by Anne Stuart
"I figured if Clark Gable could get away without one, then so could I." In the shadowy darkness his eyes were hooded, a faint smile played around his mouth, as if he knew just how disturbing she found him.
He had hair on his chest. The few men she'd seen shirtless, most of them in the movies, were all hairless. Even Clark Gable, when he'd shed his shirt in It Happened One Night and plunged undershirt manufacturers into a depression of their own, had been surprisingly smooth skinned. Most men still wore shirts over their bathing suits when they swam in Lake Michigan, and she'd had no brothers, no uncles and not much of a father to see shirtless. She couldn't keep from stealing fascinated gazes as she tipped back the flask and took a generous gulp.
"Easy with that, Angel," he chided. "I don't know if you're used to stuff that strong."
"I can drink you under the table," she scoffed. He didn't have too much hair, she decided, taking another gulp and leaning back against the wall of the berth. She wouldn't have liked it on his shoulders or his back. Not that she could see his back, she realized. He was leaning against the opposite wall, but from what she could see of him, she imagined that the hair wasn't too much. Just a wedge of dark curls across the center of his chest, then arrowing down in a thin line and disappearing beneath the white sheet. She jerked her eyes upward quickly, but not before he'd caught her watching.
"Taking inventory?" he inquired casually.
She'd already had too much to drink on an empty stomach. She took another swallow, then managed a brave smile. "I'm not used to seeing men with hair on their chests," she said blithely.
"Then I don't imagine you're used to seeing men without shirts on. Most men have hair on their chest."
"Do they?" she questioned ingenuously, leaning forward. The tie to her hair had been lost sometime during her few hours of sleep and her hair fell forward over her face, obscuring her vision for a moment. She pushed it out of her way with slightly tipsy impatience. "How far does it go?" She wasn't so drunk that she didn't realize the outrageousness of such a question the moment it was out of her mouth, and she slapped a hand over her lips in comic dismay.
"All the way." He flipped the sheets away, and Angela let out a muffled shriek. Someone in the car shouted, "Shad-dup, lady."
At least Clancy was wearing something, albeit only baggy linen boxer shorts that reached halfway down to his knees. He had very nice legs, she thought for a moment, until she realized he was reaching for the row of buttons on the shorts, waiting for her reaction.
"Cut it out," she whispered fiercely.
He flung the covers back over him, shrugging. "You asked. I guess you'll have to take my word for it."
"I will," she said hastily. "Why do you wear a cross? You don't strike me as the religious sort."
"I'm not."
"Then why...?"
"Superstition, Angel. Most pilots have their own. This is my lucky piece. I never fly without it, I never go anywhere without it."
"Where'd it come from?" She leaned forward to touch it, then belatedly realized she'd be touching him, too. She snatched her hand back. "It looks very old."
"A remnant of my Catholic boyhood."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"Not particularly. But you're dying to know, aren't you?" He slid down in the bed so that his leg was almost touching hers. "I was a foundling. I grew up in an orphanage, then moved up to a home for wayward boys. I was heading toward reform school when Father Robbins beat some sense into me. And showed me airplanes. After that the army and the war finished the job."
"Do you ever see him?"
"Father Robbins? He died years ago, just before the war. That's where the cross came from. I couldn't swallow his religion, but he was the closest thing to family I ever had. Am I breaking your heart, Angel? Ready to comfort me?"
"Go to hell." She took another gulp from the flask. "What is this stuff? I've had bootleg liquor but this tastes far better. Where'd you get it?"
"That's not bootleg, Angel. That's one hundred and fifty proof rum, direct from the Caribbean. If you were standing you'd be flat on your tail right now."
She giggled. "Isn't that a contradiction?"
"I didn't know you could giggle."
"I didn't know I could, either." She shoved her hair out of her face, ignoring the fact that Clancy looked different in the shadowy recesses of the upper berth. More dangerous somehow, with the overnight growth of beard darkening his face. She leaned forward across the bunk and placed a long finger on his cleft chin. "How do you shave in there?"
"Red, you're sloshed."
"Too much rum on an empty stomach," she said with a sigh. "Where are those crackers you promised me?"
"Come and get them."
She didn't even hesitate, crawling up the bed and plopping down beside him as he handed her a wax-paper twist of crackers. She leaned back, her head whirling slightly. She started nibbling, eyeing him covertly. "I should have known you'd be the type to eat crackers in bed," she said.
"Isn't it a lucky thing you don't usually sleep with me?" he replied, taking the flask out of her unresisting hand and taking a generous pull himself.
"Very lucky," she said. "Am I sleeping with you tonight?"
"I think you'd better. If you tried to crawl out of this bunk you'd fall flat on your keister."
"You could always be a gentleman and climb down yourself."
"I thought we'd already established that I'm not a gentleman." He took the crackers away from her. "Get under the covers. We have four more hours before we reach Albany."
She complied without thinking, sliding down beside him. He smelled of tobacco and rum and warm skin, and she was just thinking what a nice combination that was when he reached over her and turned off the light, plunging them back into darkness.
"This berth is awfully small," she said in a tiny voice.
"That's because you're trying to put three feet between us. Come here, Red. I promised I wouldn't make love to you, and I won't. But I'll be damned if I'm going to sleep with my tail hanging out in the aisle."
She didn't move, so without ceremony he pulled her against him. It was a shock that almost sobered her for a minute. His long, bare legs were entwined with hers. His hips were against her stomach, his strong, muscled arms around her, and his chest was against her face.
She reached out to push him away, and then stopped, as her hand came in contact with warm, hard skin and hair. The hair on his chest was crinkly but softer than she would have expected, and for a moment she let her fingers drift through it, exploring.
His hand shot out and caught her wrist. "Don't," he said in a rough voice.
"Don't what?"
"Push me. Or I may not keep my promise."
"Yes, sir," she said meekly.
"One more thing before you sink into a drunken stupor...."
She didn't bother to deny it. She was too comfortable to argue against what she suspected was the truth. "What is it?"
"Just this." He put his hand under her chin, pulled her face up to his and put his mouth on hers.
She lifted her face willingly enough, expecting a sweet salutation on her lips before she fell asleep. She was unprepared for the hot, seeking dampness of his mouth on hers, for the pressure that was far removed from Hal's gentle salutes.
Clancy pulled away, a few inches, and she could feel his breath on her face, warm and frustrated. "Open your mouth, Red," he whispered.
"Why?"
"Just do it." He set his mouth back on hers, his hands reaching up and holding her head in place, and this kiss was even more startling. His mouth was open against her, moving against her, and his tongue touched her lips, her teeth, then swept into her mouth with sudden force. She struggled for a moment, startled, but his hands held her still beneath him as he kissed her, lengthily, thoroughly, with his lips, his tongue, his hands, his body.
When he finally pulled away, her hands dropped limply to her side. She was hot and trembly all over, and deep inside her, in the pit of h
er stomach and lower, was a burning that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the man beside her. She was feeling just drunk enough and aroused enough to want to reach out and touch him, to taste his mouth again, when his distinctive drawl interrupted her.
"God, Red, didn't you ever make out in the back seat of a jalopy? You don't know diddly-squat about kissing."
She jerked away, enraged, wanting to scramble out of the upper berth, but her legs were trapped beneath the cover. "Let me out of here!" she demanded in a fierce whisper.
It took him no effort at all to get her flat on her back, her hands held by her head, as he loomed over her. "Don't get sore, Angel," he whispered. "I'm going to enjoy teaching you." And he kissed her again, a slow, leisurely kiss that drained her anger, drained her embarrassment, leaving her nothing but a soft, melting mass of emotions.
She wanted more, she wanted so much more. Her body ached; she told herself she wasn't sure for what, but deep down she knew. She wanted Clancy as she'd never wanted anyone in her life, including Hal Ramsey.
Clancy had released her wrist and his deft fingers were already on the third button of her high-necked nightgown when she reached out to stop him.
He pulled his mouth away, but even in the darkness she could see the glitter in his eyes, hear the slow, heavy pounding of his heart, feel the strained exhalation of breath against her face as he struggled to control himself.
"Clancy, you promised," she said desperately, knowing that if it were up to her, she couldn't stop him.
For a moment he didn't move. "We've established that I'm no gentleman. Who says I keep my promises?" he replied, but she could tell by the torment in his voice that he would.
She reached up and touched his cheek, the rough texture of unshaven skin curiously arousing. She wished she dared ask him for more of that rum, but she knew that instead of assuring her a quick night's sleep, it would seal her fate for certain.
"I do," she said. "I trust you."
"You don't trust any man."
"I trust you," she said again, meaning it.
"Angel, you really know how to get a man where he lives," he said wearily, flopping over onto his back. "It's going to be a long four hours."
She leaned over him, suddenly anxious. "Do you want me to go back... ?"
"I want you to come here." He hauled her across him, pushing her head down against his shoulder with just a touch of unnecessary force. "Go to sleep, damn it."
For a moment she didn't know what to do with her hand. The other one was tucked up underneath her, but she wasn't quite sure what was safe to touch.
Clancy solved the problem for her. His big hand wrapped around her narrow one, holding it against his chest. And before Angela could think of one more complication, she fell asleep.
Chapter Six
Angela's first feeling was panic when she was suddenly, instantly awake. She felt as if she were suffocating, trapped in a dark cave, alone, with noise all around.
She almost tumbled out into the crowded corridor before she was able to take her bearings. She was alone in Clancy's claustrophobic upper berth, and obviously everybody else in this car was already up and about and talking in the most piercing tones.
Angela fumbled for the light, switched it on and groaned. She had the most colossal, super-duper queen of hangovers. Demon rum, they called it, and now she knew why. For a moment she pulled the pillow back over her head and let the shards of pain slice through her skull. The nausea came next, and Angela held herself very still. She certainly wasn't going to toss her cookies in Jack Clancy's bed, and there was no way she was going to manage to thread her way through the cheerful throngs who seemed more than ready to face the day.
Gradually the nausea receded. Gradually the headache diminished to manageable proportions so that she could move without moaning. And then realization sunk in. She'd actually been fool enough to crawl up into bed with a skirt-chaser like Jack Clancy, gotten soused and practically passed out in his arms. It was sheer luck she'd escaped with nothing more than a fairly overwhelming kiss.
Slowly she raised her head, shoving the pillow to one side. Luck, or the fact that Clancy didn't find her the slightest bit attractive. Well, perhaps the slightest bit. He had kissed her, after all. Several times. With more devastating expertise than any of the other men who'd kissed her had ever shown.
Of course, Clancy probably had more practice. And it could very likely have simply been force of habit that made him kiss her. And what the hell was she doing, lying in bed worrying about whether Jack Clancy found her attractive? That kind of hooey had absolutely no importance in her immediate or long-term scheme of things.
She had no intention of ringing for a porter to bring the ladder. Peering out into the corridor, she discovered it was relatively uninhabited. With an agility that her poor, pounding brain paid for, she swung over the edge and dove into the bunk below, disappearing before anyone had a chance to notice.
Pulling up her shade, she discovered it was just past dawn on a surly day in early May. She had no idea when they were due to arrive in Albany, but chances were she didn't have a whole lot of time. By the time she'd managed to scramble into her clothes and stumble out into the swaying corridor, her need for the ladies' lounge was becoming an emergency. She made it just in time, ridding herself of Clancy's rum and crackers with expediency.
By the time she'd brushed her teeth, washed her face and run a comb through her shoulder-length page boy, she felt almost like a new woman. She'd forgotten to wind her watch the night before, and the Patek Philippe watch her grandmother had given her had stopped sometime around three in the morning. Just around the time she'd crawled into bed with Clancy.
The porter in the corridor gave her the time, informed her they were half an hour out of Albany, that the dining car was open for breakfast and that he hadn't seen Clancy. The thought of putting food on her ravaged stomach was almost enough to send Angela back to the ladies' lounge, but she gritted her teeth and moved on ahead through the swaying railroad cars in search of her companion.
She found him on the railing beyond the bar car, smoking a cigar with one of the Pullman porters, engaged in lazy conversation.
Angela barreled onto the platform, stopping short in surprise. Never in her life had she seen a black man and a white man sharing a morning smoke and a casual conversation. The sight was so extraordinary that for a moment she was lost for words.
"Hi, Red," Clancy said, blowing smoke away from her. "I was going to come and make like Prince Charming if you hadn't appeared. This is Langston."
"Ma'am," Langston said, back suddenly straight and expression uneasy as he tossed his cigar out into the countryside. "I'd best be going. You take care, Clancy, you hear?"
"I hear," Clancy said, reaching out his hand. Langston hesitated for a moment, then shook it. "You, too, pal."
With a subservient nodding of his head toward Angela, Langston disappeared into the train, leaving the two of them alone. For a moment Angela almost followed, then she straightened her back, determined to bluff it out.
"Take that look off your face, Red," Clancy drawled.
"What look?"
"That 'what are you doing talking to a colored man' expression. Langston and I go way back."
"Do you?"
"Why, sure, honey. He used to work for my pappy, down at de ole plantation. Why he'd—"
"Cut it out, Clancy. Don't put words in my mouth or thoughts in my brain that aren't there. I don't give a damn who you talk to."
"As a matter of fact, you ought to give a damn. You ought to thank your lucky stars that Langston happened to be on this train. Otherwise we would have spent a lot of time looking for Will Parsons."
"Your friend knows where he is?"
"Sure. They've got a lot in common. Both of them love airplanes."
Angela stared back toward the car where Langston had disappeared. "That wasn't Langston Howard?"
"First man of his race to hold a pilot's license
. Exactly. We worked together down in Peru in '34. He was fool enough to come back, knowing he wouldn't be able to fly."
"Why?"
"Why'd he come back? Family. He had a wife and two kids, and the money he was sending wasn't enough. I guess he missed them too much. Marriage is a sucker's game, Angel. Once you get caught, you get grounded for good, one way or the other." He took another puff of his cigar and blew the smoke skyward.
"You're probably right," she said. "You don't see me getting married, do you? Hard as it is to believe, I've had offers."
"I know. I'm sorry about Ramsey. He was an okay guy."
"You knew Hal?" Somehow the idea of that was unsettling.
"In this business everybody knows everybody sooner or later. Unless they die first." He stared down at his cigar in meditative silence for a moment. "I'd offer you one of these, but I gave Langston my last."
"I can do without cigars, thank you," she said. "And I didn't mean why did Langston come back. I mean why isn't he able to fly?"
Clancy stared at her with undisguised disgust for a moment, then sent the cigar hurtling out into the early-morning air. "You're pretty damned naive, aren't you? That's the problem with women pilots. You're all spoiled little rich girls with nothing better to do than play with airplanes. You probably haven't ever talked with someone of another race unless it was to give them orders. No one will hire a black pilot, Red, even if he's one of the best around."
"Don't be ridiculous," she shot back, stung both by the truth of his accusation and the unfairness of it. "I'd hire anyone who's as good as Langston is supposed to be."
"Then you'd be a fool. You have trouble enough getting contracts being a woman, not to mention Olker putting a spoke in your wheels every chance he gets. How many people are going to use you if they know you've hired a colored man to fly their precious cargo? Not many. And even if you offered Langston a job, he'd turn it down. He's learned his lesson. He's damned tired of being a pioneer and getting the stuffing kicked out of him. All he cares about nowadays is taking care of his family and bringing in a decent wage. Too many people are out of a job. If he took work with you, we'd all be out of a job."