No explanation except for the fact that he had been utterly bewitched by a woman who might be mad, a woman with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.
He had wanted so badly to kiss her as they stood there in the guest room, saying their awkward good nights. He could sense that she wouldn't have minded if he kissed her, either. Not that she was a . . . a loose woman; even knowing her less than a day, he wouldn't have believed that of Annabel Lowell in a million years. It was just that there was some sort of mysterious connection between them, a bond of some kind.
A common interest in firefighting, he told himself. That was all it could be.
Of course, he had never been the least bit tempted to plant a big kiss on Patsy O'Flaherty.
Cole was no stranger to the charms of young women. He was known throughout San Francisco as a wealthy, though eccentric, young man, which made him a very eligible bachelor in the eyes of many young women—and their mothers. They looked at the properties he owned and were more than willing to overlook his oddities. So there had been no shortage of dalliances and flirtations in his life, especially a decade earlier when he had been in his early twenties and anxious to outrage his staid, conservative father in any way he could.
He supposed that as the years had rolled on, he had become the staid, conservative one. A lot of the ambitious young women had given up on ever being able to hook him. As it stood right now, it had been over a year since there had been a woman in his life.
The firehouse was only a few blocks away on Lombard Street, within easy walking distance of the hillside lane where Cole lived. It was nearly nine o'clock when he arrived. His shift would have normally been over at midnight, but he planned to work an extra shift to make up for the time he had missed.
Besides, that would keep him out of the house so that Annabel could sleep without having to worry about having her reputation compromised. And he wouldn't be tortured by the thought of her sleeping "in the buff" only a few rooms away.
"Well, look who's decided to honor us with his presence," a voice said sharply as Cole walked into the two-story brick building. The three steam-powered Amoskeag pumpers were kept on the first floor, along with the extra hoses, axes and other firefighting equipment, and the long coats and helmets worn by the crew when they went out on an alarm. In one corner of the first floor was a small kitchen and mess hall, and upstairs were sleeping quarters and offices.
Cole saw Lieutenant John Driscoll coming out of the mess hall with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Driscoll was a tall, lantern-jawed man, slender almost to the point of gauntness. His cap was off, revealing fair, nearly colorless hair.
Patsy O'Flaherty followed the lieutenant out of the mess hall. The little Irishman was a head shorter than Driscoll, with a cap of tight red curls on his head and freckles scattered across his broad, pleasantly ugly face. He had always reminded Cole of a redheaded bulldog. He said, "Didn't expect to see you here tonight, lad. The lass throw you over already, did she?"
"What's that?" Driscoll asked sharply. "You're late because of a girl, Brady? And you didn't even have the consideration to call?"
Cole glanced at Patsy, who suddenly looked embarrassed. "Sure and it slipped me mind to tell ye, Lieutenant. Cole called all right, and explained that he had some personal business t' take care of."
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Cole said. "It won't happen again."
Driscoll snorted. "See that it doesn't." He took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and looked around at Patsy. "Are you ever going to change the grounds in that coffeepot, O'Flaherty?"
"First thing in the mornin', sir. And that's a promise."
Driscoll nodded and went upstairs. With a grin, Patsy scurried over to Cole and asked in a low voice, "How was she, lad?"
"It's not like that at all," Cole said.
"Then how is it?" Patsy asked. "Ye tell me."
"I met a young woman who was in need of assistance. She's a stranger here in San Francisco, and she'd lost all her bags." He might have to stop falling back on that lie eventually, he thought, but for now it was coming in handy.
He fell silent when he saw the way Patsy rolled his eyes. "Lad, lad," Patsy said with a shake of his head, "ye didn't fall for that old yarn, did ye?"
"It's true," Cole insisted. "Miss Lowell was quite upset, and if I hadn't helped her, I don't know what she would have done."
"Found herself another pigeon, that's what she'd have done. 'Tis a bunco artist she is, m'boy. Did ye give her money?"
Cole shook his head. "No, I just bought her some clothes and something to eat. And gave a place to stay for the night."
"At yer house?"
"Well. . . yes."
Patsy rolled his eyes again. "Ye'll go back there in the mornin' and find everything of value gone, along with the lass. Mark my words."
"Absolutely not," Cole said emphatically. "Annabel joked about-that same possibility, and she'd have hardly done that if she really intended to rob me."