Jamie slapped Blake’s hand away with a scowl. “You’re just jealous because now I’m the good son in this family.” His gaze shifted to his wife with a dangerous smile. “And any more snide remarks from you, Mrs. MacKenna, and I’ll be showing you ‘trouble’ at home.”
Alli bumped shoulders with Cassie. “Not if she hog-ties you with her stinky rope, eh?”
Caitlyn shook her head and grinned, turning her attention back to the man whose narrow gaze was as thin as his smile. He arched a brow. “Troublemaker, Cait, really?”
She scraped her lip with her teeth, hoping a change of subject would sidetrack him from an awkward conversation. Picking up her six cards with an attempt at a casual air, she discarded two before gliding them to the crib hand at the side of the table. Logan followed suit at the exact same moment, and she caught her breath when a jolt of static electricity sparked at the touch of their fingers. Her breathing suddenly shallow, she quickly jerked away to cut the center cards once more per cribbage rules, then fixed her eyes on the deck while Logan turned the starter card up. “So, Logan,” she said in a rush, “the children and I would like to get you something special for your birthday—what do you suggest?”
His pause drew her gaze. “You know what I want, Cait,” he said quietly, the stark look of love in his eyes belying the half smile on his lips.
Heat swirled in her belly before it shot to her cheeks. Yes, she knew what he wanted, but he hadn’t been so bold as to express it since she’d denied his request for courtship over eight months ago. The night she’d learned she couldn’t trust him for a second time in her life.
As if sensing her sudden malaise, he gently grazed her arm, a hint of a jest in his tone. “But . . . since we both know I can’t have that, then I suppose there is something else I’d like . . .”
The breath she’d been holding slowly seeped through her lips, which now curved in a grateful smile. “Anything, Logan, as long as it has nothing to do with poker or courtship.”
He leaned in, dark eyes locked on hers. “Go to the Barrister Ball with me, Cait. With our boys attending this year, I want to be there too, and I’ve missed the last few because of you.”
“B-because of me?” she repeated lamely, desperate to stall. Her hands were shaking so hard, she lowered them to the table, cribbage cards face down.
His fingers slowly brushed the tips of hers before sliding beneath to capture her hand, his thumb grazing her wrist as if to gauge her pulse. “I only want to go with you, Cait,” he said softly, “no other woman but you, so show a little mercy to your brother-in-law, Mrs. McClare, and give me a birthday present I’ll never forget . . .”
Oh, Logan, how I wish that I could . . . She gently eased her hand from his, adjusting her cards before she lifted her gaze. “You and I both know that the Barrister Ball is one of the social highlights of the season over which the society pages drool ad nauseum.” Her stomach cramped at his look of disappointment, and with a ragged breath, she dropped her cards to the table and grasped his hand in hers. The intensity of her gaze, her hold, begged him to understand. “The last thing either of us needs are rumors running rampant that you and I are romantically linked.”
“We’re seen together all the time Cait—at church, at The Palace for brunch or dinner.”
“But that’s different, Logan, and you know it. My children are always with me, and you are their uncle after all, so it’s nothing more than a family gathering.”
A nerve twittered in his jaw. “Nothing more than a family gathering? Seriously? Is that all it is to you because that’s not all it is to me.”
Her cheeks flamed hot. “No, of course, Logan—I treasure your friendship, and I care about you a great deal, you know that. But the Barrister Ball is seen as a . . .” She swallowed hard. “Romantic event, if you will, for couples, be they married or—”
“Lovers?” he finished quietly, jaw tight. “And we’re certainly not that, are we, Cait? Nor ever will be, will we?”
Tears stung at just how much his betrayal had stolen from them both. “Oh, Logan,” she whispered, “I have no way of knowing the future. All I do know is that I’m not ready now.”
He nodded, slipping his hand from hers to pick up his cards. “All right, Cait,” he said with a heavy exhale of air. “At least you left me with a glimmer of hope, no matter how faint.”
Her rib cage contracted with relief. “But you need to attend the ball, Logan,” she said in a rush, desperate to coax him in that direction. “Truly there must be someone you can take.”
His lips went flat. “There are dozens of women I could take, but I’m only in love with one. No, thanks, Cait—I’ll pass.” He reached for the walnut cribbage board and notched his peg two points. “Two for his heels,” he said with a mock scowl, “so at least my luck is holding in cribbage if not love.”
“Logan, I’m so sorry . . . ,” she whispered.
His smile took a slant. “True, but not as sorry as you’re going to be, Mrs. McClare, after I crush you in cribbage.” He assessed his hand for several moments before his eyelids lifted halfway. “And trust me, Cait, it’s going to hurt.”
A muscle convulsed in her throat. “It already does,” she said quietly. Before she could stop it, tears welled in her eyes. “I do love you, Logan—more than I can say.”
He paused, studying her with an intensity that thickened her throat. “I know, Cait. And more than you can do, apparently.”
“Pardon me, Miss Cait,” Hadley said at the door, “Mr. Andrew Turner to see you.”
A low growl rumbled from Logan’s throat, which neatly matched the silent groan in her own. “Blast it, Cait—what’s he doing here again?”
She glanced over her shoulder with a stiff smile. “Thank you, Hadley—I’d appreciate it if you would show him to the study for me.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d show him to the street,” Logan mumbled, slapping his cards on the table with no little force.
“Yes, miss, and scones with that tea?” Chin high, Hadley awaited her response.
“No, Hadley, no scones and no tea, please,” she said too loudly, her tone so sharp that all chatter ceased with curious stares. “Mr. Turner won’t be staying, so no refreshments are needed.” She shot to her feet, heat climbing her neck as she attempted to placate Logan with a gentle smile. “Don’t move a muscle—I will dispense of him posthaste.”
Logan grunted. “I’d rather you let me dispense of him.” He rose to rid himself of his coat. “And the devil with ‘posthaste,’ ” he muttered, “I’ll take postmortem.”
Shaking her head, Cait hurried from the room, burying a smile beneath lips pinched tight. Postmortem, indeed. She sighed. Right after I wring Andrew’s neck . . .
12
Shoulders square, Caitlyn marched from the room with steel in her spine and temper in a flare, determined to give Andrew Turner a stern talking to as far as his habit of dropping in unannounced. Especially on nights when Logan was here. She had enough trouble containing Logan’s temper where Andrew was concerned—she didn’t need any more thorns in Logan’s side.
Andrew was staring out the French doors when she entered the study, his charcoal suit coat straining broad shoulders with hands clasped to his back, fedora dangling from his thumb. She paused to study the man Logan McClare hated and completely understood why. Andrew Turner challenged Logan in every way—in the courtroom, in politics, in social circles, in wealth, in his appeal to women and, she thought with a quiet exhale, in his attention to her. Like Logan, Andrew had his choice of women to court and yet Cait couldn’t help but wonder if part of Andrew’s attraction to her stemmed from his rivalry with the man who’d once been his best friend. A competition, if you will, like the night she’d first met them both at The Palace so many years ago, when he and Logan had vied for her attention and Logan had won. A wispy sigh escaped her lips. While both Andrew and I had lost . . .
Arming herself with a deep breath, she pushed the door half closed with a faint sq
ueal. He spun around, a broad smile spanning his face that might have tripped her pulse if Logan were not so firmly entrenched in her life. And in her heart.
“Cait!” He crossed the room in three powerful strides, taking her hands in his. “You look beautiful this evening, Mrs. McClare, as always.”
Some of her anger thawed as she gently tugged her hands free, gliding past him to seat herself at her desk, determined to put some distance between them. Back straight and hands folded on her leather blotter, she hitched her chin into business mode, offering a smile she hoped was both warm and distant at the same time. “Thank you, Andrew, you’re very kind. To what do I owe this honor, your visit at this late hour of the evening?”
A sheepish smile shadowed his lips as he slowly moved forward, fiddling with the hat in his hands like a little boy who’d been caught pilfering from a cookie jar. He promptly disarmed her with a mischievous smile, rendering an apology that held not a hint of regret. “Forgive me, Cait, I know I shouldn’t just barge in whenever I feel like it, but honestly, if you had any idea how often I feel like it, you would have great admiration for my restraint.”
Exhaling, she shook her head, unable to thwart the smile that tugged at her lips. “Andrew, Andrew—what am I going to do with you?” she said softly.
Laying his hat on her desk, he promptly perched on the corner with a casual fold of arms. His blue eyes glimmered like his wheat-blond hair in the light of the crystal chandelier. “Oh, I don’t know—court me, I hope?”
She pursed her lips, fighting the smile that itched to break free. “Why are you here, Mr. Turner?” she repeated with another heft of her chin.
“Okay, Cait, I can see I interrupted your evening and I regret that, really I do—”
“Now why do I have trouble believing that?” she said with a tilt of her head, brow arched like a schoolmarm addressing a wayward student.
He hopped up to loom over her desk, palms flat and eyes twinkling like that wayward student he so reminded her of. “Why? Probably because I’ve been hounding you for months to go out with me. And no doubt you suspect tonight is more of the same with the added incentive of riling Logan so much, you’ll say yes just to make me stop. Which,” he said with a devilish smile, “would be very close to the truth if I didn’t have a better reason.”
She folded her arms to ward off succumbing to his little-boy charm, allowing him a patient smile. “And that would be . . . ?”
Slipping his hands in his pockets, he stood straight up, rocking back on his heels with a proud grin. “We did it, Cait—the Vigilance Committee now has the force of Terrible Terry behind it. Father Caraher has agreed to a much closer, more focused association.”
With a catch of her breath, her lips parted in a breathless smile as she shot to her feet. “Oh, Andrew, seriously?” Her hand flew to her mouth, the news causing her heart to thud. Not only did the Vigilance Committee have the powerful support of the district attorney’s office, but now the most prolific and vocal advocate for morality in San Francisco! Father Terence Caraher, pastor of St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church, was chairman of the Committee on Morals of the North Beach Promotion Association. It had been Father Caraher’s relentless crusade against the vile Nymphia brothel that finally forced it to close last year. And soon, Caitlyn thought with a skip of her pulse, the same would happen for the Marsicania and the Municipal Crib—the two biggest prostitution blights in the Barbary Coast.
A sense of giddiness bubbled up and Caitlyn laughed, rushing around the desk to squeeze Andrew’s hand, quite certain her face had to be glowing. “Oh, Andrew, just imagine—joining forces to shut down both the Marsicania and the Municipal Crib! It’s almost too good to be true.”
He took both of her hands in his, his tone as soft as his eyes. “Now, Cait, I don’t want you to be disappointed, but you and I both know this will be one step at a time—first the Marsicania, then we set our sights on the Municipal Crib.”
Some of her euphoria faded. “But why? Wouldn’t now be the best time to go after the Municipal Crib, with it barely open a month? Heaven knows the momentum is on our side with all the free press Fremont Older has given us in the Evening Bulletin.”
“Yes, and Fremont is laying the groundwork for us to tackle the Municipal Crib down the road, but right now, we need to focus our efforts on the Marsicania, and Father Caraher agrees. Believe me, Cait, what we’re doing here will trigger a domino effect this city has never seen, sweeping depravity out of the Barbary Coast and into the sea.” He ducked to stare into her eyes, his gaze tender. “Remember the homily this week? ‘Be not therefore anxious for the morrow: for the morrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ ” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Which means, we need to take this one day at a time, step-by-step.”
She took a deep breath and allowed it to escape in a shaky exhale, disappointed at the slow pace they needed to keep. “All right, Andrew—as district attorney, you certainly have your finger on the pulse of what we need to do more than I, so I respect your leadership in this.”
“Thank you,” he said softly, unsettling her further when his thumb slowly circled the palm of her hand. “You have no idea how much that means to me, Cait.”
She attempted to pull away, but he held on, halting her retreat with a gentle grip. “There’s just one more thing I need to tell you, but you’re not going to like it. Or at least, Logan won’t like it.”
A cold chill slithered across her skin, countering the warmth Andrew’s touch had created. She swallowed hard, not anxious to hear anything that would disrupt her peace with Logan any more than Andrew already had. “What?” she said, her voice a near rasp.
He studied her for several moments, brows pinched as if deciding how to impart news he needed to share. “Father Caraher’s main hesitation in joining forces with the Vigilance Committee thus far has been his objection to lengthy time parameters outlined in your original proposal to the Board of Supervisors. So . . . his partnership is contingent upon implementing parts of phase two sooner than we planned.” He paused, weighting his words with a probing stare. “Which means going after the dance and gambling halls now rather than later.”
She blinked, the magnitude of what he was proposing tumbling her stomach. Gambling halls. Including several of Logan’s business holdings in the Barbary Coast, like the Blue Moon, where Jamie used to work and his mother still did. Her eyelids weighted closed, remembering with perfect clarity her insistence to Logan that phase two would not be overnight, and likely not for another three years at least.
“Cait, I know you proposed a slower timetable of up to five years, but we lose ground if we don’t tackle some of the smaller stuff along with the Marsicania.” He lifted her chin, prompting her to open her eyes. The regret she saw there convinced her that Andrew’s motives had nothing to do with Logan and everything to do with his own dream—and hers—to free their city from the depravity of the Barbary Coast. “Logan will understand, Cait, and ultimately it’s for his good and that of any respectable business owners on the Coast.”
A sigh quivered from her lips as she nodded, and Andrew drew her close as he’d done in the past when Vigilance Committee business had dragged her down. “The lives of hundreds of women and children are at stake, Cait,” he whispered.
“How soon?”
He paused. “Six months.”
Her head jerked up. “Oh, Andrew, no . . .”
His gaze was somber. “You or I can’t let our feelings or those of the people we love sway us from the ultimate good, Cait, you know that.”
Yes, I know that . . . The sting of her regret caused her to sink into his comforting hold once again, the clean smell of soap and musk shaving cream reminding her just what a wholesome and godly man Andrew Turner was. A man whose heart beat for the same causes as hers. She closed her eyes to soak up the solace of his embrace. And to delay the inevitable. Her eyelids shuttered closed. Informing Logan of the new timeline for phase two.
&n
bsp; The squeal of the door interrupted them, along with a steely tone. “I’m going to head out, Cait—you obviously have things to attend to.” Hand fisted on the knob, Logan loomed in the doorway with a stone face except for the flicker of a nerve in his jaw.
She spun around, heat swarming her cheeks as she quickly distanced herself from Andrew. Her fingers trembled while she absently hooked a strand of hair over her ear. “Oh, Logan—no, please!” Heart pounding, she hurried to where he stood as cold and unmovable as the marble statue that graced her foyer. “Mr. Turner was just leaving,” she said, whirling to face Andrew with a plea in her eyes. “Thank you for the critical update, Andrew. I’m most anxious to discuss it further at our committee meeting Monday evening.”
Andrew’s gaze flicked from Logan to her, softening considerably as he gave her a tender smile. “My pleasure, Cait. May I offer you a ride to the meeting?”
“N-no,” she said too quickly, Logan’s tension so palpable, she stuttered her words. “Thank you, but I don’t want to trouble you. Hadley will drive me.”
Head bowed, he fiddled with the fedora in his hand, peering up with a half-lidded look that held way too much affection. “It’s no trouble, Cait,” he said quietly, “truly.”
“That’s very kind of you, Andrew, really, but Hadley will drive me, thank you.”
He nodded and moved toward the door, jaw compressed despite the smile on his face. “Good to see you, Logan. My apologies for interrupting your evening.”
Logan didn’t respond, his rigid body a granite barrier. He made Andrew wait several seconds before he moved to let him pass.
“Good night, Cait.” Andrew strode into the foyer.
“Turner.” Logan’s voice was harsh.
Andrew rotated, hand on the knob of the glass front door.
“If you persist in bothering Cait at home, I strongly advise you to avoid the nights that I spend time with my family.” Cait didn’t miss the tight clench of Logan’s fists at his sides, as rock hard as his tone. “In other words, Turner, if my vehicle is out front—stay away.”