Chapter 1
Cassidy waited. Mrs. Sommerson tossed a third
rejected dress into her arms.
“Simply won’t do,” the woman muttered and scowled
at a midnight-blue linen. After a moment’s consideration
this, too, was dumped into the pile over Cassidy’s
arms. Valiantly Cassidy held on to her patience.
After three months as a sales clerk in The Best Boutique,
she felt she’d learned patience, but it hadn’t been
easy. Dutifully she followed the solid bulk of Mrs. Sommerson
to another display of dresses. After twentyseven
minutes of standing around like a clothes rack,
Cassidy thought, shifting the weight on her arms, her
hard-earned patience was sorely strained.
“I’ll try these,” Mrs. Sommerson finally announced
and marched back to the changing room. Mumbling
only a little, Cassidy began to replace unsuitable
dresses.
She jammed a loose hairpin into her scalp in irritation.
Julia Wilson, The Best’s owner, was a stickler
for neatness. No hair was allowed to tumble over the
shoulders of her clerks. Neat, orderly and unimaginative,
Cassidy concluded, and wrinkled her nose at the
midnight-blue linen. It was unfortunate that Cassidy
was disorganized, imaginative, and not altogether neat.
Her hair seemed to epitomize her personality. There
were shades from delicate blond to rich brown melding
into a tone like gold in an old painting. It was long
and heavy and protested against the confines of pins by
continuously slipping through them. Like Cassie herself,
it was unruly and stubborn yet soft and fascinating.
It had been the appeal of Cassidy’s slightly unconventional
looks that had prompted her hiring. Experience
had not been among her qualifications. Julia
Wilson had recognized a potential advertisement for
her merchandise and knew that Cassidy’s long, supple
body would set off the bold colors and styles of her more
adventurous line. The face was undoubtedly a plus, too.
Julia hadn’t been certain it was a beautiful face, but
she’d known it was striking. Cassidy’s features were
sharp and angular, undeniably aristocratic. Her brows
arched over long, lidded eyes that seemed oversized in
her narrow face and were a surprising violet.
Julia had seen Cassidy’s face, figure and her wellpitched
voice as references but had insisted on having
her pin up her hair. With it down around her shoulders,
it lent a distressingly wanton quality to the aristocratic
features. She was pleased with Cassidy’s youth, with
her intelligence and with her energy. Soon after hiring
her, however, Julia had discovered she was not as pliable
as her age had suggested. She had, Julia felt, an
unfortunate tendency to forget her place and become
overly friendly with the customers. More than once,
she’d come upon Cassidy as she asked customers impertinent
questions or gave unwarranted advice. From
time to time her smile suggested she was enjoying some
private joke. And often, far too often, she daydreamed.
Julia had begun to have serious doubts about Cassidy
St. John’s suitability.
After returning Mrs. Sommerson’s rejected choices
to their proper place, Cassidy took up her post by the
changing room. From inside she could hear the faint
rustle of materials. Idle, her mind did what it invariably
did when given the opportunity. It drifted back
to the manuscript that lay spread over her desk in her
apartment. Waiting.
As far back as memory took her, writing had been
her dream. For four years of college she had studied the
craft seriously. At nineteen she’d been left without family
and with little money. She had continued to work her
way through college in various odd jobs while learning
the discipline and art of her chosen profession. Between
her education and employment, Cassidy had been left
with meager snatches of free time. Even these had been
set aside for work on her first novel.
To Cassidy writing was not a career but a vocation.
Her entire life had been guided toward it, leaving her
room for few other attachments. People fascinated her,
but there were few with whom she was deeply involved.
She wrote of complex relationships, but her knowledge
of them came almost entirely secondhand. What gave
her work quality and depth were her sharp talent for
observation and her surprising depth of emotion. For
the greater part of her life, her emotions had found their
release in her work.
Now, a full year after graduation, she continued
to take odd jobs to pay the rent. Her first manuscript
worked its way from publishing house to publishing
house while her second came slowly to life.
As Mrs. Sommerson opened the door of the changing room,
Cassidy’s mind was deep into the reworking
of a dramatic scene. Seeing her standing with proper
handmaidenly reserve, Mrs. Sommerson nodded approvingly.
She preened ever so slightly.
“This should do nicely. Don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Sommerson’s choice was a flaming-red silk.
The color, Cassidy noted, accented her florid complexion
but was an attractively sharp contrast to her fluffy
black mane of hair. The dress might have been more
appropriate if Mrs. Sommerson had been a few pounds
lighter, but Cassidy saw possibilities.
“You’ll draw eyes, Mrs. Sommerson,” she announced
after a moment’s deliberation. With the proper accessories,
she decided, Mrs. Sommerson might very likely
look regal. The silk, however, strained over her ample
hips. A sterner girdle, Cassidy diagnosed, or a larger
dress. “I think we have this in the next size,” she murmured,
thinking aloud.
“I beg your pardon?”
Preoccupied, Cassidy failed to note the dangerous
arch of Mrs. Sommerson’s brows. “The next size,” she
repeated helpfully. “This one’s a bit snug through the
hips. The next size up should fit you perfectly.”
“This is my size, young woman.” Mrs. Sommer
son’s bosom lifted then fell. It was an awe-inspiring
movement.
Deep into solving the accessory problem, Cassidy
smiled and nodded. “A splashy gold necklace, I should
think.” She tapped her fingertip against her bottom lip.
“Just let me find your size.”
“This,” Mrs. Sommerson stated in a tone that arrested
Cassidy’s full attention, “is my size.” Indignation
seethed in every syllable. Recognizing her mistake,
Cassidy felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.
Whoops, she said silently then pulled her scattered
wits together. Before she could begin soothing Mrs.
Sommerson’s ruffled ego, Julia stepped from behind
her.
“A stunning choice, Mrs. Sommerson,” she stated
in her well-modulated contralto. With a noncommittal
smile, she glanced from her customer to her clerk then
back again. “Is there a problem?”
“This young woman…” Mrs. Sommerson heaved
another deep breath. “Insists I’ve made a mistake in
my size.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Cassidy protested, but subsided
when Julia arched a penciled brow in her direction.
“I’m certain what Miss St. John meant to say was
that this particular style is cut a bit oddly. The sizes
simply do not run true.”
I should’ve thought of that, Cassidy admitted to herself.
“Well.” Mrs. Sommerson sniffed and eyed Cassidy
with disapproval. “She might have said so, rather than
suggesting that I was a larger size. Really, Julia.” She
turned back to the changing room. “You should train
your staff better."
Cassidy’s eyes kindled and grew dark at the tone.
She watched the seams of the red silk protest against
Mrs. Sommerson’s generous posterior. The quick glare
from Julia had her swallowing retorts.
“I’ll fetch the dress myself, Mrs. Sommerson,” Julia
soothed, slipping her personable smile back into place.
“I’m certain it will be perfect for you. Wait for me in
my office, Cassidy,” she added in an undertone before
gliding off.
With a sinking heart, Cassidy watched Julia’s retreat.
She recognized the tone all too well. Three months,
she mused, then sighed. Oh, well. With one backward
glance at Mrs. Sommerson, she moved down the narrow
hallway and into Julia’s small, smartly decorated office.
She surveyed the square, windowless room, then
chose a tiny, straight-backed, bronze cushioned chair.
It was here, she remembered, I was hired. And it’s here
I’ll be fired. She jammed another rebellious pin into
place and scowled. In a few minutes she’ll walk in, lift
her left brow and sit behind her perfectly beautiful rosewood
desk. She’ll look at me a moment, gently clear
her throat and begin.
“Cassidy, you’re a lovely girl, but your heart isn’t in
your work.”
“Mrs. Wilson,” Cassidy imagined herself saying,
“Mrs. Sommerson can’t wear a size fourteen. I was—”
“Of course not.” Cassidy pictured Julia interrupting
her with a patient smile. “I wouldn’t dream of selling
her one, but—” here Cassidy envisioned Julia lifting
up one slender, rose-tipped finger for emphasis “—we
must allow her illusions and her vanity. Tact and diplomacy
are essential for a salesperson, Cassidy. I’m
afraid you’ve yet to fully develop these qualities. In a
shop such as this—” Julia would fold her hand on the
desk’s surface “—I must be able to depend, without
reservation, on my staff. If this were the first incident,
of course, I’d make allowances, but…” Here Cassidy
imagined Julia would pause and give a small sigh. “Just
last week you told Miss Teasdale the black crepe made
her look like a mourner. This is not the way we sell our
merchandise.”
“No, Mrs. Wilson.” Cassidy decided she would agree
with an apologetic air. “But with Miss Teasdale’s hair
and her complexion—”
“Tact and diplomacy,” Julia would reiterate with a
lifted finger. “You might have suggested that a royalblue
would match her eyes or that a rose would set off
her skin. The clientele must be pampered while the
merchandise moves. Each woman who walks out the
door should feel she has acquired something special.”
“I understand that, Mrs. Wilson. I hate to see someone
buy something unsuitable; that’s why—”
“You have a good heart, Cassidy.” Julia would smile
maternally then drop the ax. “You simply have no talent
for selling…at least, not the degree of talent I require.
I shall, of course, pay you for the rest of the week and
give you a good reference. You’ve been prompt and dependable.
Perhaps you might try clerking in a department store.”
Cassidy wrinkled her nose at this point in her scenario,
then quickly smoothed her features as the door
behind her opened. Julia closed it quietly then lifted her
left brow and moved to sit behind her rosewood desk.
She studied Cassidy a moment then gently cleared her
throat.
“Cassidy, you’re a lovely girl, but…”
Cassidy’s shoulders lifted and fell with her sigh.
An hour later, unemployed, she wandered Fisherman’s Wharf,
enjoying its cheerful shabbiness, its traveling carnival atmosphere.
She loved the cornucopia of
scents and sound and color. Here there was always a
crowd. Here there was life in ever-changing flavors. San
Francisco was Cassidy’s concept of a perfect city, but
Fisherman’s Wharf was the end of the rainbow. Makebelieve
and reality walked hand in hand.
She passed through the emporiums, poking idly
through barrels of trinkets, fingering newly imported
silk scarfs and soaking up the noise. But the bay drew
her. She moved toward it at an easy, meandering pace
as the afternoon gave way to evening. The scent of fish
dominated the air. Beneath it were the aromas of onions
and spice and humanity.
She listened to the vendors hawk their wares and
watched as a crab was selected and boiled in a sidewalk
cauldron. The wharf was rimmed with restaurants and
crammed with stores. Without apology, its ambience
was vaguely dilapidated and faintly tawdry. Cassidy
adored it. It was old and friendly and content to be itself.
Nibbling on a hot pretzel, she moved through stalls of
hanging Chinese turnips, fresh abalone and live crabs.
Wisps of fog began to curl at her feet, and the sun sank
lower. She was grateful for her plum-colored quilted
jacket as the breeze swept in from the bay.
If nothing else, she thought ruefully, I acquired some
nice clothes at a tidy discount. Cassidy frowned and
took a generous bite of her pretzel. If it hadn’t been for
Mrs. Sommerson’s hips, I’d still have a job. After all, I
did have her best interests at heart. Annoyed, she pulled
the pins from her hair then tossed them into a trash can
as she passed. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders in long,
loose curls. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Rats. She chewed her pretzel aggressively and
headed for the watery front yard of Fisherman’s Wharf.
I needed that job. I really needed that stupid job. Depression
threatened as she walked the dock between
lines of moored boats. She began a mental accounting
of her finances. The rent was due the following week,
and she needed another ream of typing paper. According
to her shaky calculations, both of these necessities
could be met if she didn’t put too much emphasis on
food for the next few days.
I won’t be the first writer to have to tighten her belt in
San Francisco, she decided. The four basic food groups
are probably overrated anyway. With a shrug she finished
off the pretzel. That could be my last full meal
for some time. Grinning, she stuck her hands in her
pockets and strolled to the rail at the edge of the dock.
Like a gray ghost, the fog rolled in over the bay. It
crept closer to land, swallowing up the water along the
way. It was thin tonight, full of patches, not the thick
mass that often coated the bay and blinded the city. To
the west the sun dipped into the sea and shot spears of
flame over the rim of the water. Cassidy waited for the
last flash of gold. Already her mood was lifting. She
was a creature of hope and optimism, of faith and luck.
She believed in destiny. It was, she felt, her destiny to
write. The sale of articles and occasional short stories to
magazines kept the dream alive. For four years of college
her life had revolved around perfecting her craft.
Jobs kept a roof over her head and meant nothing more.
Dating had been permitted only when her schedule allowed
and was kept casual. As yet, Cassidy had met no
man who interested her seriously enough to make her
veer from the straight path she had chosen. There were
no curves in her scheme of things. No detours.
The loss of her current job distressed her only temporarily.
Even as the evening sky darkened and the lights
of the wharf fluttered on, her mood shifted. She was
young and resilient.
Something would turn up, she decided as she leaned
over the rail. Wavelets slapped gently against the hull
of a fishing boat beside her. She had no need for a great
deal of money; any job would do. Clerking in a department store might be just right. Perhaps something in
home appliances. It would be difficult to step on anyone’s vanity while selling a toaster. Pleased with the
thought, Cassidy pushed worries out of her head and
watched the fog tumble closer. Its fingers reached toward her.
There was a chill in the air now as the breeze picked
up. She let it wash over her, tossing her hair and waking
up her skin. The sounds and calls from the stands became
remote, muffled by the mist. It was nearly dark.
She heard a bird call out as it flew overhead and lifted
her face to watch it. The first thin light of the moon fell
over her. She smiled, dreaming a little. Abruptly she
drew in her breath as a hand gripped her shoulder. Before
she could make a sound, she’d been turned around
and was staring up into a stranger’s face.
He was tall, several inches taller than Cassidy, with
a shock of black curls around a lean, raw-boned face.
Her mind worked quickly to categorize the face, rejecting
handsome in favor of dangerous. Perhaps it was
her surprise and the creeping fog and darkening sky
that caused the adjective to leap into her mind. But
she thought, as she looked up at him, that his features
were more in tune with the Barbary Coast than Fisherman’s
Wharf. His eyes were a deep, intense blue under
black, winged brows, and his forehead was high under
the falling black curls. His nose was long and straight,
his mouth full, and his chin faintly cleft. It was a compelling,
hard-hitting face with no softening features.
He had a rangy build accentuated by snug jeans and
a black pullover. After her initial shock passed, Cassidy
gripped her purse tight and squared her shoulders.
“I’ve only got ten dollars,” she told him, keeping her
chin fearlessly lifted. “And I need it at least as badly
as you.”
“Be quiet,” he ordered shortly and narrowed his eyes.
They were oddly intent on her face, searching, probing
in a manner that made her shiver. When he cupped her
chin in his hand, Cassidy’s courage slipped away again.
Without speaking, he turned her head from one side to
the other, all the while studying her with absolute concentration.
His eyes were hypnotic. She watched him,
speechless, as his brows lowered in a frown. There was
speculation in the look. She tried to jerk away.
“Be still, will you?” he demanded. His deep voice
sounded annoyed, and his fingers were very firm.
Cassidy swallowed. “Now listen,” she said with apparent
calm. “I’ve a black belt in karate and will certainly
break both your arms if you try to molest me.”
As she spoke she glanced past his shoulder and was dismayed
to see the lights of the restaurants behind them
had dimmed in the fog. They were alone. “I can break
a two-by-four in half with my bare hand,” she added
when his expression failed to register terror and respect.
She noted that the fingers on her chin were strong, and
that despite his rangy build his shoulders were broad.
“And I can scream very loudly,” she continued. “You’d
better go away.”
“Perfect,” he murmured and ran his thumb along her
jawline. Cassidy’s heart thudded with alarm. “Absolutely
perfect. Yes, you’ll do.” All at once the intensity
cleared from his eyes, and he smiled. The transformation
was so rapid, so startling, Cassidy simply stared.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Do what?” Cassidy asked, astonished by his metamorphosis.
“Break a two-by-four in half with your bare hand.”
“Do what?” Her own bogus claim was forgotten.
Confused, she frowned at him. “Oh, well, it’s—it’s for
practice, I suppose. You have to think right through the
board, I believe, so that—” She stopped, realizing she
was standing on a deserted dock in the fog holding an
absurd conversation with a maniac who still had her
chin in his hand. “You’d really better let me go and be
on your way before I have to do something drastic.”
“You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for,” he told
her but made no attempt to act on her suggestion. She
noted there was a slight cadence to his speech that suggested
an ethnic background, but she did not pause to
narrow the choices.
“Well, I’m sorry. I’m not interested. I have a husband
who’s a linebacker for the 49ers. He’s six feet five, two
hundred and sixty-three pounds and very jealous. He’ll
be along any minute. Now let me go and you can have
the blasted ten dollars.”
“What the devil are you babbling about?” His brows
lowered again. With the fog swirling thinly at his back,
he looked fierce. Abruptly, one black brow flew up to
disappear beneath the careless curls. “Do you think
I’m going to mug you?” A flash of irritation crossed
his face. “My dear child, I’ve no designs on your ten
dollars or on your honor. I’m going to paint you, not
ravish you.”
“Paint me?” Cassidy was intrigued. “Are you an artist?
You don’t look like one.” She considered his dashing,
buccaneer’s features. “What sort of an artist are
you?”
“An excellent one,” he replied easily and tilted her
face a tad higher. A splash of moonlight found it. “I’m
famous, talented and temperamental.” The charming
smile was back in his face, and the cadence was Irish.
Cassidy responded to both.
“I’m desperately impressed,” she said. He was obviously
a lunatic but an appealing one. She forgot to
be afraid.
“Of course you are,” he agreed and turned her head
to left profile. “It’s only to be expected.” He freed her
chin at last, but the tingle of his fingers remained on
her skin. “I’ve a houseboat just outside the city. We’ll
go there and I can start sketching you tonight.”
Cassidy’s eyes lit with wary amusement. “Aren’t you
supposed to offer to show me sketches, or is this a variation
on an old theme?” She no longer considered him
dangerous, merely persistent.
He sighed, and she watched the quick annoyance
flash over his face. “The woman has a one-track mind.
Listen…what is your name?”
“Cassidy,” she answered automatically. “Cassidy St.
John.”
“Oh, no, half Irish, half English. We’ll have trouble
there.” He stuck his hands into his pockets. His eyes
seemed determined to know every inch of her face.
“Cassidy, I have no need for your ten dollars, and no
plans to tamper with your virtue. What I want is your
face. I’ve a sketch pad and so forth on my houseboat.”
“I wouldn’t go on Michelangelo’s boat if he handed
me that line.” Cassidy relaxed the grip on her purse and
pushed her hair from her shoulders. Though he made a
swift sound of exasperation, she grinned.
“All right.” She sensed the impatience in his stance
as he glanced behind him. “We’ll get a cup of coffee in
a well-lit, crowded restaurant. Will that suit you? If I try
anything improper, you can break the table in half with
your famous bare hand and draw attention.”
Cassidy’s lips trembled into a fresh grin. “I think
I could agree to that.” Before she could say anything
else, he had her hand in his and was pulling her toward
the cluster of restaurants. She felt an odd intimacy in
the gesture along with a sense of his absolute control
and determination. He was a man, she decided, who
wouldn’t take no for an answer. He walked quickly. She
wondered if he were perpetually in a hurry. His stride
was smooth, loose-limbed.
He pulled her into a small, rather dingy café and
found a booth. The moment they were seated he again
fixed her with his intent stare. His eyes, she noted, were
even more blue than they had seemed in the dim light.
Their color was intensified by his thick black lashes
and bronze-toned skin. Cassidy met him stare for stare
as she wondered what sort of man lived behind that incredible
shade of blue. It was the waitress who broke
her attention.
“What’ll ya have?”
“Oh…coffee,” she said when her companion made
no move to speak or cease his staring. “Two coffees.”
When the waitress clomped away, Cassidy turned back
to him. “Why do you stare at me like that?” she demanded.
It annoyed her that her nerves responded to
the look. “It’s very rude,” she pointed out. “And very
distracting.”
“The light’s dreadful in here, but it’s some improvement
over the fog. Don’t frown,” he ordered. “It gives
you a line right here.” Before she could move he had
lifted a finger and traced it down between her brows.
“You have a remarkable face. I can’t decide whether
the eyes are an advantage or a drawback. One tends to
disbelieve violet.”
As Cassidy attempted to digest this, the waitress returned
with their coffee. Glancing up, he plucked the
pencil from her pocket and gave her one of his lightning
smiles. “I need this for a few minutes. Drink your coffee.
Relax,” he directed with a careless gesture of his
hand. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Cassidy obeyed as he began to sketch on the paper
placemat in front of him. “Do you have a job we’ll need
to work around or does your fictitious husband support
you with his football prowess?”
“How do you know he’s fictitious?” Cassidy countered
and forced her eyes away from the planes of his
face.
“The same way I know you’d have a great deal of
trouble with a two-by-four.” He continued to sketch.
“Do you have a job?”
“I was fired this afternoon,” she muttered into her
coffee.
“That simplifies matters. Don’t frown, I’m not a patient
man. I’ll pay you the standard sitting fee.” He
glanced up as Cassidy’s brows lifted. “What I have in
mind should take no more than two months, if all goes
well. Don’t look so shocked, Cassidy, my intentions
were pure and honorable from the beginning. It was
only your lurid imagination—”
“My imagination is not that lurid,” she tossed back
indignantly. She shifted in her seat as she felt her cheeks
warm. “When people come looming up out of the fog
and seizing other people—”
“Looming?” he interrupted and stopped sketching
long enough to give her a dry look. “I don’t believe I
did any looming or seizing tonight.”
“It seemed a great deal like looming and seizing
from my perspective,” she grumbled before she sipped
her coffee. Her eyes dropped to the sketch he made. She
set down the cup, her eyes widening with surprised admiration.
“That’s wonderful!”
In a few bold strokes he had captured her. She saw
not just the shape of her own hair, but an expression she
recognized as essentially her own. “It’s really wonderful,”
she repeated as he began another sketch. “You really
are talented. I thought you were bragging.”
“I’m unflinchingly honest,” he murmured as his borrowed
pencil moved across the placemat.
Recognizing the quality of his work, Cassidy became
more enthusiastic. Her mind raced ahead. Steady employment
for two months would be a godsend. By the
end of that time she should have heard from the publishing
house that had her manuscript under consideration.
Two months without having to sell toasters!
She would have her evenings free to work on her new
plot. The benefits began to mount and multiply. Destiny
must have sent Mrs. Sommerson in search of a dress
that afternoon.
“Do you really want me to sit for you?”
“You’re precisely what I need.” His manner suggested
that the matter was already settled. The second
sketch was nearly completed. His coffee cooled,
untouched. “I want you to start in the morning. Nine
should be early enough.”
“Yes, but—”
“Keep your hair down, and don’t pile on layers of
makeup, you’ll just have to wash it off. You might
smudge up your eyes a bit, but little else.”
“I haven’t said I’d—”
“You’ll need the address, I suppose,” he continued,
ignoring her protests. “Do you know the city well?”
“I was born here,” she told him with a superior sniff.
“But I—”
“Well then, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding
my studio.” He scrawled an address on the bottom of
the placemat. Abruptly he lifted his eyes and captured
hers again.
They stared at each other amid the clatter of cutlery
and chatter of voices. What Cassidy felt in that brief
moment she could not define, but she knew she had
never experienced it before. Then, as quickly as it had
occurred, it passed. He rose, and she was left feeling
as if she had run a very long race in a very short time.
“Nine o’clock,” he said simply; then as an afterthought
he dropped a bill on the table for the coffee.
He left without another word.
Reaching over, Cassidy picked up the placemat with
the sketches and the address. For a moment she studied
her face as he had seen it. Was her chin really shaped
that way? she wondered and lifted her thumb and finger
to trace it. She remembered his hand holding it in precisely
the same fashion. With a shrug she dropped her
hand then carefully folded the placemat. It wouldn’t do
any harm to go to his studio in the morning, she decided
as she slipped the paper into her purse. She could get a
look at things and then make up her mind if she wanted
to sit for him or not. If she had any doubts, all she had
to do was say no and walk out. Cassidy remembered his
careless dominance and frowned. All I have to do, she
repeated to herself sternly, is to say no and walk out.
With this thought she rose and strolled out of the café.
