Praise for Elizabeth Lane

THE BORROWED BRIDE

‘…brims over with tender touches…’

—RT Book Reviews

ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

‘Lane uses her turn-of-the-century backdrop and her knowledge of aviation to her advantage in a lively story featuring strong-willed characters. She reaches for an audience searching for fresh historical territory in her charming feminist novel.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE STRANGER

‘…the warmth of an Americana romance and the grit of a tough Western…’

—RT Book Reviews

HER DEAREST ENEMY

‘…a pleasurable and well-executed tale…’

—RT Book Reviews

“Why, little Annie, I didn’t know you cared.”

The mischief had crept back into Quint’s eyes. “Maybe I should give this some thought.”

“Stop making fun of me!”

It was all Annie could do to keep from slapping the smirk off his face.

“Yes, I do care, you big, arrogant, smart-mouthed oaf. You’ve been my knight in shining armour since I was old enough to tell boys from girls. You were my hero, and I won’t stand back and watch you throw your life away on this…this…”

Her throat went tight, choking off her words. Merciful heaven, what had she just said to him?

Quint gazed down at her, his eyes glinting amber with reflected flame. Annie’s heart lurched as he tilted her chin upward, bent towards her and captured her mouth with his own. His lips were velvet and honey, possessing her from the very first touch…

His Substitute Bride
Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Elizabeth Lane has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE features characters you will have met in THE BORROWED BRIDE

Previous novels by this author:

ANGELS IN THE SNOW (part of Stay for Christmas anthology)

HER DEAREST ENEMY

THE STRANGER

THE BORROWED BRIDE

and in Super Historical:

ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

For Teresa and Ted and for San Francisco

Chapter One

San Francisco, April 13, 1906

By the time Quint found the woman, she was dying. She lay faceup on the checkered linoleum, a dollar-size crimson stain oozing through the fabric of her plain white shirtwaist. It appeared she’d been stabbed.

“Virginia!” Quint crouched beside her, clasping her hand. “Can you hear me? It’s Quint Seavers!”

The blood-frothed lips moved slightly, but no sound emerged. She was a slight creature, about thirty, he judged, her plain features made plainer by the thick spectacles that lay askew on her nose. Quint was meeting her in person for the first time. But he already knew Virginia Poole to be honest and brave. The man responsible for this was damned well going to pay.

“The letter, Virginia!” His fingers tightened around hers. “Where is it? Can you tell me?”

But she was already gone, slipping away without a sound.

Releasing her hand, Quint cast his eyes around the shabby one-room apartment. The place had been ransacked. Furniture had been toppled, clothes thrown helter-skelter. Kitchen cupboards had been emptied, their contents strewn on the floor. The Murphy bed, which took up one wall, had been lowered, the mattress, quilt and pillow ripped to pieces.

Feathers eddied in the gaslit room, blown by a chilly draft from the open window. Whoever was here hadn’t been gone long. They’d probably climbed over the sill when they’d heard Quint pounding on the door. Judging from the mess and the hasty departure, he’d bet good money they hadn’t found what they were looking for.

And neither would he.

Quint cursed in frustration. The handwritten letter, linking Supervisor Josiah Rutledge to a crooked scheme involving funds for the city’s water system, would provide enough evidence to bring Rutledge down. Even more important, it would alert the public that this critical work wasn’t being done.

Quint had written more than a dozen articles for the San Francisco Chronicle, stressing the urgent need to repair the city’s crumbling network of pipes, aqueducts and cisterns and build a line to pump water out of the bay. Just last week he’d interviewed Dennis Sullivan, the city’s longtime fire chief, who’d stated that, given the faulty water system, a major fire could destroy much of the city, with loss of life in the hundreds, if not the thousands.

“This town,” Sullivan had declared, “is on an earthquake belt. One of these fine mornings we’ll get a shake that will put this little water system out, and then we’ll have a fire. What will we do then?”

For a balanced perspective, he’d also interviewed Mayor Eugene Schmitz and Supervisor Rutledge. Both had insisted that repairs were being made in good order.

And pigs could fly, Quint had groused as he left City Hall. Schmitz was almost as crooked as Rutledge. The whole mess stank like rotten fish. But he couldn’t just start making accusations. He needed solid proof.

The key to that proof had come yesterday, in the form of a phone call to his desk at the Chronicle. Virginia Poole, a clerk on Rutledge’s staff, had, by sheer accident, come across the damning letter in a stack of papers she’d been given to file. Knowing what she had, and being a woman of conscience, she’d called Quint and offered to give the letter to him.

He’d arranged to meet her the next evening in a bookshop off Portsmouth Square. When she’d failed to show up, Quint, who’d had the foresight to ask for her home address, had sensed that something was wrong.

Sadly, his instincts had been right.

Sick with dismay, he rose to his feet. At some point, Rutledge must have missed the letter and realized it had been scooped up with the other paperwork. Grilled by her boss, Virginia would have denied seeing it. But she’d probably been too nervous to convince him. One call and the hounds in Rutledge’s pay would have been on her trail, with orders to silence her and get the letter back.

It seemed indecent not to cover the poor woman with a sheet, or at least close her eyes. But Quint knew the police would soon be here, alerted by the very thugs who’d committed the crime. If they discovered his presence, he’d be hauled into jail as a murder suspect; and with so many cops in Rut-ledge’s pocket, odds were he wouldn’t live long enough to see the inside of a courtroom.

Leaving by the back stairs, Quint slipped into the alley and cut a meandering course down Telegraph Hill to Montgomery Street. The mist-shrouded night was damp and chilly, the lighthouse a great blinking eye in the darkness behind him. Foghorns echoed mournfully across the bay.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Quint lengthened his stride. Tomorrow at work he would call in some favors, find out whether Virginia’s murder was being investigated or merely hushed up. He would also make inquiries about her daily routine, talk to her friends, her family if she had any. With luck, maybe he could—

Oh, bloody hell!

Quint halted as if he’d slammed into a brick wall.

Tomorrow morning Clara and Annie would be arriving by train, all the way from Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado. Quint had arranged to take the entire week off. He had cleared his calendar of appointments, freeing his time to show them the city.

For weeks he’d looked forward to the visit. Six-year-old Clara was the most important person in Quint’s life. Every minute with the little girl was a gift. And Annie Gustavson, her maternal aunt, was always pleasant company. Neither of them had ever been to California. They were eager to experience the marvels of San Francisco.

Now this mess had dropped into Quint’s hands, and he had no choice except to deal with it.

It was too late to postpone the visit. Their train would be arriving at the Oakland terminal at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. After such a long trip, he could hardly put them back onboard and send them home. Nor could he walk away from a story so rife with urgency.

What the devil was he going to do?

Quint hailed a cab to take him back to his Jackson Street apartment. Somehow, for the coming week, he would have to be in two places at once. If it meant working early mornings and late nights, or leaving Clara and Annie on their own once in a while, that couldn’t be helped. Virginia Poole had given her life to expose Rutledge. Whatever it took, Quint vowed, he would make sure she hadn’t died in vain.

“Where’s the ocean, Aunt Annie? I want to see it!” Clara bounced with excitement. Her nose smudged the window of the first-class railway car.

“All in good time, Miss Clara Seavers.” Annie resettled her weary buttocks against the vibrating seat cushion. She adored her sister Hannah’s child, but three days and nights on a rattling train with an active six-year-old had frayed her nerves. She looked forward to a quiet lunch, a lovely hot bath…and Quint. Especially Quint.

Damn his charming, impossible hide!

Maybe after this week, she would finally be over him.

Frank Robinson, who owned the hotel in Dutch-man’s Creek, had asked Annie to marry him three times. He was decent, kind and passably handsome, with enough money to keep her in comfort for the rest of her days.

Her sister Hannah thought she was crazy for turning Frank down. “You’re twenty-three years old, Annie!” she’d fussed. “What are you waiting for, a knight on a white horse?”

The question was wasted breath, and both sisters knew it. Quint Seavers was no shining knight. But Annie had worshipped him since her teens. That was why she’d turned down Frank Robinson and every other man who’d come courting. To say yes would be to turn her back on Quint—who, in all the years she’d loved him, had barely given her the time of day.

Annie had jumped at his invitation to bring Clara to San Francisco. She’d yearned to experience that great, pulsing city known as the Paris of the West. She was eager, as well, to see the new fashions and copy them for her clients back home. As for Quint…

Annie sighed. She had no illusions about why he’d sent her the ticket. He needed someone to accompany Clara and act as a nanny during the visit. Well, fine. She was determined to have a good time anyway. And she would do her best to see Quint through clear eyes. If she could convince herself the man wasn’t worth pining over, maybe she’d be ready to go back home and accept Frank’s proposal.

“Will Uncle Quint be there when we get off the train?” Clara asked.

“He said he would.”

“Did he promise?”

“In a way, I suppose he did.”

“Then he will.” Clara nodded happily. “Uncle Quint always keeps his promises! How much longer is it?”

“Not much longer. We should be there in time for lunch.” Annie slipped an arm around the little girl. “What do you suppose your mama and papa are doing without you?”

“I’ll bet Papa’s taking care of the ranch. And Mama’s resting. The doctor says she needs to rest a lot so the new baby won’t come before it’s s’posed to.”

Clara had always been a perceptive child. But Annie was surprised that she understood about Hannah’s difficult pregnancy. After a near miscarriage, her doctor had ordered bed rest for the next two months. Her husband, Judd, Quint’s older brother, was rightly concerned about her.

“And what about Daniel?” Annie asked, changing the subject. “What do you think he’s doing?”

“Being a pest. He’s always being a pest,” Clara said, dismissing her three-year-old brother. “I hope the new baby pesters him just like he pesters me. It’ll serve him right.”

“Clara, Clara!” Annie hauled the child onto her lap. “Here, look out the window. We’re coming into Oakland now. Soon you’ll be able to see San Francisco Bay. It’s almost like the ocean!”

“Will we ride on a boat?”

“Yes. We’ll be taking the ferry boat across the bay to San Francisco.”

“The fairy boat?” Clara’s eyes danced. “Will it have fairies on it?”

Annie laughed and hugged her niece. “No, silly, just people.”

Thirty minutes later the train pulled into the station. Plastered against the window, Clara scanned the platform. “There he is! There’s Uncle Quint! Look, he can see us! He’s waving!”

They gathered their things and filed down the aisle to the exit door. Quint was there to greet them, looking tired but unforgivably handsome in a light woolen topcoat and black derby. He helped Annie down the steps, then swept Clara off her feet, waltzing her around until she squealed with laughter.

Watching them, Annie felt the familiar ache. What a breathtaking pair they were, the man and the child. They had the same brown eyes and thick, dark chestnut curls, the same dimpled cheeks and dazzling smiles.

No one with eyes in their head could fail to guess the truth.

Clara was Quint’s daughter.

Rounding up a porter to load their bags, Quint ushered his charges toward the ferry terminal. Clara skipped along beside him, keeping up a stream of chatter. Annie, Quint noticed, had scarcely said a word.

He stole sidelong glances at her as they moved along the crowded platform. She’d always been an attractive girl, smaller and more delicately sculpted than her sister Hannah, her hair a deeper, tawnier shade of blond; her eyes darker and more intense, closer to gray than blue.

How old would she be now? Well past twenty, Quint was startled to realize. Why hadn’t she married? She was by far the cleverest of the Gustavson girls and almost as pretty as Hannah. She earned a good living, too, with the hats and clothes she fashioned for the ladies of Dutchman’s Creek. One would think she’d have men falling at her feet.

Today she wore a smart gabardine traveling suit in a soft russet that brought out the rose in her cheeks. Quint found the dainty hat that perched atop her upswept hair far more flattering than the monstrous creations women were wearing these days. Annie had probably sewn the entire outfit, as well as Clara’s navy blue sailor dress, which made her look like a demure little doll.

Clara was growing up too fast, Quint mused as he helped them onto the ferry. And he was missing out on far too much of her life. But that price was his to pay for leaving Hannah with child seven years ago.

They’d been longtime sweethearts, he and Hannah Gustavson. It went without saying that they would marry. But Quint had wanted to see something of the world first. He’d set off for the Klondike gold fields, not knowing that a single fumbling encounter had left Hannah pregnant. When Quint couldn’t be reached, his brother Judd had married her to give the baby the Seavers name. Quint had returned eleven months later to find that Hannah and Judd had fallen in love and become husband and wife in every way.

The first time Quint held his baby daughter, his heart had turned over. But even then he’d known what he needed to do. He had walked away, leaving his little girl to be raised in a happy home by the only father she’d ever known.

Much as it stung, Quint knew he’d done the right thing. The ranch was an ideal place to grow up. Judd and Hannah were devoted to their children and to each other. They allowed him to be involved in Clara’s life as her beloved, indulgent “uncle.”

It was all he could ask—and more than he likely deserved.

Annie’s eyes traced the outline of Quint’s broad shoulders as he lifted Clara onto a bench next to the rail. His unruly dark hair curled below the brim of his hat, brushing his collar in a way that made her want to reach out and stroke it with her fingertips. Nothing had changed. Quint was as compelling as ever. And she was just as fluttery and tonguetied as she’d been at fifteen, on the day she’d discovered she loved him.

It had been an April day, she recalled, under a bright Colorado sky. The hillsides were dotted with yellow buttercups and splashes of red Indian paintbrush. Returning birds staked out nesting territory with raucous calls.

With no promise of meat for the stewpot, Annie had loaded an old .22, the only gun her family owned, and set out for the hills to shoot a rabbit. Quint had come by an hour later, on his way home from seeing Hannah. Stopping his horse at a safe distance, he’d watched her plunking away at animals that wouldn’t hold still, missing every shot.

“So you’re the hunter of the family,” he’d teased.

“Somebody’s got to do it,” Annie had flung back. “Papa’s too tired. Mama’s too busy. Hannah’s too squeamish and Ephraim’s too young. That leaves me.”

“Not having much luck, are you?” he’d observed.

“That’s easy for you to say, Quint Seavers. When your family’s out of meat, all they have to do is butcher a steer. For us, it’s different. If you’re so smart why don’t you shoot one of these rabbits?”

“I can do better than that.” He’d swung off the horse and walked toward her. “I’ll teach you how to shoot one.”

And he had taught her—standing beside her, steadying her arm, showing her how to line up the bead in the notch and squeeze the trigger without jerking. His body had been warm through his flannel shirt, his hands soft and tough, like waxed saddle leather. His skin and hair had smelled of store-bought soap. She had breathed him into her senses, as if his essence could permeate every cell in her body.

By the afternoon’s end, Annie had shot two rabbits and lost her romantic young heart. Of course, she couldn’t let on. Quint was Hannah’s beau, and they would likely get married someday. But she could love him in secret, from a distance, like a maiden of old pining for Sir Galahad.

Over time she’d learned that Quint was no Galahad. He’d fathered Clara and broken her sister’s heart. She’d expected that would be enough to make her stop loving him. It wasn’t.

She was a grown woman now. But a glance from Quint could still turn her into a simpering teenager. On the train she’d felt strong and confident, ready to face him as an equal. Now, after two minutes with the man, her insides had turned to jelly. How was she going to manage a whole week without making a fool of herself?

Clara pressed against the rail, watching the water splash along the side of the ferry. “Is this the ocean?” she asked.

“This is just the bay. We’ll see the ocean later, maybe tomorrow.” Quint clasped her under the arms to keep her from leaning too far. “For now I have other plans. First we’ll stop by my flat to leave the bags and give you girls a chance to freshen up. Then we’ll go downtown to have lunch at Delmonico’s. How does that sound?”

“Delmonico’s?” Annie lifted an eyebrow as the cab began to move. “Goodness, I must say I’m impressed.”

“Where else would I go to show off the two loveliest ladies in San Francisco?”

“You were born with a silver tongue in your head, Quint Seavers. Such pretty words!” Did she sound clever or simply waspish?

“I make my living with words—some pretty, some not so pretty, but all true.” Quint settled back with one arm around his little girl. “How’s your sister?”

“Holding her own. The doctor says the baby’s doing fine. But Hannah doesn’t take well to bed rest. She’s not used to being idle.” A smile crept across Annie’s lips. “The last time we visited, she was sharing her bed with Daniel and Clara, two puppies, three dolls and a toy train!”

“That sounds like Hannah.”

“She’s the perfect mother.”

“I know—and Judd’s the perfect father.” Quint glanced down at Clara’s beribboned curls. “As for me, I’m doing my best to be a decent uncle.”

“You’re much more than that. Daniel loves the little trolley car you sent him. Maybe it’s time you had a family of your own, Quint.”

Quint shifted Clara onto his knee. “That’s a fine idea. But first I need to find the right sort of woman.”

“And what sort of woman would that be?” The minute she said it she regretted her words.

He hesitated. Her heart sank as she guessed the unspoken answer. Quint had never gotten over his lost love. That was why he’d never married. And that was one reason he was so devoted to Clara. The child was his souvenir, his own little piece of Hannah.

Maybe if she kept reminding herself of that, she could get through the week with her heart intact.

In no time at all they were docking at the ferry building with its impressive clock tower. Quint helped them ashore, saw to their luggage and summoned a horse-drawn cab. Soon they were traveling down Market Street, amid the wonders of San Francisco.

“Look, Uncle Quint! What’s that?” Clara pointed as a racing fire wagon, drawn by four horses, rounded the corner ahead of them. Bells clanged as they thundered closer. The cab driver pulled over to let them pass.

“They’re on their way to a fire,” Quint explained to the wide-eyed Clara. “That big tank on the wagon is the boiler for the steam pump. It helps them spray water to put the fire out.”

“Will they put it all out?”

“Let’s hope so. Sometimes we have bad fires here because the houses are close together and they’re mostly made of wood.”

“Is your house made of wood, Uncle Quint?”

He gave her a reassuring hug. “My apartment is in a nice brick building, so don’t you worry your pretty head. We’ll be fine there.”

As they chatted, Annie peered out the cab’s open side at the wonders of San Francisco. She’d been in Denver plenty of times to buy fabric and trim, but Denver was a backwater compared to this shining metropolis that throbbed with life and excitement. Buildings of stone and concrete towered around her like canyon walls. Traffic streamed by in a constant flood—horse-drawn cabs, wagons and buggies, new gasoline-powered autos and electric trolley cars that ran on tracks down the middle of the street.

And the people! Annie had never seen so many or so much variety. Vendors hawked their wares from carts on the sidewalks, everything from cabbages to gold watches and bright bolts of silk. Chinese men in dark, pajamalike garb, their heads crowned by black derby hats, darted among the crowds with burdens slung from poles on their shoulders. A gang of sailors jostled each other as a pretty, foreign-looking girl passed them. Two prosperous-looking businessmen stepped off a trolley and entered a bank.

Traffic sounds made a roar in Annie’s weary head. Right now she would gladly have traded lunch at Delmonico’s for a nice nap. But she knew Quint had planned the meal as a special treat. She would smile and do her best to enjoy it.

The stop at Quint’s apartment was brief, allowing for little more than hauling up the baggage and using the splendid porcelain facilities. They also met the smiling, middle-aged Chinese man called Chao, who worked as Quint’s cook and housekeeper.

The two-bedroom apartment was spacious and comfortable, with a brown leather settee and two matching chairs drawn up before the fireplace. The walls were paneled in walnut and sparsely but tastefully decorated with photographs Quint had taken on his visits to the ranch. There were shots of snow-covered peaks, willows in winter, the house, the barn, the cattle and the wagon loaded with hay. One picture showed Quint’s scruffy border collie, Pal, who’d lived into old age and passed on. Another showed a beautifully windblown Hannah on the porch with two-year-old Clara in her arms.

Annie couldn’t help wondering how Quint could afford such a place on a reporter’s salary. But then she remembered that he’d sold his share of the ranch to Judd and invested the proceeds. He would have all the money he needed. At the very least he could afford to take them to a nice lunch.

The name Delmonico’s had been synonymous with glamour and elegance for more than half a century. The San Francisco version was the most dazzling place Annie had ever seen. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung above what looked like acres of linen-covered tables decked with fresh flowers. Formally dressed waiters flitted among them, balancing silver trays the size of wagon wheels above the heads of the diners. Seated at a grand piano, a young black man played a tinkling waltz.

The waiter seated them at a table near a window and pulled out the brocade-covered chairs for Annie and Clara. Quint passed on their orders from the à la carte menu—braised chicken for Clara, poached salmon for Annie and a plate of oysters on half shell for himself. Then they waited for their orders, sipping fresh lemonade and nibbling from a platter of tiny crackers, smoked meats, pâtés and cheeses.

Clara’s ongoing chatter filled the need for conversation, allowing Annie to observe the diners. Most of the women wore skirts and jackets, beautifully cut and embellished with tucks and lavish embroidery. The fabrics almost made her drool—jewel-toned wools, raw silks, heart-stopping merinos and cashmeres, English tweeds to die for. And the hats! Merciful heaven, such hats! They were veritable museum pieces, piled with clouds of tulle, huge satin bows, artificial birds, sparkling jewels and jutting feathers. Annie had thought her own well-tailored suit and modest chapeau chic enough to wear anywhere. She had, in fact, been one of the most fashionable women on the train. But in this place she felt like a drab little country mouse.

“Why, Quint Seavers! What a surprise!” The speaker was a stunning woman with hair the color of a prairie sunset. She was dressed in a skirt and jacket of emerald silk bombazine, which looked costly enough to feed Annie’s mother, brothers and sisters for six months. A forward-curving black plume adorned her hat and framed one jade-colored eye.

“I missed you at the opening of my play,” she cooed. “You aren’t angry with me, are you, darling? After that awful scene at the club…”

“Not at all.” Quint rose. “Evelyn, I’d like you to meet Miss Annie Gustavson and my niece, Clara. Ladies, this is Evelyn Page, whose acting is the toast of San Francisco.”

Annie murmured a polite greeting. Ignoring her, Evelyn focused on Clara. “Your niece? What a delightful surprise! And she’s adorable! She looks enough like you to be your daughter!”

“So people say,” Quint muttered. “It’s good seeing you again, Evelyn. Save me a seat at your next opening night, and I’ll write you a nice review.”

“You’d better, you naughty man! Ta!” She sashayed toward the door with a flutter of her lace-gloved hand. Quint sighed as he took his seat.

“She’s pretty,” Clara said. “Are you going to marry her, Uncle Quint?”

“I hardly think Miss Page is the marrying kind,” Quint said.

“But she called you darling. Doesn’t that mean she loves you?”

Quint was saved from answering by the arrival of the waiter with their meals. Annie’s poached salmon, cradled on a bed of fresh, steamed kale, looked delicious, not like the lumpy gray-green morsels on Quint’s platter of shells. Annie had read about oysters, but she’d never seen them before. They looked downright revolting.

She gave them a tentative sniff and wrinkled her nose. “All I can say is, you’ve come a long way from Dutchman’s Creek, Mr. Seavers,” she teased.

Quint appeared not to have heard. He was staring at something—or someone—on the far side of the room. As she watched, his face paled, his eyes went flinty and his mouth hardened into a blade-thin line.

Chapter Two

Quint’s attention was riveted to the far side of the crowded restaurant. Only when a tall, swarthy man rose from his place did Annie realize who he was watching.

The man laid a bill on the white linen cloth. Then, strolling across the floor, he cut a path toward their table. A vague unease crept over Annie as she watched him come. He looked to be in his late forties, solidly built, with slick, black hair, an actor’s profile and a well-trimmed Vandyke.

His suit of fine gray worsted looked exquisitely expensive. Annie, with her eye for fabric and tailoring, recognized good custom work when she saw it. He carried an ebony walking stick topped by a brass lion’s head. Since the stick never touched the floor, Annie judged it to be an ornament, a weapon or maybe both. A large ruby signet ring decorated one finger. A penny-size mole splotched his left cheek.

Reaching their table, the man paused as if he’d just happened upon them. Quint had assumed an air of nonchalance. He made a show of swirling an oyster in the buttery sauce.

At last, with a huff of impatience, the stranger spoke. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Seavers. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming lunch companions?”

Quint finished the oyster and laid the small fork on the plate, taking his time. “Miss Annie Gustavson and her niece, Miss Clara,” he said. “Ladies, it gives me no great pleasure to present Mr. Josiah Rutledge, a member of our fair city’s board of supervisors.”

If Rutledge had caught the slight, he chose to ignore it. “Miss Gustavson, Miss Clara, my pleasure,” he murmured, bowing over Annie’s extended hand. Clara, she noticed, had slipped out of her chair and moved close to Quint. She shrank against his sleeve as Rutledge smiled at her. Annie had never known her niece to be shy.

Rutledge cleared his throat. “I read your column in the Chronicle last week, Seavers. You tread a fine line between speculation and libel. More pieces like that one, and you could find yourself in court.”

Quint didn’t stir, but Annie sensed the coiled spring tension in him. “I can hardly be sued for writing the truth,” he said.

“Truth?” The mole darkened as color flared in Rutledge’s face. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the pants. Do you have any proof?”

Quint speared another oyster with his fork and stirred it in the sauce. A pinpoint of sweat glistened on Rutledge’s temple.

“Did you hear me, Seavers? I asked whether you had proof.”

Quint paused in his stirring. “Are you saying that proof exists?”

“You don’t have a blasted thing, do you?”

Quint shrugged. “Not yet. But give me time. Sooner or later, I’ll find a rope to hang you with, Rutledge. When I do, you won’t have to ask.”

“Ladies, my pleasure.” Rutledge turned away with a curt nod and strode toward the exit.

Clara was still clinging to Quint’s sleeve. “I don’t like that man, Uncle Quint,” she piped in her childish voice. “He scares me.”

Rutledge froze in his tracks, making it clear he’d heard. Turning slightly, he looked back over his shoulder.

His smile chilled Annie to the soles of her shoes.

They spent the afternoon seeing the city from an open horse-drawn cab. Quint did his best to be a good guide, but Annie could see that he was distracted. At unguarded moments, his features tightened into a worried scowl that was nothing like the rakish, playful Quint she remembered. Something was wrong; and Annie suspected it had to do with the man they’d met at Delmonico’s.

The cab took them up Market Street where electric trolley cars clanked along tracks of steel. On either side of the tracks, buggies, wagons and autos crowded the thoroughfare.

Annie gaped at the towering granite-faced Call Building with its wedding-cake top. City Hall, with its massive dome and pillared facade, looked almost as grand as the photographs she had seen of St. Paul’s in London.

“The pillars are supposed to be solid marble,” Quint said. “That’s what our taxes paid for. But I know for a fact they’re hollow and filled with gravel. The contractor probably split the difference with the city supervisor who gave him the job.” He glanced down at Clara, who’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. “San Francisco’s run by a bunch of crooks, from the mayor on down, and one day there’s going to be hell to pay for it.”

“Is that what you wrote about in your column? The one your friend Rutledge didn’t like?”

“My friend?” Quint mouthed a curse. “Rutledge is the worst of the lot. He knows I’m on to his shenanigans. But he’s right—I don’t have a lick of evidence to pin on him. He keeps his own hands lily-white while his hired thugs do the dirty work.”

“And all you can do, as the man said, is tread the line between speculation and libel. Isn’t that dangerous, Quint?” Annie’s gaze traced the worried lines on his face, lingering on the shadows beneath his warm brown eyes. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out and brushing back the lock of hair that had strayed from under his hat.

“Dangerous?” His frown deepened. “Maybe. But if I were to disappear, everyone who reads my column in the Chronicle would be aware of it. And I’ve got friends, good friends who know what I know and wouldn’t let it rest. That gives me a measure of protection.”

Her eyes searched his. Quint’s gaze flickered away, just slightly but enough for her to notice. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?” she asked.

He sighed. “Little Annie. You always could see right through me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, and for your sake, I’m not going to. Just understand that I’ve stumbled onto a dirty mess. Rutledge is part of it, and things have gone too far for me to back off. I’ve got to bring him down.”

Annie’s white-gloved hand crept to her throat. “You are in danger! Have you thought of going to the police?”

“No good. Half the force is in Rutledge’s pocket.”

“Then the federal marshals. Surely—”

“Without solid evidence, they’d laugh in my face. All I can do is use the power of the press to jab at him and hope he breaks. Tomorrow’s column should really singe his whiskers.”

He reached out, took Annie’s hand and cradled it in his palm. “Meanwhile, I have two beautiful ladies to entertain, and I mean to enjoy every minute of their company.”

“But we’ve come at a bad time, haven’t we?”

“I’m the one who invited you, remember? Besides, where you and Clara are concerned, there’s no such thing as a bad time.”

“Spoken like the Quint Seavers I know and love!” Annie reclaimed her hand with a little laugh. Quint’s pretty words were lies, of course. He was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man, and this was no time for distractions. Maybe tonight, when Clara was in bed and they had more time to talk, she would suggest that they cut their visit short.

Clara stirred and opened her eyes. “Can we please get some ice cream, Uncle Quint?”

Laughing, Quint tousled her curls. “Your wish is my command, fair lady. And I know just the place!”

Darkness had fallen, creeping in over the bay like a stealthy black cat. The last trolley car rolled into the barn for the night. Gaslit lamps glowed along the streets. Workmen with their tin lunch pails trudged home to the crowded wooden tenements south of Market Street. The mansions on Nob Hill blazed with light as carriages swept the rich off to parties or to the theater.

In the Jackson Street flat, Quint sat with his feet on the ottoman, gazing into the fire. From the bathroom came the sounds of Annie dressing Clara after her bath. Their girlish giggles resonated like music.

A legal pad and a freshly sharpened pencil lay on the side table. Quint had planned to spend some time jotting down notes for his next column. But tonight his mind was on other things.

The afternoon had been pleasantly spent, driving across the city, seeing the waterfront, the towering new office buildings and the legendary Palace Hotel where Teddy Roosevelt had been a recent guest. They’d laughed as Clara chased pigeons in Union Square and shared dripping ice cream in little sugared waffle cones at a sidewalk café. At the end of the day they’d come home to Chao’s savory lamb stew with fresh greens and flaky crescent rolls. Annie had insisted on washing the dishes so that Chao could go home to his family in Chinatown.

Clara had been a delight the whole time. As for Annie…

Quint paused in his thoughts, listening to the muffled sound of her voice through the bathroom door. He’d never given much thought to Hannah’s younger sister. The only time he could recall being alone with her was the day he’d taught her to shoot. It was a surprise to find her so intelligent, warm and perceptive. Little Annie Gustavson had grown up to be one fine woman. Any man on earth would be lucky to have her.

The bathroom door swung open and Clara pattered out in her white ruffled nightgown. With her freshly washed curls tumbling around her face, she looked like a six-year-old angel. Quint’s heart contracted as she scampered toward him. If he never did anything worthwhile in his life, siring this little girl would make up for it all.

“Would you tuck me in, please, Uncle Quint?” Her chocolate eyes melted him.

“I’ll be happy to tuck you in.”

“And would you read me Peter Rabbit first?” The small book had been a present from Quint two years ago, and she’d brought it along in her bag.

“How many times have you heard that story?” Quint teased. “Do you think it will be any different this time?”

“No. But I like it the way it is.” Clara skipped off to get the book. Annie had come out of the bathroom, her sleeves rolled up, her white shirtwaist unbuttoned at the collar. Damp tendrils of hair spilled over her forehead. She looked deliciously soft and mussy.

“While you’re reading, I believe I’ll take advantage of the warm water and have a bath myself,” she said. “We can visit later. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. And help yourself to my new bathrobe. It’s hanging on the back of the door.”

She colored slightly. “Oh, really, I—”

“No, try it on. It’s cashmere. I paid a king’s ransom for it. It’ll spoil you silly.”

“We’ll see.” Annie ducked into the bathroom as Clara came bounding back into the parlor with her storybook.

Settling her beside him on the sofa, Quint began to read familiar tale of Peter Rabbit and his mother’s stern admonition not to go into Mr. McGregor’s garden. By now he knew the words almost by heart—which was a good thing, because his mind had begun to wander forbidden paths. The splashing sounds behind the bathroom door conjured up visions of Annie lying naked in the tub, her small, shapely breasts jutting like pink-crowned islands from a sea of soapy water. He’d never thought of Annie that way before. But damn it, he was thinking of her that way now.

Clara nudged him. “You left something out, Uncle Quint.”

“I did? What?”

“The part where Peter feels sick and looks for some parsley.”

“Maybe you should read it to me.”

“You read it better. But please, pay attention.”

Quint forced his concentration back to the trials of poor Peter. He had no business thinking about Annie Gustavson naked, he chastised himself. Unlike most of the women he knew, Annie was every inch a lady. If she knew what was going through his head, she would likely slap him senseless.

Annie eased back in the water, rested her heels on the end of Quint’s glorious claw-footed bathtub and closed her eyes. After the long, jarring train ride and the busy afternoon, this was pure heaven.

A bar of soap lay on a shelf next to the tub. Its woodsy, masculine scent recalled the way Quint had smelled when he’d leaned close to her in the cab. She held it under her nose and inhaled deeply, letting the subtle fragrance penetrate her senses. Soaping her hands, she sat up and lathered her skin. An image crept into her mind—Quint, naked in this very tub, rubbing the same soap onto his body. She pictured him massaging the lather into his armpits, down his broad chest and flat belly, between his legs…

Merciful heaven, this wouldn’t do! Her selfcontrol was slipping like a broken garter!

The water was getting cool. With a sigh, Annie rinsed herself, pulled the rubber plug and stepped out of the tub. Quint’s honey-colored cashmere robe hung on its brass hook. He’d invited her to borrow it. Annie might have refused the invitation, but she’d left her own light flannel dressing gown in the guest bedroom she shared with Clara. It was either put on Quint’s robe or get dressed in her clothes again which, since she planned to go to bed soon, struck her as a waste of time.

After toweling herself dry, she lifted the robe off its hook. It felt sensuous and weighty in her hands, like something between velvet and fur. Whispers of scent—Quint’s soap, Quint’s body—rose from the lush fabric as she wrapped it around her, slid her arms into the sleeves and knotted the thick sash. The softness was heaven on her bare skin. It made her want to purr like a cat.

Clutching the oversize robe around her, she stepped into the hall. Through the open doorway of the guest bedroom, Annie could hear Quint’s offkey baritone singing his daughter to sleep. What a shame Quint didn’t have children he could claim as his own. The man would make a wonderful father—if he could ever bring himself to settle down.

Tiptoeing into the parlor, she curled up on the settee and tucked her bare feet beneath the robe. In the fireplace pine logs popped and crackled. Annie basked in their warmth as she listened to Quint’s gruff lullaby. Hannah’s photograph, so beautiful, smiled down at her from the wall.

Why should Quint even want to settle down? she mused. He had plenty of money and a comfortable apartment, with a servant to cook and clean. And she’d wager he had his share of women, too, including the flame-haired actress who’d stopped by their table at Delmonico’s. As for children, maybe Clara was all the child he needed. He could love and indulge her without the burden of being a father. No ties. No responsibilities. Quint was as free as a bird, and he seemed to like it that way.

Why should she pin her hopes on such a man? It was time she opened her eyes and faced the truth. If she kept her heart set on Quint Seavers, she’d be committing herself to a life of spinsterhood.

“There you are.” He came around the back of the settee and settled himself at the opposite end. Reflected flames danced in his warm brown eyes. “Maybe you should keep that robe. You look a lot better in it than I do. How do you like it?”

Annie stirred self-consciously. “It’s the most decadent thing I’ve ever worn. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go put on my night clothes and return it to you.”

“No, stay.” His hand touched her wrist, rousing a tingle of awareness. “Clara’s barely asleep. You don’t want to wake her. Besides, I’ve never been alone with a woman wearing nothing but a cashmere bathrobe. Doesn’t it make you feel wicked?”

Annie’s cheeks flamed hot. He was playing with her, probably laughing at her discomfort.

“Stop teasing me, Quint,” she said. “I’m not one of your conquests.”

“Oh?” His left eyebrow quirked upward. “Then who are you, pray tell, Miss Annie Gustavson?”

“Hannah’s sister. Clara’s aunt. And your good friend, as well, I hope.”

He leaned closer, his eyes twinkling seductively. “You’re all those things. But that’s not what I’m asking. I want to know about the woman inside that prim and proper skin of yours. Who is she? Has she ever been in love?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

He grinned like a naughty schoolboy and settled back into the corner of the settee. “Little Annie. I’ve known you since you were in pigtails. But right now I feel as if I hardly know you at all.”

Annie stared down at her hands. She’d never considered herself shy. With most men, in fact, she could even be clever. But one smile from Quint Seavers was all it took to turn her into a bumbling, tonguetied schoolgirl.

She forced herself to meet his mocking eyes. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

“Whatever you like. You choose.”

“All right. Let me think.”

Quint studied her as she sat poised in silence. The collar of the cashmere robe framed her throat, lending a glow to her porcelain skin. Dampened by the steamy bath, her hair tumbled around her heartshaped face, framing her stormy eyes, her elegant cheekbones, her perfect, pillow-soft lips.

Lord, didn’t she know how beautiful she was?

He imagined tasting that mouth, nibbling at her lower lip, then crushing her in a long, deep kiss, his hands sliding beneath the cashmere to stroke her satiny skin, loosening the sash to…

“Tell me about you and Josiah Rutledge.”

Her words crashed Quint back to earth. His brief fantasy had been delicious. But this was Annie. She was family, and there was a child asleep in the next room. It was time he yanked his thoughts back above his beltline.

Pulling himself together, Quint rose to lay another log on the fire. “Would you like some wine?”

She shook her head. “No, really, I—”

“This isn’t Dutchman’s Creek, Annie. You’re in San Francisco now. Live a little.” He took a crystal decanter of merlot from the sideboard and filled two goblets half-full.

“Are you trying to corrupt me, Mr. Seavers?” Her eyebrows arched as he handed her the fragile glass.

“You look like a lady who could use a little corrupting.”

She took a tentative sip. “My poor mother would faint if she could see me now. Drinking wine in a man’s bachelor flat, wearing nothing but a sinfully expensive bathrobe…” Her eyes flashed at him over the ridge of the wineglass. “So sit down and tell me about your quarrel with Mr. Rutledge. After I’ve heard you out, we can decide whether Clara and I should stay out the week or go home early.”

Quint settled back onto the sofa, wondering how much he should tell her. He didn’t want to frighten Annie, or cause her to end the trip too soon. But how could he lie to those clear, intelligent eyes?

He started with the broader issues—the corruption in the city government, the rampant graft and bribery, and the dangerous state of the city’s water system. “The mayor and the board may be a bunch of crooks, but our fire department’s first-rate. The chief, Dennis Sullivan, has been on the job almost thirty years. He was the one who put me onto the story—said he knew for a fact that money had been paid out to fix the broken pipes and cisterns. But he’d inspected the sites himself, and found that what few repairs had been made were, to quote the good man, nothing but cow dung and feathers. I followed the money trail. It led back to the contractor and to the city supervisor who’d hired him—Josiah Rutledge.”

Annie leaned forward, the robe parting enough to reveal a glimpse of creamy skin. Quint willed himself to keep his eyes above her shoulders.

“But you said you didn’t have any proof against Rutledge.”

“I didn’t. It was pure guesswork. At first it didn’t matter so much. Getting the water system fixed was more important than nailing Rutledge. I hammered away at him in the paper, trying to make people aware of the problem. That was all I could do—until two days ago. That was when everything changed.”

Quint hadn’t planned to tell Annie about the incriminating letter. And he definitely hadn’t planned to tell her about the murder of Virginia Poole. But her soft, attentive eyes held him captive, spooling the story out of him word by word. By the time he was finished, he felt drained.

He leaned forward, staring into the fire. “I know I shouldn’t blame myself. But if Virginia hadn’t read my column she wouldn’t have contacted me and tried to give me the letter. And she’d probably still be alive.”

Annie gazed into her wineglass. “She did the right thing. You did the right thing, too. There’s no fault in that.”

“But she’s the one who paid the price. And now it’s up to me. I have to make sure that poor woman didn’t lose her life for nothing.”

“So you never did find the letter?”

“No. And judging from the way her place was torn apart, Rutledge’s hired thugs didn’t find it, either. If they had, they’d have stopped looking and left.”

“And Rutledge wouldn’t have bearded you at Delmonico’s. Not unless he suspected you might have it.”

“I wish I did have it. That would make things easy. As it is, all I can do is try to bluff the bastard into the open and hope he stumbles.”

“So your strategy is to make him think you have the letter, or at least to make him wonder.”

Damn, but the lady was sharp. It was a quality Quint found even more intriguing than her beauty.

Annie had set her goblet on the raised hearth. Her hands were clenched in her lap, the fingers interlocked. “I’m frightened for you, Quint. This isn’t just another one of your wild adventures. You could be hurt, even killed.”

“I’ll be fine. Rutledge is a politician. He’s too smart to show his hand by coming after me.”

She leaned toward the fire, gazing past him into the flames. “If you’d told me all this earlier, I’d have suggested that Clara and I come another time. The last thing you need right now is a woman and child tagging after you.”

Quint laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Her muscles were knots of tension. His fingers stirred reflexively, massaging the tightness. “There was no way to let you know. By the time it happened, you and Clara were already on the train. But never mind that. I’ve been looking forward to this visit for weeks, and I don’t want it spoiled. I may need to put in some hours at the Chronicle— in fact, I’ll be there tomorrow morning until about 10:00 a.m. But we should still have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves. All right?”

“Mmm-hmm…” Her shoulders flexed against his palm. Taking it as an invitation, Quint shifted behind her, where he could put both hands into play. “How does that feel?” he asked.

“It’s heaven. After all those hours on the train…” Her words dissolved in a moan as his thumbs pressed circles along the edges of her spine. “You really are corrupting me.”

“Chao taught me how to do this,” he said. “Chinese magic. Tomorrow, if you and Clara are agreeable, we can take the trolley to Golden Gate Park. There’s a fine Japanese garden and a playground with a carousel, and Clara will finally get to see the ocean. How does that sound?”

“Oh…she’ll love that.” Annie arched her back, surrendering to the spell of Quint’s hands. Warmth radiated from his fingertips, easing sore muscles, seeping into tired bones. It would be wonderful just to let go and drift. But she couldn’t allow that to happen. For all his bravado, Quint’s story had struck cold fear into her heart. The danger to his life was all too real, but in typical male fashion, he was pretending it didn’t exist. Somehow she had to talk sense into him.

“Let’s take our visit one day at a time, shall we?” she began. “If things get too worrisome, you can put Clara and me on the train.”

“Fine.” His fingers worked deeper, triggering waves of pleasure that rippled down through her body. Annie felt an exquisite tightening in the deep core of her hips. The voice of common sense shrilled that it was time to call a halt—and she would, she promised herself. Very soon.

“I want to ask one favor of you,” she said.

“Granted, as long as it’s fun.”

The robe’s loose collar had slid down onto Annie’s shoulders. Quint’s hands rested on her bare nape, his strong thumbs working their delicious voodoo at the base of her skull. She closed her eyes. How would it feel to be touched like this in other places? Her breasts? Her hips? She bit back a moan. Things were getting out of control, if only in her mind.

Willing her eyes to open, she glanced toward the wall. Hannah’s sunlit face smiled down at her from the simple ebony frame. Annie’s forbidden thoughts fled.

“So what’s the favor?” Quint’s hands had paused.

“Something serious. A promise.”

“Then I may need time to think it over. Tell me.”

Readjusting the robe, she turned to face him on the settee. “Just this. Rutledge has already had one person killed. We both know you could be next. If the situation gets so threatening that you feel the need to send Clara and me home early…” Annie took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

“This isn’t worth your life, Quint. I want your promise that you’ll get on that train and go with us.”

Chapter Three

Quint cursed his faulty judgment. He should’ve known better than to tell Annie what was happening with Rutledge. Now she waited for his answer, her mouth determinedly set, her velvet eyes pleading.

The sight of that face was enough to turn his resolve to warm putty. Right then he would have given her almost anything—except the one thing she wanted.

“No. I can’t leave here,” he said.

“Quint—”

“Don’t push this, Annie. You know I can’t, and you know why.”

She stood, her eyes flashing defiance. “You mean you won’t. And, yes, I do know why. It’s because you’re a man, with more silly male pride than brains. You’d rather be stabbed in some dark alley than walk away and save your own life!”

Rising, Quint opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him with the touch of a finger to his lips.

“Be still and listen. If Rutledge is as smart as you say he is, he’ll find a way to get you without taking the blame. You’ll end up as dead as that poor woman. And for what? You said yourself that the whole city government is rotten. You can’t fix it by yourself.”

“Maybe not. But if I can rouse enough people to action, it might make a difference. That’s my job. I can’t just turn tail and run.”

Annie gazed up at him in despair. His eyes had gone flinty. A muscle twitched along his tightly clenched jaw. The man had closed his ears to reason. He seemed determined to get himself murdered.

“Don’t be so blasted noble!” she argued. “Think of the people who care about you—people who’d be devastated to lose you. Clara. Judd and Hannah. Even me…”

“Even you?” The mischief had crept back into his eyes. “Why, little Annie, I didn’t know you cared. Maybe I should give this some thought.”

“Stop making fun of me!” It was all she could do to keep from slapping the smirk off his face. “Yes, I do care, you big, arrogant, smart-mouthed oaf! You’ve been my knight in shining armor since I was old enough to tell boys from girls. Even when you were Hannah’s beau, I kept you on a pedestal for years. You were my hero, Quint Seavers, and I won’t stand back and watch you throw your life away on this…this…”

Her throat went tight, choking off her words. Merciful heaven, what had she just said to him?

Quint was gazing down at her, his eyes glinting amber with reflected flame. Annie’s heart lurched as he thumbed her chin upward, bent toward her and captured her mouth with his own.

His lips were velvet and honey, possessing her from the very first touch. As the kiss deepened, Annie went molten in his arms, her blood racing, her skin on fire through the soft cashmere. Her body arched against his. Her hands raked his hair as she kissed him with a ferocity she’d never known she possessed—kissed him with all the dreams and pentup longing of years. When his tongue glided into her mouth she was startled, but only for the space of a heartbeat. Then she opened to him, gasping as each probing thrust ignited fire bursts in her blood. His strong fingers kneaded her ribs, thumbs tracing the sensitive borders of her breasts.

Her heart was pounding like an Indian drum. She wanted more—his hands on her skin, everywhere, legs tangling, hips pressing close, his splendid body filling hers. He was making her want more, she realized. Quint was an expert seducer who knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t love her. He’d made her no promises. He was only taking advantage of a vulnerable moment—taking advantage of her.

Alarm bells shrilled in her head as she tore herself away from him. “Enough.” She spat out the word. “I’m not your plaything, Quint. I have feelings, even pride. I deserve better than this.”

He stepped back, his mouth damp and swollen, his hair tumbling in his eyes. “I didn’t know you had so much fire in you, little Annie,” he drawled.

She glowered at him, her fury mounting. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Frank Robinson has asked me to marry him. He’ll be meeting my train in Dutchman’s Creek, waiting for the answer I promised to give him.” Annie drew herself up. “My answer is going to be yes.”

Quint stared at her as if she’d slapped him. “Frank Robinson? That prissy old fart who owns the hotel?”

Annie spun away and stalked into the unlit guest room. Before closing the door a final time, she stripped off Quint’s cashmere bathrobe, wadded it in her hands and flung it out into the hall.

The latch clicked softly into place. In the silence that followed, Quint walked forward and bent down, gathering up the robe. Annie’s scent, mingled with the spicy fragrance of his own soap, rose from its folds. The warmth of her skin still clung to the rich fabric.

He lifted it to his face, inhaling deeply. Little Annie. Lord, what a woman she’d become! First she’d set him aflame with her sweet mouth. Then she’d put him in his place with a bullet to the heart.

Marry Frank Robinson? Hellfire, that would be like hitching a blooded filly to a mule. Not that Frank was all that bad. But he was nearing forty, and to Quint’s way of thinking, he was about as exciting as clabbered milk.

Still, Annie had grown up in a poor immigrant family. A share of her earnings went to help her widowed mother and younger siblings. The stability of a man like Frank Robinson would certainly have some appeal.

But after tasting her passion, Quint couldn’t imagine that would be enough for her. The very thought of his beautiful, hot-blooded Annie in bed with that old—

Quint shoved the thought aside. She wasn’t his Annie, and he’d been way out of line tonight. In fact, without much effort, he’d managed to make a complete ass of himself.

Tomorrow, he vowed, he would work his way back into her good graces. That would include making some rules and following them.

1 He would apologize, on his knees if necessary.

2 He would not lay an unbrotherly hand on the lady for the duration of her visit.

3 He would not call Frank Robinson a prissy old fart or anything else of that nature.

4 While they were together, he would table the issue of Josiah Rutledge and devote himself to having a good time with Clara.

Etching the rules into memory, Quint staggered off to bed. He’d scarcely slept in the past twenty-four hours, and he was punchy with weariness. Tomorrow he would be at work by 7:00 a.m. to draft his next column and look into what the police had done about Virginia Poole’s murder. By 10:00 a.m. he’d be back here to take Clara and Annie to Golden Gate Park. Right now what he needed was a few hours between the sheets.

Too bad he couldn’t ask Annie to share them.

Annie awoke to bright morning sunlight. Clara’s place in the bed was empty. The enticing aromas of bacon and fresh coffee drifted through the open doorway of the guest room.

Flinging her wrapper over her nightgown, she pattered into the kitchen. Quint had mentioned he was going to work early. She could only hope he hadn’t changed his mind. After last night’s blistering encounter, his was the last face she wanted to see.

Clara was at the kitchen counter with Chao. Still clad in her nightgown, she was perched on a stool, happily engaged in helping him prepare breakfast.

“We’re making an omelet, Aunt Annie.” Her dark eyes sparkled with excitement. “Chao let me break the eggs and put in the salt and pepper.”

Chao gave Annie a good-natured grin. The middle-aged man, who still wore the traditional queue, was using a fork to beat the eggs to an airy froth. If the omelet was half as good as his lamb stew, it was bound to be heavenly.

“Now some butter in the pan,” he instructed his eager assistant. “This much, little bit, on your knife.” He demonstrated the distance with two fingers. “Then we let it melt.”

“Has Quint gone?” Annie’s tongue felt as dry as old shoe leather. Maybe she’d drunk more wine than she remembered.

“Uncle Quint went to work.” Clara scraped a dab of butter into the frying pan. “When he comes back we’re going to ride on a trolley car, all the way to where the ocean is. Can I wear my white pinafore today?”

“If you’ll do your best to keep it clean. And you’ll need your straw hat, as well. We don’t want you getting a sunburn.”

The omelet was so light it practically floated out of the pan. Annie enjoyed her share of it at the kitchen table, with bacon, a hot buttered biscuit, orange juice and fresh coffee. A saltwater breeze drifted into the room as Chao opened a window, carrying the sounds of morning traffic from the streets below—the clang of a passing trolley, the clamor of auto horns, the cries of street vendors and the clatter of shod hooves on pavement.

Finishing her breakfast, Annie leaned over the sill. Outside, the awakening city seemed to pulse with life and vitality. So many people, so many divergent lives. So much excitement. No wonder Quint seemed to love this place.

Speaking of Quint…The thought of facing him again made Annie’s stomach clench. She’d behaved like a fool last night, first flinging herself at him, then lashing out in blind fury. But the reason for her anger had been sound. Quint didn’t love her, never had and never would. He’d seized an opportunity, that was all, and she’d been weak enough to allow it.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. She’d made sure of that last night. Now that Quint knew she was as good as engaged, he’d be honor bound to behave himself.

Was she as good as engaged? Annie gazed at the thready clouds that drifted above the city skyline. Her memory struggled to bring Frank’s long, narrow face into focus. Were his pale eyes blue or hazel? Was that slightly off-colored tooth on the left or right side of his mouth? Even after a few days, she could barely remember. But never mind. She would make her final decision on the train back to Colorado. Right now, she was in San Francisco, maybe for the only time in her life, and she meant to enjoy every minute of it.

By the time Annie had washed, dressed, pinned up her hair and readied Clara for the day, it was nearly 9:00 a.m. While Chao entertained the little girl with a game of dominoes, Annie sat down at Quint’s desk and used his typewriter to compose a letter to Hannah and Judd. The machine was new and fascinating. But since she could only type by hunting and pecking, every word was a labor. She managed a few sentences about the train trip and their plans for the day, but little more.

Of course she didn’t mention her concern for Quint’s safety. The last thing Hannah needed right now was more worries. This trip with Clara had, in part, been scheduled to give her more rest while Rosa, the housekeeper, looked after three-year-old Daniel. At five weeks from full term, Annie’s sister could still lose the baby by going into premature labor.

Quint arrived precisely at 10:00 a.m., just as Annie was addressing the letter. Eyes twinkling, arms laden with pink and yellow roses, he burst through the door like a one-man parade. “For you, mademoiselle!” He presented the miniature pink bouquet to a bedazzled Clara, then turned to Annie.

“With my deepest apologies,” he muttered, thrusting the wrapped cluster of twelve yellow roses into her hands. They were fresh and beautiful, enhanced with ferns and beaded with morning dew.

“You’re shameless, Quint Seavers!” Annie hissed.

“Yes, I know. Will you forgive me for last night?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Last night never happened. Agreed?”

His dimples deepened irresistibly. “Agreed. And just to seal the bargain I have an added enticement.” He reached into his vest and drew out a plain white envelope. “Two tickets for the opera tomorrow night. For you and me. Chao’s already agreed to stay here with Clara.”

“The Metropolitan Opera?” Annie had seen the posters on the street. The fabled New York company was on tour and playing in San Francisco this week. She’d always dreamed of seeing an opera. But protests were already flocking into her head like black crows. The tickets must have cost Quint a small fortune. And how could she go when she had nothing appropriate to wear?

“Caruso will be here on the seventeenth for their production of Carmen,” Quint said. “That show’s been sold out for weeks. But before he arrives, they’ll be performing something called The Queen of Sheba. That one’s almost sold out, too, but I called in some favors and got us two of the last box seats.” He frowned, noticing her hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s a wonderful gesture, Quint. But I know the opera will be a big society event. How can I sit in a box, surrounded by all those elegant women with their jewels and their fancy gowns? You might fit right in, but I don’t even own an evening dress.”

“Then wear whatever you have. You’ll look fine.”

Fine. Annie sighed. She’d hoped for a little commiseration, or even a compliment, however insincere. But men just didn’t understand. She would go, certainly. This might be her one lifetime chance to see an opera. But she would feel like a leghorn chicken dropped into a pen full of glittering peacocks.

Chao had come with vases for the flowers. Clara handed him her little bouquet, then ran to Quint to tug at his coat. “Can we go now? I want to ride in the trolley car!”

Quint rumpled her curls. “We’ll go when your aunt Annie says she’s ready.”

“I’ll just get our straw hats and my reticule,” Annie said. “Will we need coats?”

“The day’s warming, but the breeze off the water can be brisk. Light jackets should do you fine.”

Surrendering the roses to Chao, Annie hurried into the guest room to get the things she’d left on the bed. An image glimpsed in the dresser mirror showed a young woman simply dressed in a highnecked white blouse and khaki walking skirt, her cinched waist marked by a wide leather belt. Her hair was pulled back and twisted into a practical bun that would hold up in a stiff breeze. Her only adornments were tiny pearl ear studs and a simple brooch at her throat.

Sensible, practical Annie. Well, she was who she was. But just once it would be nice to play Cinderella and go to the ball with the handsome prince. Maybe then she could be content with the life that awaited her back in Dutchman’s Creek.

“Come on, Aunt Annie, we’re ready to go!” Clara bounded into the room to tug at her skirt. Annie fixed the straw hat on her niece’s head, tying the strings under her chin. Then she secured her own hat with a pin, picked up her reticule and the jackets, and let Clara lead her back to the entry where Quint stood waiting. The day’s grand adventure was about to begin.

They swung aboard the crowded trolley and managed to find a seat. As the car swayed along the rails, Quint cast furtive glances at Annie. Her color was high, her face glowing. Back in Colorado, she’d been nothing more than Hannah’s kid sister. He’d scarcely given her a second look. Now, with every minute they spent together, the attraction grew more compelling.

They’d agreed to forget last night’s searing kiss. But for Quint that was easier said than done. In the past twelve hours, he’d relived that kiss a hundred times—not just the kiss, but everything beyond. He’d imagined sliding the robe off her shoulders and stroking the satiny skin beneath, then easing down to cup the ripe moons of her breasts in his hands and kiss the nipples into swollen nubs; then…

But Lord, what was he thinking? Here he was, seated on a trolley with two innocent females, one a precious child, the other a lady who would skewer him with her hatpin if she knew what was going on in his mind. Their transfer stop on Fulton was coming up in a few blocks, and if he didn’t keep a sharp eye out they’d end up at the fish market instead of the park.

His three hours at work that morning had been frustrating. There’d been no mention of Virginia Poole in any of the papers. That meant he couldn’t afford to show his hand by looking into her death himself. His knowledge of the murder and his presence at the scene would make him a prime suspect, ripe for framing. Rutledge could have paid the police to keep quiet for that very reason. The poor woman’s body was probably on the bottom of the bay by now, her flat cleared out and ready to let.

But what had happened to the letter? In all likelihood it was lost. But as long as Rutledge suspected otherwise, there might be a chance of trapping him.

Quint’s new column would appear on page two of this morning’s Chronicle. He’d written it yesterday, in the hope that it might persuade Rutledge to replace the missing funds before certain knowledge came to light. The implication was pure bluff, but Rutledge didn’t know that. Maybe, just maybe, the man would rise to the bait.

Quint had weighed the wisdom of showing the column to Annie. But in the spirit of enjoying the day, he’d decided against it. She’d be bound to worry and would surely lecture him about the risk. Then he would have to argue with her, and the whole outing could be spoiled.

That Annie cared enough to fret over him was something to be pondered. But he had a dangerous task to complete. This was no time for more distractions.

At Fulton Street they caught the trolley that would take them to Golden Gate Park—a vast wonderland of woods, lawns, gardens and cultural amusements, rivaled only by the great parks of New York and Chicago. Laid out in the 1870s on a stretch of barren dunes, it had become the pride of San Francisco. Today the sky was glorious, and Clara was in high spirits. She laughed and chattered all the way, her brown eyes sparkling like sunlit sarsaparilla. He’d be a fool to let his worries keep him from enjoying her, Quint reminded himself. Time passed swiftly. Little girls grew up. And this precious day would never come again.

He swung his daughter off the crowded trolley, and they strolled through the gateway of the park. Quint held Clara’s left hand, Annie her right. Anyone watching might have taken them for a young family—father, mother and child. Quint found the notion oddly comfortable. But then, Annie was a comfortable sort of woman—except when she was wrapped in his cashmere robe, her skin dewy with moisture, her gray eyes lit with reflected flame. Last night the sight of her, the scent and feel of her in his arms had driven him wild. Even today, with Clara as a chaperone, it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to touch her waist, her shoulder, her hair.

“I want to see the ocean!” Clara tugged at his hand. “Where is it?”

“The ocean’s way at the other end of the park,” Quint said. “If we go there first, we’ll be too tired for other things. But we’ll work our way in that direction and see it before we go home.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Quint gave her hand a squeeze. “First, how would you like to see a real live grizzly bear? His name is Monarch.”

As they turned onto the narrow path, Annie dropped behind to give other walkers room to pass. This was Quint’s time with Clara, she reminded herself. She was only along to play nanny for the trip.

Would Quint have kissed a woman he thought of as the nanny?

She gave herself a mental slap. Playing these games would only exasperate her. The truth was, Quint Seavers would probably kiss any attractive female who’d give him the time of day. Was that the kind of man she wanted?

Frank Robinson had courted her faithfully for more than a year. Granted, Frank wasn’t as exciting as Quint. But he wouldn’t go around kissing every woman who came within his reach. He wouldn’t leave his poor sweetheart with child to go gallivanting after gold and adventure. And he certainly wouldn’t be so reckless as to challenge a crooked politician who’d already shown himself capable of murder!

Annie blinked away a tear of frustration. It was time she faced the truth. Quint wasn’t husband material. He was already married—to Hannah’s memory and to his freewheeling existence in this glittering town. If he ever did take a wife, the last woman he’d choose would be a drab little country mouse from Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado.

“Look, Aunt Annie!” Clara darted back to tug at Annie’s skirt. “Over there in that big cage! It’s a bear!”

“Oh, my goodness!” Annie had glimpsed bears in the wild, and once she’d seen a dead one on a wagon. But she’d never been close to a live grizzly. Surrounded by thick iron bars that curved inward at the top, the shaggy brown creature was huge, with little pig eyes, a massive snout and paws that would span a dinner plate. According to the information plaque, the creature had been caught full-grown in 1889 for exhibition as a symbol of the park. Now Monarch was getting old and fat, but the years had not dimmed his majesty. In every way, the grizzly was a spectacular animal.

“Hello, Monarch!” Clara bounced up and down, waving. The bear yawned, showing a pink cavern of a mouth lined with jagged yellow teeth. Clara’s eyes widened.

“He’s probably thinking what a nice little snack you’d make,” Quint teased.

“He can’t get out, can he, Uncle Quint?”

“Don’t worry. Those bars are too strong for him. Besides, if he did get out, I’d wrestle him to the ground and save you!”

Clara giggled. “You’re silly! Isn’t he silly, Aunt Annie?”

“He’s a very silly man,” Annie agreed, but she sensed the undertone of truth in Quint’s words. If any danger threatened his little girl he would protect her with his life.

In the meadow beyond the bear cage, herds of deer grazed behind an eight-foot wire fence. There were elk and moose, as well, and, in a separate enclosure, some kangaroos, an ostrichlike emu and a pair of zebras. In the children’s area there were sheep, goats and piglets, which Clara was allowed to feed and pet. When one baby goat sucked on her finger she squealed with delight.

They strolled through a fairy-tale Victorian greenhouse teeming with ferns, shrubs, vines and flowers from all over the world. Annie was fascinated, but Clara kept racing ahead, eager for the next surprise Quint had promised her.

How like him she was, Annie thought. Restless and brimming with curiosity, unable to resist the call of the mysterious something around the bend. They were two of a kind.

As they left the greenhouse, Quint scooped Clara into his arms. “Close your eyes now,” he ordered her. “Promise me you won’t open them until I say so.”

Clara squeezed her eyes shut. “What if I peek?”

“Then the surprise will be spoiled, and it won’t be as much fun. Promise me you won’t look. Do it now, before we take another step.”

“I promise.” She buried her face against the shoulder of his jacket.

“That’s my girl. It’ll only be for a minute or two.”

Above the dark curls, Quint’s eyes met Annie’s. The tenderness she glimpsed there was so real that it made her throat ache. Clara was far too young to understand the secret of her parentage. For now—and maybe for always—Quint’s fatherly love would remain locked away like a hoard of gold coins that could only be parceled out in small amounts. That was the price he’d paid for leaving Hannah.

The path meandered downhill through stands of willow and towering Monterrey cypress. Tangerine butterflies, lost in mating, fluttered against the emerald foliage. Through the trees, Annie glimpsed a children’s playground with swings, slides and seesaws. Surrounding the sandy play area was a wide band of concrete where older children and adults circled on roller skates.

Clara squirmed in Quint’s arms. “I hear music! Can I look now?”

“Not yet.” Quint chuckled mysteriously. “Hang on, we’re almost there.”

Annie could hear the music, too, a blaring, pumping rendition of what she recognized as the “Blue Danube.” By the time they stepped into the cleared area and she saw the flash of swirling color, she’d already guessed what Quint’s surprise would be. Clara would be ecstatic when she saw it.

“When I count to three, you can look,” Quint said. “Ready? One…two…three!”

Clara opened her eyes, blinked and stared. Her mouth rounded in a little O of amazement.

The carousel was a showpiece. Not only were there horses, but lions, bears, tigers, camels, zebras and swans. They were painted in every hue of the rainbow with glass eyes and gilded trappings. They glided up and down on brass poles as the huge machine revolved beneath its gleaming metal-capped dome, piping out music that sang of circuses and sugar floss and children’s laughter.

Savoring her surprise, Quint lowered Clara to the sandy ground. “So which animal do you want to ride?”

Her eyes danced. “Can I ride them all?”

He grinned. “Not at the same time. Choose the one you want to ride first. Then we’ll see about another.”

“Will you and Aunt Annie ride, too?”

“Certainly we will. First we have to buy tickets. Come on.”

While Quint waited in line at the ticket booth, Annie and Clara watched the turning carousel. As it slowed to a stop, the little girl tugged at Annie’s skirt and pointed. “That red horse! That’s the one I want!”

The horse was riderless for the moment. While Quint rushed up with the tickets, Annie leaped onto the platform and seized the bridle, saving the seat until Quint could clamber after her with Clara. He gave her a wink and a boyish grin. “Good catch, lady,” he muttered, lifting the little girl onto the saddle.

In the next moment they began to move. Quint swung onto the black steed that loped alongside Clara’s. Annie scrambled for a sidesaddle perch on the charging lion behind them. With music blaring and mounts pumping, they were off.

Clara hung on to the brass pole, her laughter floating back to Annie’s ears. Quint glanced over his shoulder. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I think that lion back there is following us. Come on, let’s ride!” He leaned forward over the black horse’s neck. Clara followed his example as Annie growled and roared behind them. The little girl shrieked with delight, laughing so hard that Annie feared she might wet her bloomers.

All too soon the carousel slowed and halted. “I want to ride the lion now,” Clara said. “You can ride my red horse, Aunt Annie.”

“Are you sure you can handle a lion?” Quint hoisted her onto the golden back. “They can get pretty wild, you know.”

Clara gave him a serious look. “I can ride it fine, Uncle Quint. It’s only a pretend lion, you know.”

Annie had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing at the expression on Quint’s face—first startled, then beaming with fatherly pride. She gave him a smile as he caught her waist and swung her onto the vermilion-painted horse. His hands lingered for an instant as she settled into place. His eyes held hers, triggering a rush of warmth to her cheeks. Then the carousel began to move. Quint remounted and the new chase was on, with Clara roaring and snarling behind them.

By the time the ride ended, Annie was feeling queasy. “You two take another turn if you want,” she told Quint. “I need my feet on solid earth. I’ll wait for you on those benches by the playground.”

While Quint and Clara debated which animal to ride next, Annie tottered over to an empty bench and sank onto the seat. She’d had a problem with motion sickness since she was a little girl. She should have known better than to take that second ride. But it had been so glorious, flying along next to Quint, seeing the boyish merriment in his eyes and the flash of his smile. The memory would stay with her until she forced herself to forget.

Taking deep breaths, she waited for her stomach to settle. On the whirling carousel she caught glimpses of Clara astride a zebra and Quint mounted on a bear. Even the sight made her feel dizzy. Turning away, she glanced around for a distraction.

On the bench beside her, someone had left a neatly refolded newspaper. Annie could see enough of the masthead to recognize it as the San Francisco Chronicle—Quint’s paper. Curious, she picked it up, opened it to the front page.

The headline story was about a fire in a working-class neighborhood south of Market Street. Ignited by a fallen kerosene lamp, the blaze had consumed two boardinghouses and a dry goods store before the fire department managed to get it under control. An elderly man had perished in the flames.

Annie remembered what Quint had told her about the shortage of water for fighting fires. This time the firemen had stopped the blaze from spreading. Without water the fire would have been unstoppable. Hundreds of people could have died. Many more would have lost their homes and possessions.

She was beginning to understand what drove Quint’s crusade against Josiah Rutledge.

Her eyes skimmed the rest of the page. Enrico Caruso, the world’s greatest opera singer, had arrived in town and was staying at the Palace Hotel. Mayor Schmitz had announced some new political appointments. A courtroom fight had broken out over a libel suit, resulting in several arrests. Annie turned the page.

There it was at the top of the editorial section—Quint’s new column. With more interest now, she smoothed the page and began to read.

With each line, fear tightened its cold fingers around her throat.

Chapter Four

The San Francisco Chronicle, April 15, 1906

Yesterday’s fire on Folsom Street destroyed three buildings and, tragically, took one life. That the damage wasn’t worse is a tribute to San Francisco’s magnificent firefighters, who arrived in time to wet down the blaze and save the surrounding structures.

Annie glanced toward the carousel where Quint rode beside his daughter, laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She should have known he’d use the fire as an excuse to escalate the fight with Josiah Rutledge. Where danger was concerned, the man had no more common sense than a fourteen-year-old schoolboy.

Her fear deepened as she read on.

Yesterday we were lucky. But imagine this scenario if you will. A small accident starts a fire. As the blaze rages, the fire crew arrives with the pumping engine. With their usual efficiency, they connect the hoses to the cistern, start the pump…and no water emerges from the nozzle.

Citizens, our beloved city is a tinderbox. A devastating fire could happen today. It could happen tomorrow. The one certainty is, if we don’t update the water system forthwith, it WILL happen.

Three months ago, at the urging of Chief Dennis Sullivan, the Board of Supervisors set aside funds to make the most urgent repairs. The work was to be completed by mid-April. Bank records show that the funds were withdrawn and paid to the contractor. But what have the people of San Francisco received for their hard-earned tax dollars? Let’s take a look.

What followed was a detailed list of the needed repairs and the work, if any, that had been completed. Quint’s research was meticulous. The conditions he described were shocking and frightening—empty cisterns, faulty valves, cracked pipes that had been dabbed with cheap cement instead of replaced.

So what happened to the money? There are two individuals who can answer that question —the contractor and the board member who arranged to hire him on “agreeable” terms. Sadly, we’ve grown so accustomed to this kind of chicanery that most of us are inclined to shrug when we hear about it. In this case, however, lives and property are at stake. When certain evidence comes to light, I wouldn’t wager a plug nickel on the necks of these two schemers, let alone their jobs and reputations.

Certain evidence…Annie shuddered as the words sank home. Quint had pushed things too far this time. He was playing a deadly game with no winning cards in his hand. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the page, blurring the print before her eyes.

It is this reporter’s fervent hope that the responsible parties will experience a reversal of conscience and put the funds to the use for which they were intended. Otherwise it may be too late for them and for their innocent vic-tims—the people of San Francisco.

Annie lowered the paper, dread congealing like cold tallow in the pit of her stomach. Josiah Rut-ledge’s flinty eyes and twisted smile glinted in her memory. The man exuded evil. Quint was tweaking the devil’s whiskers.

As she watched the children frolic on the playground, a slow anger began to simmer inside her. Quint had always been a risk-taker—the first boy to test the winter ice on the pond, the first to walk across the railroad trestle—blindfolded. The first to challenge the new bully in town or leap onto an unbroken horse. His thrill-seeking ways had cost him Hannah’s love and the right to claim Clara as his own child. But even then, he never seemed to learn his lesson.

Annie’s fingers crumpled a corner of the newspaper as she imagined seizing him by the collar and shaking him until his hair tumbled into his mocking brown eyes. Even then, she sensed, Quint would only laugh at her—as he’d been laughing in the face of common sense all his life.

The carousel music had ended. In the silence, the happy shouts of children echoed across the park. Putting the newspaper aside, Annie rose to meet Quint and Clara as they came laughing toward her, so beautiful together, their clasped hands swinging between them.

She would not be so thoughtless as to spoil the day by bracing Quint about his column now, Annie resolved. His time with Clara was too precious for that. But tonight, after the little girl was asleep, he was going to get an earful. He was twenty-eight years old. It was time he stopped behaving like Huckleberry Finn!

Quint glanced at his pocket watch. “How about some lunch? Yesterday it was Delmonico’s. Today I want to treat you to the best hot dogs west of Coney Island. The stand is about ten minutes from here.”

Annie had read about hot dogs and was eager to try one. Clara, however, hung back, looking as if she were about to cry. “I don’t want to eat a dog, Uncle Quint,” she said.

Quint chuckled. “It won’t be a real dog, sweetheart. Just a sausage on some bread. Come on, you’ll like it. I promise.”

Clara trailed them to the umbrella-shaded hotdog stand, dragging her feet all the way. When Quint handed her the bun-wrapped sausage slathered in mustard she took a cautious nibble, frowned, then took a bigger bite.

“Do you like it?” Quint asked.

The little girl nodded, her mouth stuffed too full to answer.

“And how about you?” He turned toward Annie, who was trying to maintain a ladylike demeanor while she enjoyed her hot dog. “Do you like it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered.

“You’ve got a spot that needs wiping. Look at me and hold still.” He raised his paper napkin and dabbed at her chin. His warm brown eyes gazed into hers, twinkling with mischief. “Mustard becomes you, Miss Annie,” he drawled. “You ought to wear it more often.”

Annie swallowed, struggling for composure. Quint would be well aware of his effect on her. For the space of a breath he held eye contact, one brow tilted roguishly upward, as if he could hear her thundering pulse. What an incorrigible flirt the man was! Any woman foolish enough to take him on would have her hands full.

Summoning her will, she tore herself away. “Oh, dear, Clara, you’ve spattered mustard on your pinafore,” she fussed. “I do hope it will wash out.” Crimson-faced, she scrubbed furiously at the tiny yellow spot with her napkin. Quint watched her, betraying his amusement with a deepening dimple in his cheek. What a mess she’d made of things. How could she have let down her guard last night, telling him how he’d been her white knight for years? How could she have allowed him to kiss her, taking those intimate liberties with his tongue? The wretched man had probably laughed himself to sleep afterward.

One thing was certain, Annie vowed—it wasn’t going to happen again.

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