Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel by Julie Lessman Read Free Book Online Page B

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 identifiedthe 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 Nicka 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