Can the daughter of a well-known prostitute start a new life
where no one knows her family history? Norah Hawkins is sure going to try. When
a letter arrives deeding her property in San Francisco, she packs her bags.
Irishman Gerard MacKenzie likes his life free and easy, but
is tired of the snobbish East Coast folk. San Francisco has enough vice and
folly to suit his needs. Meeting Norah gives him the opportunity to bartend in
her saloon. Maybe he can convince her to let him play the piano. She’s a shrewd
businesswoman, and negotiating with her makes his blood boil. Damn if she
doesn’t make his blood boil in other ways, too.
The morning of April 18, 1906, a terrible earthquake buries
their dreams beneath the city’s ruins. Can Norah and Mac rebuild their lives?
Will rebuilding their dreams bond them forever, or tear them apart?
Guilt filled her as she sealed the envelope. Her first letter
should have been to her mother. Estelle probably forgot I left. More likely,
she bought a bottle and forgot everything, period.
Downstairs in the hotel lobby, Mac stepped around the corner
into her path. “A letter to your beau?”
She bristled. “No.”
Leering, he nodded. “Ah. You left him behind.”
“Certainly not.” My, but he cleaned up nicely. The electric wall
sconce gave his black hair a sheen like raven’s feathers in the sun. His
smooth-shaved skin accentuated the whites of his eyes, rimmed with thick dark
lashes. Curled in a teasing smile, his lips appeared soft, not weather-worn
like some men.
He cocked a brow. “He’s joining you later?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your concern.” Unless he still
hoped for employment. His long, smooth fingers might be handy for more than
cards. Still, if she wanted music, she could buy a player piano and not have to
pay it a weekly salary. Though it wouldn’t be nearly as nice to look at as Mac.
He shrugged. “It isn’t. Unless you run into debt playing poker.
I want to be assured someone will back you up.”
“You needn’t worry. I never get in over my head.” In anything.
He tipped his cap. “Smart woman.”
Not enough to fool him. Last night, Norah had imitated her
drunken mother to perfection, another skill that came in handy. Believing her
vulnerable, the men made themselves moreso. Not Mac. He’d grown more careful,
as if he guessed at her intent.
“What are you doing here?” She wondered what sort of a racket he
ran. Everyone had one. Uppity ladies in their lace-edged gowns and mansions
excelled at scamming men into marriage, but only succeeded in trapping
themselves in the bargain. She preferred a prison with bars.
“Renting a room,” he said, “the same as you.”
Coincidence? Or had he followed her? “I’m curious. Do you
possess other skills?”
Smiling, he tugged at his jacket lapels. “I’m a man of many
talents. Why do you ask?”
Lo, his ego reared again. “Have you no real trade to ply?”
“Playing the piano is a ‘real’ trade, Miss Hawkins. However, I
can work at almost anything, from carpenter to barkeep.”
Like Dan. All her stinging retorts vanished. “Oh.”
He grimaced. “You disapprove?”
“Not at all. Those are honorable trades.” Why should she feel
relieved?
“As honorable as your own?”
What was he hinting at? Did he know about Estelle? Her face
flushed hot. Pointedly, she said, “Yes, as honorable as owning a saloon.”
“Saloon,” he repeated, as if unsure. “I thought it was a
gentleman’s club.”
Did he mean to imply she’d employ herself in some other
occupation, such as her mother’s? In defiance, she curbed her tongue, unwilling
to satisfy him with an answer.
Multipublished, award-winning author Cate
Masters has made beautiful central Pennsylvania her home, but she’ll always be
a Jersey girl at heart. When not spending time with her dear hubby, she can be
found in her lair, concocting a magical brew of contemporary, historical, and
fantasy/paranormal stories with her cat Chairman Maiow and dog Lily as company.
Look for her at http://catemasters.blogspot.com and
in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.
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