by Beth Ciotta
“It’s Jimmy.”
He sank down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks. “Come in.”
Eyes bright and joints loose, the youngest Van Buren strolled in carrying a stocked tray.
Rufus tried not to squint at the glow of youth. “I thought I might have to find a way to bail you and Izzy out of jail this morning.”
“Naw. Roy sprang us last night.”
The news caught him by surprise. Izzy must have passed out as soon as they’d come home—otherwise why hadn’t she tried to crawl into his bed? He’d expected no less. He noticed then that James was scanning the room. Rufus followed his gaze. “What?”
“I thought I heard . . .” He shook his blond head, then set the tray on the nightstand. Looking as if he’d done it a thousand times, he cracked open two eggs, stirred them into a tall glass of tomato juice, and topped the drink with three dashes of hot sauce.
Rufus grimaced at the concoction James thrust at him.
“Lincoln set out fresh towels and clothes for you in the master bathroom,” his host said. “He’s drawing your bath as we speak.”
Rufus pulled the sweat-soaked undershirt over his head. “Thanks.” He willed James to go away. Instead, the kid stood firm, patiently offering him the hangover remedy. Waiting for him to drink it. Great. He obliged with a scrunched nose, then passed back the empty glass. He tried not to gag. “What doesn’t kill you . . .”
James grinned. “That’s what Dad always says.”
He groaned. James had a knack for making him feel ancient. Of course, there was a time, Rufus recalled, when he would’ve rolled out of bed after a hard night of drinking, eaten a giant plate of eggs and bacon, and set out looking as spry as this kid. Not anymore.
James picked up the tray, lips twitching as he gave him a once-over, then turned for the door. “Breakfast is in the dining room. Eight-thirty-ish. Take your time.”
As if he needed all the time he could get to make himself presentable. Yet he didn’t believe the boy had meant to insult him. He was simply young, not mean. “Hey, Jimmy.” He gestured to the tray, the empty glass. “Why you? Why not the butler?”
“Lincoln’s a teetotaler.” He mimed sipping, stiff pinky raised. “I’ve lived with Jonas and Izzy all my life. I’ve doctored more hangovers than I’ve lost card games.”
Just as he’d thought. A sympathetic heart. Maybe the boy didn’t like work, and maybe he had a thing for gambling and easy women. But that didn’t make him bad. Rufus thought about yesterday, when he’d locked himself in the bathroom to come to terms with his time travel. It had been James who had checked to see if he was all right. Unlike Jonas and Izzy, James gave a thought to someone besides himself. He was genuinely nice. No wonder Bookman talked with him so much. Maybe he should do the same. What if James was the key? At the very least, the kid would have answers to some immediate questions.
Rufus gestured to an empty chair. “Got a minute? Things are happening so fast. I have a few questions.”
“Sure.” James balanced the tray on the bureau, then slouched in a chair. His sparkling eyes hinted that he had questions of his own. “Shoot.”
“Who’s Tuck Cagney?”
“An acrobatic pilot.”
“What did he do to Grace?”
“Spoke ill of her to a reporter.”
Rufus massaged his throbbing temples. “Yes, I know. But what did he say? What did he accuse her of?”
“It was in the interview.”
“I didn’t read the interview.”
James pursed his lips. “It’s been the talk of the town for weeks.”
Why was the boy being so vague? Then it hit him. James had overheard him talking on his cell phone—twice—and probably had concluded he talked to himself. Or worse, had one-sided conversations with invisible people. Then there was the amnesia thing . . .
Rufus caught sight of himself in the mirror hanging beside the armoire. Perched on the edge of the bed in nothing but Jonas’s boxers, his hair sticking up every which way, bloodshot eyes, half-naked body glistening with sweat (the result of his hangover and the room’s stifling temperature). He had to confess, he looked a little left of center. He didn’t want James to think of him as a threat to Izzy or Grace, or the boy might clam up on him. Maybe if he gave him something . . .
He offered his friendliest smile. “I don’t think I’m from around here.”
James leaned forward. “You remember where you’re from?”
“Not exactly.” Stick as close to the truth as possible. Avoid future slip-ups. “New York, maybe.”
“That would account for your accent. Any idea why you’re in Atlantic City?”
“No.” Absolute truth. He took a deep breath, let it out. “Once in a while things pop into my head—visions, small connections—but I have no real basis to go on. Like, I think I’m a pilot.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.” He sounded like Bookman. No wonder those two got along.
“The name Tuck Cagney rings a distant bell,” Rufus said. “I think I might know him.”
James tapped his fingers on his knee. “That would make sense if you’re a pilot. Aviation is a small world. But then, wouldn’t you know Grace? Does she ring any bells?”
Rufus thought back on that kiss. She rang bells all right. “I’m meeting with her this morning,” he said, avoiding the direct question. “She asked me to partner with her.”
James scratched his head. “And you agreed?”
“Any reason I shouldn’t?”
“You really are oblivious to that interview.”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.” When James hesitated, he added, “I don’t believe everything I hear. Or read.”
“Wise man.”
He grinned. “Comes with age.”
James grinned back. “Tuck Cagney accused Grace of being an inferior pilot.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“She lost control of the plane during a stunt. Tuck, her partner at the time, was injured.”
Uh-oh. “How badly?”
“His legs were broken.”
“Both of them?”
James nodded. “Though I understand they’re healing. More than I can say for his eye.”
Rufus swallowed. “What’s wrong with his eye?”
“It’s not there anymore. Poked out in the accident.” He clucked his tongue. “Too bad. Although Izzy said some women find eye patches intriguing. Of course, Izzy has a thing for pirates and rumrunners.”
Izzy has a thing for one-eyed trouser snakes. Rufus stared down at his toes. Ten of them. Ten fingers, too. And two arms, two legs, and two eyes. He thought of Tuck Cagney and groaned. “What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“Do you think Grace is an inferior pilot?”
“I’ve been up with her dozens of times. Izzy dozens more. Jonas, our older brother, isn’t keen on flying. Even so, he’s no stranger to Grace’s cockpit.”
He frowned. “That so?”
“We don’t trust our lives to inferior pilots.” James wiggled his eyebrows. “We’ve got a lot of living to do.”
Rufus shivered despite the roasting temperature. James and his siblings had five years to cram in “a lot of living.” He stared at the boy, trying to think of him as a ghost. Maybe it would be easier if he thought of them all as ghosts.
“Then there’s her nickname,” James said. “Amazing Grace. Granted, her Pop Pop gave her the name when she started flying, but it stuck with the public for a reason.”
“Good point,” Rufus mumbled, distracted by a sudden image of Jonas Van Buren lowering himself into Grace’s cockpit. Jonas, a man renowned for boinking anything in a skirt. Only, Grace didn’t wear skirts. A cheering thought. “Who’s Pop Pop? Grace mention
ed him last night.”
“Grace’s grandfather, Claude LaRue. He raised her, then passed on last year. She was having a hard time letting go, so she hit the road and joined the air circus.”
“What about her parents?”
“Died when she was a kid.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Nope. Just Grace.”
Rufus shifted, something tightening in his chest. “So, what? She’s alone?” It explained her larger-than-life, big, bad, I-can-take-care-of-myself routine. If she didn’t look out for herself, who would?
“She has us. Mick. We’re as good as family. Not that it’s any of your business. So,” James said, obviously ready to move on. “You might be a pilot, and you might be from New York. Any other clues as to who you might be?”
What the hell? What could it hurt? It was easier to hide in a low-tech world. “Last night in my haze, I heard a name in my thoughts. Felt one of those little connections. I think my name is Rufus. Rufus Sinclair.”
James cocked his head, then smiled. “Izzy will be disappointed. She was fond of Julius Caesar.”
Exactly. Ace he could tolerate. Julius Caesar? No way. He sat up straighter. Taking control felt good. He felt more like himself.
“Any other epiphanies?” James asked.
He tapped one temple. “I’m working on it.”
“Uh-huh.” James studied him with pursed lips, then stood. His affable cocker spaniel eyes hardened. “The only reason I haven’t tossed you out on your ear is because Izzy won’t let me. She likes you. I’m beginning to like you myself. But know this—if you hurt my sister, I’ll hurt you. Bad. Same goes for Grace. Although . . .”
“Although what?”
“If you hurt Grace, I probably won’t be able to hurt you. You’ll already be dead. Mick’s not as nice as I am. Tuck’s lucky he got off as easily as he did.”
“Mick retaliated against an injured man?”
“Two days after Tuck’s interview ran, incriminating photos of him with two floozies hit all the major tabloids.” James grinned. “His wife filed for divorce.”
“You think Mahoney had something to do with those photos?”
“Even though Tuck was a womanizer, he worshiped his wife. The message was clear. Mess with Grace, I mess with you.”
Rufus clenched his jaw. A vein pulsed at the base of his throat. “So Grace and Mick are an item.” Just as he’d thought. Not that he cared.
So why the pang in his gut?
“They have a history,” James said, making for the door. “And a future, if Izzy isn’t exaggerating.”
The vein pulsed harder. “Meaning?”
“Mick proposed to Grace last night. Which reminds me. I think Roy has the same intentions with Izzy.” Hand on the doorknob, he paused and looked at Rufus. “Which means if you’re after something, you’d better beware of me, Mick and Roy.” He winked. “Wing-walking should be a cinch.”
Chapter Nine
WHERE WAS JULIUS? What was taking him so long? Izzy drummed her cropped red nails on the lacy tablecloth, cursing the hot sun pouring through the window and the hellish throbbing in her head as Roy and James blabbered about sailboats and hoists and jibs. Her stomach pitched every time Roy threw a glance her way. Why wouldn’t he leave?
Bad enough he’d been the one to spring them from the clink. He’d insisted on driving them home, insisted on coming inside to fix her a cup of tea before bed. But then he’d kept her up until dawn with his stories about Paris, kept her from crawling into Julius’s bed. Somewhere between designer runways and the Louvre she’d fallen asleep on the chaise. For a stuffy old candy maker, he sure knew a lot about fashion and art. And sailing.
“I was thinking about buying a yacht myself,” James said.
“You don’t know how to drive a boat,” Izzy said.
“Sail a boat,” James corrected. “And so what? I can learn.”
“I’d be happy to teach you,” Roy said.
James dropped his pineapple Danish. “When?”
Roy shrugged. “How about today?”
“Now you’re hitting on all six!” James said.
Roy smiled at her. “I’d be pleased if you’d join us, Isadora.”
Her stomach pitched again. Just then Julius strolled in. Saved! She beamed at him. Bathed and shaved, he looked a hell of a lot tastier than her breakfast. He wore brown and white saddle shoes, nutty cream trousers, brown belt, starched white shirt, and a brown and white striped tie. With the aid of Jonas’s superb wardrobe, he cut a dashing figure. She sighed as the throbbing shifted from her head to her nether region.
James cleared his throat. “Rufus, this is Roy Tadmucker. Roy, Rufus Sinclair.”
Izzy stared wide-eyed as Roy stood and shook their guest’s hand. Rufus Sinclair? She motioned Julius into the seat next to her. Leaning close, she whispered, “You remembered your name?” Her face fell. “Does that mean you’re going home?”
“I remembered my name. I think I’m from New York. Other than that I’m clueless.”
“Oh.” She thought a second, then smiled. “Oh! Then nothing’s changed.”
He reached for the toast. “Not unless you want to get rid of me.”
She squeezed his biceps with both hands. “Not a chance.”
His muscle tightened, and he looked across the table at Roy. Roy watched her hands. His eyes revealed nothing, but she sensed he didn’t like her familiarity with Julius. No, Rufus.
She looked at Rufus, cringing at his sidelong glare at her. Sheesh, he was cranky in the morning. Maybe he had a hangover. She sympathized. Poor baby. She longed to make him ache somewhere other than his head.
She did have some manners, however. She let go of his arm and curled her fingers into her thighs. So much for Cleopatra.
Rufus. Rufus Sinclair. Mrs. Rufus Sinclair. A name with character. A fancy name. Could he be of the Westchester Sinclairs? Oh, Daddy would be thrilled! But she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to jog his memory. What if he was married? If he couldn’t remember, then did it really count? She wanted him to be hers for as long as possible.
She couldn’t help herself. Ignoring Roy’s watchful gaze, she reached under the table to squeeze Rufus’s thigh.
He swatted her away.
She giggled. Before losing herself last night in the slow dance with Elroy, she’d seen Rufus welcome the other girls’ attentions. He’d allowed Velma’s hand inside his shirt, as though petting was something he did every night. He wasn’t the prude he was playing with her. He was showing her respect in front of her family and friends. But she didn’t want his respect. She wanted to slide against his naked body. She needed to get him alone.
James frowned at her, then turned to Rufus. “Roy invited Izzy and me out for a sail. Wanna come?”
“He can’t,” she said, tearing the crust from her toast. “We’re going shopping.”
“Actually,” Rufus said, reaching for the sterling silver coffee carafe, “I’m going flying.”
She blinked at him. “With whom?”
“Who do you think, dumb Dora?” James shoved back from the table and stood. “You about ready, Roy?”
Roy wiped his mouth and placed his napkin neatly on the table. “Absolutely. Isadora?” He smiled. “It’s a beautiful day.”
She batted her lashes, flashed a cheeky grin. “Gee, I’d love to, but as I said, we’re going shopping.”
Rufus looked up at James. “Don’t you have to work?”
Isadora snorted. “You sound like Daddy.”
James threw Rufus one of his I-told-you-so looks, then nudged Roy. “Save me, will you?”
Roy chuckled. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Sinclair. Enjoy your day, Isadora.”
“Wait,” Rufus said.
“Toodles!” she sai
d, fluttering her fingers. “Have fun.”
Roy followed James out.
“Finally,” she said when they were gone, her queasiness settling.
“Don’t you think you were a little rude to Roy?” Rufus asked.
“Oh, he doesn’t care,” she said. Although he had looked disappointed. Well, she couldn’t help that. Just because they’d talked Paris into the wee hours didn’t mean they were a couple.
He nibbled at his dry toast. “You’re kidding, right?”
“About what?”
“About Roy. He cares. It’s written all over his face.”
“I can’t help it if he’s got the hots for me. All men have the hots for me. It’s a gift.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are we talking about Roy? Let’s talk about you. How are you feeling?”
“Hung over.”
“Me, too.” Something in common. Like their love of flirting. She cringed as she recalled seeing Rufus with Grace. “Mick’s hooch packs a punch.”
“I’ll say.”
She thought about the way he’d refused to dance with her, only to turn around and dance with Grace. Thought about the way he’d spirited Grace out of The Gentle Lamb without even looking to see if she herself was all right. “Sometimes it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.”
He merely raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee.
“I spent the night in jail,” she said, hoping to inspire a little guilt.
His other eyebrow rose. “James said Roy posted bail.”
Not the reaction for which she’d hoped. “He did. But still, I spent at least an hour cooped up in a cold, desolate cell. And I broke the heel of my favorite shoes. I need to buy a new pair.”
“You could have the heel repaired,” he said, reaching for more toast. “If you’re fond of something and it breaks, you should try to fix it before tossing it out and shopping for new.”
She blinked at him. Were they still talking about shoes? Was he lecturing her on wasting money? Then she remembered their discussion last night. The one before she’d hit the floor with Elroy. He’d questioned her about her life, which had led to talk of her broken marriages. Was he judging her now, in the sober light of day?