21
Dash it all, can this day get any worse? Logan leaned back in his chair with eyes closed, kneading his temples with the pads of his fingers, hours of prep yet to go tonight on the worst case he’d taken to trial in years. He hadn’t needed this—Barone barging in, threatening to woo Allison and her bank account—not on top of losing a big case to Andrew Turner last week. And not seeing Cait in almost a week due to a horrendous workload. He exhaled a heavy breath. “Confound it—the only way this day could get any worse—”
Knock, knock.
“Excuse me, Mr. McClare.” Miss Peabody stuck her head in the door, an apology in her tone, “but the district attorney is here to see you, sir.”
Yep, that would be it. Logan groaned, face pinched in a scowl. “What’s he want—to gloat over the Delmonico case?”
She offered a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know, sir, but he did say it was personal.”
He huffed out a noisy sigh. “Tell him I have five minutes to spare and no more.”
“Yes, sir.”
She left and Logan studied a report until the door opened again after a knock, admitting the bane of Logan’s existence. “What do you want, Turner—gloating rights?”
Andrew Turner entered and closed the door behind him, his all-American smile—the one that earned him favors from women and juries—grating on Logan’s nerves. “Appreciate your time,” he said, ignoring Logan’s jab in that fluid, easy manner that had won him many a friend in school, including Logan, with whom he’d been inseparable. The two of them had been a formidable team in the fraternity—two handsome and wealthy heartbreakers, able to turn the head of any girl they wanted. Until the day came when they wanted the same one—beautiful Caitlyn Stewart, the woman who ruined Logan McClare for any other. And apparently Andrew as well, given his frequent visits to Cait’s house of late. He nodded to the cordovan chair in front of Logan’s desk. “May I?”
“Help yourself,” Logan muttered, “you usually do.” He tossed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair, arms folded and smile flat. “So, what do you want, Andrew?”
Turner laughed, a sparkle in pale, blue eyes that tended to captivate the opposite sex, his wheat-colored hair stylishly slicked back as he rested palms on the arms of his chair. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Logan—a bottom-liner who goes straight to the punch, whether in the courtroom or in friendship.”
One edge of Logan’s lip curled in a cold smile. “As I recall, you were the so-called friend who inspired the ‘straight to the punch’ mentality.”
He laughed again, the sound not as self-assured as the man appeared to be. “Yes, well, I earned that punch fair and square, no doubt about that.” Smile sheepish, he stroked his jaw with the back of his hand. “And although I’ve apologized over and over, I’ll continue to do so till you finally believe me.” The smile sobered into an intensity Logan recognized from the courtroom, when Turner was trying to sway a jury with his sainted piety—the righteous, churchgoing district attorney out for the good of man. His voice resonated with a sincerity that most people believed. Logan issued a silent grunt. Or at least those he hadn’t double-crossed. “I never meant to break you and Caitlyn up, Logan, I swear. Her best friend badgered until it just slipped out.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Sure it did, Turner, and I’ll just bet it broke your heart when she skittered back to tell Cait her fiancé was seeing another woman behind her back.”
Turner leapt to his feet. “It did, blast you! You were my best friend, Logan, and it tore me up to lose our friendship.”
“But not as much as it tore you up to lose Cait, did it, Andrew?” Logan sat up, knuckles white on the arms of his chair to keep from slamming them into Turner’s face. “Especially when Liam turned the tables on both of us and married the girl of our dreams.” A nerve flickered in Logan’s jaw as he snatched his pen from the desk, jerking his papers forward. “Sorry, old boy—I don’t believe you now any more than I did then, so save your double tongue for the juries.”
Turner expelled a weary breath, mouth compressed as he straightened to his full height. “I’d rather have done this as friends, Logan, but since that isn’t possible, I’ll come straight to the point.” His chin lifted a degree as he fiddled with his tie, tightening his Windsor knot before nervously adjusting his sleeves. “I intend to court Caitlyn and was hoping for your blessing.”
Logan stared, jaw distended before he laughed out loud. “You’re joking.”
A ruddy color bled up Turner’s neck. “I assure you I’m not. I have fond feelings for your sister-in-law, Logan, and I hope to pursue them.”
Logan launched to his feet. “Over my dead body,” he shouted. “Get out—now!”
“I was hoping we could be civil about this, McClare, amicable for Caitlyn’s sake.”
“You want civil?” Logan stormed around his desk, fists itching to take a swipe. “I’ll show you civil, you lying letch. Cait and I have an understanding, so keep your filthy hands off.”
Turner held two palms up and stepped back. “Look, McClare, I didn’t come here to fight, I came to clear the air and advise you of my intentions in an honorable manner. Cait and I have had many a discussion, and never once did she mention any ‘understanding’ with you.”
Logan all but singed him to the spot, his own four-in-hand tie and high-starched collar about to choke him to death. “That’s because she doesn’t know it yet, you clown, but she will soon. The woman was mine twenty-seven years ago and she’s mine today, and so help me, I will bloody you good if you even think of standing in my way.”
Anger glinted in Turner’s eyes, the amiable manner suddenly as cold as their friendship. “That’s Cait’s decision, not yours.” His smile was chilly. “Or are you afraid you’ll lose again?”
Logan lurched, jerking Turner up with two fists buried in his buttoned-down suit. “I’ll see you dead before I lose her again,” he breathed, inches from Turner’s mottled face.
Turner shoved him back, eyes glittering. “Is that a threat, counselor?”
“Consider it a warning.” Logan took a step forward, hands knotted. “Now get out.”
Smile hard, Turner moved to leave, head cocked and hand on the knob. “I’d rather consider it a challenge, if you don’t mind,” he said, his unruffled self-assurance getting on Logan’s nerves. He gave a tip of his hat as he opened the door. “And may the best man win.”
“Count on it,” Logan shouted before the door slammed in his face. He returned to his desk to stare out the window, body shaky but his confidence rock-solid. He and Cait were getting closer all the time, he could feel it, their friendship deepening by the day. It was only a matter of time before their partnership in loving and nurturing her family would ripen into more. He gazed across the city in the direction of Nob Hill, never more sure of a win.
“And so help me,” he whispered, seeing Andrew Turner clearly in mind, “you will eat both your heart out and your words, prosecutor, when Cait returns to where she was meant to be all along.” Picking up a frame, he stared at the only woman he’d ever loved, beseeching God for the only thing he ever really wanted. Mrs. Caitlyn McClare.
Wearing my ring as well as my name.
“Hold the elevator, please.”
Jamie stopped the elevator with a hand to the door before the operator could even flip the lever, grinning while Andrew Turner loped down the hall and slipped inside. “So that’s how you condition to give us a run for our money in the courtroom, sir, sprinting for elevators.”
Andrew laughed and extended his hand to shake Jamie’s while the attendant closed the doors. “That and duking it out with your boss, I’m afraid.” He grinned. “Something I imagine is common enough with Logan.”
It was Jamie’s turn to laugh as he buried his hands in his pockets, hip to the wall. “Oh, yes, sir, I guarantee every single one of us has gone a round or two with Mr. McClare, including Mr. Rupert and Byington.”
“Friend or foe,
he’s a formidable opponent.” Andrew paused, his smile warm. “And exceptional teacher, apparently, given your trial wins thus far, counselor. You seem to have his moves and mannerisms down in that courtroom, Jamie, which is a high compliment, indeed.” He slapped Jamie on the back just as the elevator jolted to a stop. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a chip off the old block, son.”
Heat thundered up Jamie’s neck. “Thank you, sir—that’s the ultimate compliment, I assure you. I respect and admire Mr. McClare a great deal.”
“Lobby,” the attendant called, and the doors creaked opened, jolting Jamie at the sight of his mother and sister waiting for the elevator.
“Jammy, wait—can we take a tour of your office—please, please?”
The district attorney smiled as Jamie’s sister, Jess, bounded forward to give Jamie a hug, her black curls bouncing. “We have time, you know—our reservations aren’t till noon.”
“Is this your sister?” Andrew Turner offered a broad smile.
Jamie hooked an arm to Jess’s waist with a proud grin. “Yes, sir, this is my little sister, Jess, who, I’m ashamed to admit, is a chess prodigy who wallops me regularly.”
Mr. Turner offered his hand, and Jess shook it heartily, her bubbly personality and glowing face making her seem more thirteen than seventeen. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss MacKenna. Your brother has stolen many a case from me and my colleagues, I assure you, so it’s rather nice to hear someone can trounce him at home.”
Jess giggled and gave a short bob of her head. “Thank you, sir.”
“And this is my mother, Jean MacKenna, with whom, it’s safe to say, I argued many a case before I ever darkened a courtroom door. Mom, Jess—this is the district attorney, the honorable Andrew Turner.”
Extending his hand to Jamie’s mother, the D.A. paused as he stared. “Excuse me, Mrs. MacKenna, but have we met before?”
Jean MacKenna tilted her head, as if to study him with a squint of her eyes. “I don’t believe so,” she said openly. “This is the first time Jess and I have ever ventured to Jamie’s office before, as we seldom wander too far from home.” She reached for his hand to shake it with a warm smile. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” the district attorney said with a slow nod. “It’s hard to believe you’re Jamie’s mother, Mrs. MacKenna, as young and beautiful as you are.”
Jamie’s mother blushed. “Why thank you, Mr. Turner—what a lovely thing to say.”
He shifted his keen gaze to Jamie, a crimp buckling his brow. “You just graduated last year, Mr. MacKenna, so that would make you . . . ?”
“Twenty-six, sir,” Jamie said with a clear of his throat.
The D.A. laughed. “Well, that settles it, then. This woman is entirely too young-looking to have a son your age, so I’m afraid no one would believe it in a court of law.” He bowed. “An absolute pleasure making your acquaintance, ladies. Enjoy your lunch, and make sure Jamie picks up the bill.” He gave Jamie a wink. “He can afford it working for Logan, no doubt.”
“What a nice man,” Jamie’s mother said, gaze following Andrew Turner out the door.
Jamie tugged his mother into the elevator with a chuckle. “Yeah, he is, Mom, but not in Logan’s eyes, I’m afraid.” He nodded to the attendant with a smile. “I guess it’s back up to six, Horace.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. MacKenna,” the elderly man replied, closing the doors with a clunk.
“Why doesn’t he like him?” his sister asked, her curious gaze a mirror reflection of her mother’s.
“I’m not really sure,” Jamie said, slipping a loose arm around both of their shoulders. “But I suspect he has a good reason.” He gave his sister’s neck a tweak as the elevator started to rise.
And her name is Caitlyn McClare.
Alli feasted on her cioppino while her eyes feasted on Nick Barone, the man who was stealing her heart by the moment as she dined on a splintered dock at Fisherman’s Wharf—formerly Meiggs’ Wharf. Seated on a weathered whiskey barrel with Lottie asleep in his lap, he laughed and chatted with crusty Italian fishermen who spun tales of crabbing beyond the Golden Gate while stirring hot cauldrons of stew. Steam curled from the pots into a heaven so blindingly blue, the bay had no choice but to shimmer in response, aquamarine waters bobbing with a sea of salt-incrusted vessels, from fishing dinghies to schooners skimming the sky.
Pushing her empty bowl away on the rickety crate table, Allison perched stiff arms to the edge of her barrel stool and leaned back, eyes closed and head tilted to absorb the rays of the sun. Somewhere a foghorn bellowed while seagulls squawked overhead, in beautiful harmony with Nick’s husky laughter. Allison drew in a brisk breath, inhaling sea air ripe with the aroma of fresh crab, shrimp, and mussels steeped in a rich broth of tomatoes and wine. A wharf specialty, all laced with basil and oregano that tingled her tongue with a taste she wouldn’t soon forget.
Nick’s hearty chuckles interrupted her reverie, and tingles of yet another kind shivered her skin. Tugging a tattered towel bib from her neck, she watched as his massive hands idly stroked Lottie’s silky curls while he talked to the men. The contrast of a giant of a man tender with so tiny a child melted her heart as thoroughly as the chocolate ringing Lottie’s little mouth. “I promised I’d take her to the wharf to smell and taste the chocolate at Ghirardelli,” he’d explained when he’d asked her to go along, “and I promise you it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
Somehow I doubt it. Her gaze strayed to Nick’s full mouth, wide in a grin over something the fishermen said, and her stomach took a tumble, confirming what she’d felt for Roger had been nothing like this. As gentle and tender on the inside as he was gruff and big on the outside, Nick Barone had a knack for making her feel cherished and safe. Just like he did Lottie, Miss Penny, and everyone else at Mercy House, who all but worshiped him as much as she. In the three weeks since they’d discovered their deeper feelings, she’d seen him almost every single day, and Alli had never been happier. Whether dinner and card games with Miss Penny and the girls or sharing a plate of Hunan chicken at Ming Chao’s, loving Nick felt as natural and warm and satisfying as spicy fish stew savored on a crisp September day. And merciful heavens—his kisses?
“You didn’t eat your chocolate.”
She blinked, heat stinging her cheeks when she realized she’d been distracted over tasting something else. As if privy to her thoughts, he grinned, the fishermen suddenly nowhere in sight. Shifting Lottie to his shoulder, he reached across the crate to pick up the chocolate bar he’d bought for them. Eyes fused to hers, he took a bite before slowly prodding the rest against her lips, his thumb grazing her mouth along with the candy. “I don’t blame you,” he whispered, the glint of humor in his eyes edging toward smoky. “It’s not what I’m hungry for either.”
Blood broiled her cheeks and he laughed out loud, caressing her jaw with the tips of his fingers. “I’m crazy about you, Al, you know that?” He tapped her chin. “Come on, Princess, time to get you and Miss La-di-da home.”
“Oh, drat—already?” Alli huffed out a sigh that was only part jest. Hopping up, she stood on tiptoe to kiss Lottie’s cheek before looping her arm through Nick’s and taking a step forward.
“Hey.” He tugged her back so firmly, she all but bounced off his chest, his body anchored like one of the posts on the peer. “Excuse me,” he said with a thick jag of his brow, “but I don’t believe this little dickens bought you chocolate or cioppino, did she?”
A grin inched across her lips as she perched on tiptoe to press a sweet kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Nick,” she said in her best sing-song voice.
“That’s better.” He deposited a kiss to her hair and Lottie’s before steering them along the dock where fishermen mended their nets. Seemingly endless rows of feluccas—Italian fishing boats—lined the wharf while snippets of Italian chatter and laughter floated in the air. The rich sound of Italian arias from Verdi and Puccini swelled in the sky like se
agulls and sandpipers gliding over the bay, as sweet as the smell of chocolate from the Ghirardelli factory one block away. The sun slowly sank into the horizon, washing wooden shacks and ramshackle storefronts with a pink haze that lent a watercolor effect, causing the city she loved to glow as much as Alli herself.
Navigating the cobblestone streets in comfortable silence, Nick smiled down at Alli when Lottie snorted in her sleep. “I suppose we tuckered her out, but it’s a sleep well earned as pushy as the little tyke’s been, badgering me to take her to the wharf.” He gently pushed a stray curl back under Alli’s feathered straw hat. “Kind of like you with Chinatown, Miss McClare.”
“But look how much fun we’ve had,” she defended, peering up with a sassy smile. “Even Miss Penny says you’re not as grumpy, although I beg to differ if a cable car’s involved.”
His lips twitched despite a stern tone. “Yeah? Well I’d like to see how chipper you’d be if your supper rolled in your stomach faster than a cable car on its rails.”
She shook her head with a cluck of her tongue, sympathy edging her tone. “Yes, well, nobody’s perfect, Nick, so I’ll just have to accept it as one of your flaws.”
“One of my flaws?” He halted her beneath a tungsten lamp while a Ghirardelli horse and wagon rumbled by. “What else?” he demanded with a slack of his hip.
She stared up through a squint laced with a smile. “Well, for starters, you’ve gone from being a pain in the posterior to a pain in the neck now that I always have to look up.”
The edge of his mouth crooked. “Pain in the neck, huh? I’d say that’s payback, Princess, for all those whacks with the stick.”
“And then there’s that thing you do with your ear when you’re hiding something.”
His jaw dropped. “What thing with my ear?”