His Substitute Bride

“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?”