeal, and he shook his head, unable to stifle a grin. Holy thunder, what he wouldn’t have given to have a teacher like Alli when he was a kid instead of those crusty nuns. Lively, gorgeous, caring, and fun . . . even with a stick.
At the back door, the little imp had the audacity to pivot and smirk, butting the door with her backside to hold it open. “But then Mr. Bigley is probably way younger than you.”
His jaw ground despite his stiff smile. “I’m thirty, Miss McClare,” he said in a clipped tone, making sure the rubber mat swatted her as he swept by. “Bigley has me by ten years.”
“Only in age.” Locking the door, she bounded down the steps two at a time, nipping at his heels like Horatio when Nick gave Lottie “horsey rides” at home. “As far as crotchety, you have at least twenty years on him, Mr. Cranky Pants, a grouchy old man well before his time.”
Lottie giggled, bouncing without mercy. “Mr. Cranky Pants, Mr. Cranky Pants!”
Nick seared Alli with a look as she hustled up Miss Penny’s back steps to open the screen door, cheeks flushed with fun. She looked so adorable, he was tempted to grin, but he settled for his trademark scowl instead. “See what you started?” he groused, brushing past her into the screened porch area while Lottie rode him like a steer rider busting a bronc. “And for your information, Miss Talk-Often-and-Carry-a-Big-Stick, I am in a good mood most of the time unless needlessly provoked.”
“Excuse me, Mr. C.P.,” Alli said, following him into the kitchen, “but I believe it was your permanent grouchy moods that have earned you that title, am I right, La-di-da?”
“Right!” The little cowpoke kneed him for good measure with every rib-busting bounce.
“What’s right?” Denise asked, assisting Angi with setting the polished-oak table while Miss Penny retrieved two freshly baked loaves of bread from the oven.
“That Mr. Nick is a cranky pants.” Allison gallivanted past as if she lived there instead of him, reaching for Lottie, who immediately launched into her arms. She spun the little dickens several times before setting her down. “Face it, Nick Barone—you have one mood—crabby.”
A low chuckle rolled from Mrs. Lemp as she fried chicken that watered his mouth. “Oh, I don’t think that’s fair to say. Our Nicky has lots of moods other than crabby.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lemp,” Nick said with a thrust of his chin, slipping an arm to the old woman’s waist while Horatio snarled.
“There’s also testy, crusty, and cantankerous, just to name a few.” Peering up with laugh lines that fanned from teasing blue eyes, the cook pinched his cheek with a butterscotch grin. “Aye, but we keep him around ’cause he’s so lovely to look at, don’t ya know?”
Heat crawled up his neck, but he ignored it with a wry smile. “Appreciate the support
, Mrs. Lemp.” He went for a drumstick, only to have Miss Penny thump the back of his hand.
“Oh no you don’t, young man, not before you’ve washed and we’ve said grace—”
“Hey, he’s not ‘young,’ ” Lottie said, cheeks as rosy as the bowl of apples Mrs. Lemp kept on the counter. “Miss Alli says he’s an old man.” She latched onto Nick’s leg, giving a delighted shriek when he bounced her in the air. “What’s decrepit mean?” she asked with a squeal.
“It’s a synonym for Mr. Nick,” Allison supplied.
“W-what’s . . . a sin . . . o-min?” Her voice wobbled with every bob of Nick’s shoe.
“You know, two words that mean the same thing, like Miss Alli taught us last week.” Denise notched her chin, freckled face beaming with pride.
Nick shot Lottie in the air with a hard thrust of his foot, swooping her up and tickling beneath her arms. “Kind of like Miss Alli and the word trouble,” he said, smile atilt.
“All right, you two.” Miss Penny tugged Lottie from Nick’s arms with a smile. “We have mouths to feed, so wash up, please.” Setting Lottie on the counter next to the sink, she proceeded to wash the little girl’s hands with a soapy dishrag, shooting Alli a smile over her shoulder. “We’d love to have you stay, Allison, if you like—we have plenty.”
“Thank you, Miss Penny, but I actually have plans tonight.” Her gaze flicked to the chicken with the same look of longing as Nick before she headed for the door. “G’night, all!”
Stifling a groan, Nick snitched a drumstick on his way out. “Save me some chicken.”
Alli spun around. “Oh, no you don’t—your obligation officially ended with our last lesson. I am now skilled and perfectly able to take care of myself, remember?”