by Beth Ciotta
Then he heard his mother’s voice. You shouldn’t seduce her at all.
Though everyone, including his mother, loved to take shots at his ego, he realized Mom might be right. This wasn’t about his turning up the charm and wearing down Grace’s resistance. It was about winning her trust. More experienced women—like Izzy—knew at a glance what he was about. Wild, fun, and fearless lovemaking, no strings attached.
Maybe Grace felt it, too. Maybe she didn’t want to respond. Yet Grace’s being a virgin seemed incongruous to her nature. How could such a strong, courageous, passionate woman not want to explore the tempting, thrilling realm of sex? Granted, he understood that not everyone slept around before marriage, particularly in 1923. But Grace didn’t want to get married—to anyone, she’d said. She couldn’t mean, though, that she expected to die a virgin, could she? Surely, she would have to sleep with someone, sometime.
So why not him?
He looked at her, his pulse hammering with the thrill of challenge.
Her brow was crinkled in thought. Oh, yeah, his wing-walking abilities remained in question. “I have incredible focus. You’ll see.”
She turned onto a dirt drive. “Yes, I will.”
She drove past a faded, two-story farmhouse—her house, he assumed—past a massive, ramshackle red barn, and straight into the heart of a lush green pasture. The Ford bumped and shimmied over the uneven ground, skidding to a halt three feet from what he knew must be Grace’s pride and joy. He nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of a working 1919 biplane. He felt his spirit separate from his body. The nose, wings, and topside of the fuselage were painted sunshine yellow. The tail, sides, and belly, crimson. Emblazoned across the vertical fin in bold, black script was Amazing Grace. He grinned, nearly tripping over his feet as he jumped from the car and gaped at a plane that would have made Waldo Pepper drool.
Forty-three-foot wing span. Wings, upper and lower, constructed of fabric and wood. An OX-5 engine famous for its hesitancy. A 1430-pound crate powered by a ninety-horsepower engine that operated on regular gas. A dinosaur.
He couldn’t wait to get her in the air.
Grace strode ahead of him, digging change from her trouser pocket and handing it to a stiff-backed, stern-faced boy who rounded the Jenny. Dressed in a checkered shirt and bib overalls, the freckle-faced kid looked all of nine or ten, yet he appeared ready and willing to tangle with anyone or anything foolish enough to get near her plane. “Thanks for watching her, Billy.”
“Bessie Mae wandered over a few minutes ago. I chased her off. Dumb cow. She’s always bustin’ out.”
“Any chance you forgot to close the gate after you fed her this morning?” Grace bit back a smile.
Billy studied the toes of his work boots. “Maybe.” Then he flashed her a crooked-toothed smile. “But I didn’t let her eat your wings!”
Another passage from Roscoe Turner’s biography. Cows liked the taste of the glue that coated the wings’ fabric. Roscoe had walked into a pasture one morning to find his Jenny stripped clean. Cows had chewed the cloth covering from the wings, damage that had taken days to repair. Rufus wondered if Grace had suffered a similar disaster. Hence, Billy the guard boy.
She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed. “I appreciate that, Billy. How’s your ma feeling?”
He shrugged. “Better, I guess. Least, that’s what she says. You know Ma.”
She nodded. “Stubborn as a mule.”
“Ornery as Bessie Mae,” Billy said, rolling his ocean-blue eyes.
“Speaking of Bessie Mae,” she said, “you’d best take her home before your pa finds her missing.”
Billy beamed up at her. “Same time tomorrow?”
She ruffled his curly red hair. “Same time.”
The boy hooted, then sprinted across the pasture toward Bessie Mae and a distant farm. Rufus wasn’t sure which stirred him more, the kid’s enthusiasm or Grace’s obvious affection for the boy. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask you for a ride.”
“He didn’t need to ask,” she said. “I give him one every evening.”
So he’s your “special man.” He grinned. “I’m envious.”
“You should be.” She pointed to the front cockpit. “Hop in.”
“Wait!” Izzy rushed forward with her camera. “We should commemorate this moment.”
“I hate that contraption,” Grace grumbled, but she struck a pose, one foot propped on the wing. Possessive. Confident. Defiant. He moved in next to her as though drawn. Her energy seeped through her skin and into his. He could feel it like a live wire. A buzz. A hum. A constant charge about her. Izzy fumbled with the camera, and he sensed Grace’s impatience. She didn’t like to stand still. She didn’t like to let life pass her by. Izzy finally snapped the picture . . .
A chill shot down his spine. The photograph. The sepia-toned, curly-edged photo that Bookman had found in the trunk. He and Grace had just struck the exact same pose in front of her plane.
He shivered, unsure what to do. Standing there, he could feel the life radiating from Grace. He’d felt it when he’d held the photo. So much life that it had traveled eighty years and still zapped him.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Was he the guy in that picture? Was any of this even real?
He trembled. It was all too overwhelming to consider. Forget what he’d told Bookman this morning. He no longer wanted to solve this mystery. Not right now, not even as the hooks sank into him, deeper and deeper. He simply wanted to enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime moment. The plane. Grace.
“You look a little pale.” He heard her voice from far away. It didn’t sound happy.
He focused his eyes on her. “I was getting into the zone,” he lied.
“What zone?”
“Uh, I like to meditate before I fly.”
“Oh, great,” she muttered.
“Horsefeathers!” Izzy said. “I’m out of film.”
“Damn,” Rufus and Grace said, then grinned at each other.
“Good thing I brought extra.” Izzy hustled back to the car.
Grace motioned him to climb aboard. “Quick. Before she makes us do another pose.”
Thankful for any excuse to concentrate and not let his mind loose, Rufus mounted the wing, careful to step on the ribs so his foot wouldn’t burst through the fabric. He climbed into the cockpit. She leaned against the side next to him. Last night she’d smelled like gasoline, probably from fueling the Jenny, but this morning the soft breeze carried the scent of her soap. He wondered if she took baths or showers. He imagined her standing from her bath in a curved, claw-footed tub, the early-morning sun hazy through gauzy curtains, her skin slick, curls moist . . . He’d walk in and . . .
He looked up at her. Goggles smushed against her hair. Freckles and dry flecks across her nose from sun and wind. Once they landed, she’d have marks across her forehead and cheeks from the goggles. Sweat glistened above her eyebrows as the morning heated up. As he heated up. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. She licked her lips. He looked up into her eyes.
Fear.
It stopped his heart. He’d never seen fear in her eyes. Never occurred to him that he would. What was she afraid of? Him? He turned his head to look at the panel in front of him. He couldn’t speak. In the background he heard Izzy flitting around, talking to herself, snapping more photos.
“Are you or aren’t you a pilot?” Grace snapped.
“I am.”
“Then why are you staring at the instruments with your eyes crossed?”
He focused on the cockpit. He’d told her that he had incredible focus. He’d better prove it.
Turned out, he didn’t even have to try. He instantly became captivated. He’d seen pictures. Seen a preserved Curtiss Wright JN4D at the Smithsonian. But he hadn’t sat in the cockpi
t, hadn’t experienced the real deal. Until now. He gaped at the stick and rudders. Stared at the Jenny’s dusty control panel. Two gauges. Two. His Cessna had a good twelve or more, not to mention the KMD 550, a multifunction display that featured a moving map. The Jenny had a tachometer and an altimeter. Period. He’d expected the simplicity, but actually seeing it made his stomach dip. “Where are the hands on your altimeter?”
“Broke off two years ago. Who needs them?”
“Anyone who wants to know his altitude.”
“I have eyes. I can see how high up I am.”
He gave an inward shudder. “Right.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m the pilot of this ship. Not you. I know my Jenny better than I know my own body.” She shifted and looked away. He saw the slight burn in her cheeks. He had a feeling that Grace LaRue hadn’t given much thought to her body before that moment, except to the muscle it took to maneuver the Jenny’s stick. Her innocence did something to his insides. Or was it the cocky way she tried to hide it? He wanted to reach out to brush her flushed cheek, tell her that she had nothing to fear. That physical attraction was a beautiful thing. Izzy’s tactless virgin revelation hadn’t come as a surprise. He’d guessed as much. The shocker had been Grace’s reaction. He’d felt her embarrassment. Her anger. Yet she’d held back, even invited Izzy along when she probably would have preferred to stuff her friend into a linen chest. Still, he knew that if he made even the slightest reference to her innocence, she’d sock him and tell him she knew everything there was to know and didn’t need some amnesic fool to tell her how life worked.
Oh, yeah. A simple seduction.
She turned back to him, studying him as though gauging the level of threat he posed. “I’m not scared,” she said as if reading his thoughts. “I read Izzy’s edition of the Kama Sutra when I was twelve. Interesting. But not worth the price of freedom.”
“It doesn’t—”
“That kiss wasn’t an invitation.”
“I didn’t think—”
“I get more thrills in one week than most women get in a lifetime.”
“Maybe—”
“I’m in charge up there,” she said, pointing upward. “What I say goes.”
“Grace—”
“Pop Pop didn’t raise me to be questioned by men who don’t know better.”
He knew what stoked her fire. “I don’t care that you’re a woman.”
Her eyes narrowed, but then she said, “Good. That’s settled.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“So, the instruments look familiar, do they?”
He cursed silently at her change of subject. Despite her obvious resentment about being a girl, she most definitely was all female. He only hoped he wouldn’t be sent home before he had the chance to prove it to her.
He surveyed the archaic equipment. At his feet were the two pedals that operated the rudder, left and right. Up and to his left was the throttle. Jutting up right of center was the control stick. He’d never flown a stick, but he knew it operated on the same concept as a yoke. He wrapped his right hand around the pole-like steering apparatus, imagining the Jenny’s nose pointing up into the blue sky.
“You know what to do with that thing?”
He couldn’t resist the challenge in her eyes. Nor the chance to impress her. He moved the stick left, then right. “Longitudinal axis. Makes the plane bank left or right.” He shifted it forward and back. “Lateral axis. Makes the nose go up or down.”
She raised an eyebrow, then said, “There’s a pair of goggles under the seat. Put them on.” Her grin returned as she raised her eyes to the sky. “We’re going for a ride.”
“THAT’S ALL RIGHT. I’ll just wait here,” Izzy said moodily. Then she climbed into the car.
She slouched back against the front seat of the Ford, shaded from the sun by the rag top. She dropped her camera onto the seat, pouting and ignoring the additional shots she could get in the steamy morning field. Instead, she slid on her tortoiseshell sunglasses and lit a Chesterfield. She blew out a heavy stream of smoke.
Something had to be done. She’d tried to ignore it earlier, tried to chalk up the energy zinging between Grace and Rufus as professional interest. That was before they’d sat side by side in the Ford. Before they’d gotten cozy on the Jenny. Professional interest, hooey. While they’d conferred, she’d taken a dozen snapshots, feeling more like a voyeur than a photographer. The energy she’d captured on film was raw sexual tension. Her favorite kind. The kind that made her knees wobbly and her arm hairs stand on end. Only this time, the sexual tension didn’t involve her.
She couldn’t stand by while Grace stole her man.
Maybe her friend was just afraid to get married and was looking for a diversion. Maybe if something threatened that marriage offer, she’d change her mind lickety-split.
Izzy dragged on the Chesterfield. Grace, who had no experience, didn’t know what was good for her. She did. She knew Mick was the man for Grace. Those two were tighter than Fat Maggie Mitchell’s corset. They’ve been a team since they were kids. They belonged together.
Like she and Rufus belonged together.
A vision of Roy popped into her head. Ugh. Not Roy. She had no interest in him. He was old. He was . . . wise. Not wise in an admirable way but in an annoying way that made her feel silly. She wasn’t silly. She was a girl who knew how to have fun and how to live life. If she died tomorrow, she’d have no regrets. So maybe she owed Roy a night out or something for bailing them out of jail. But Jimmy had been arrested, too, and their day of sailing together—a real man’s day out with slaps on the back in the sea spray—should settle the bill. Maybe Roy and Jimmy would become friends, and Roy would leave her alone.
She dismissed Roy and turned her focus back to Grace. Izzy had never dreamed in a million years that she’d have to compete with Grace for a man’s attention. Rufus would get bored with her friend soon enough. After all, they couldn’t fly all the time. Surely Grace’s lack of social charms would grow thin, and he would move on to a real woman. A woman who knew how to take care of her man.
But who knew how long that might take? Who knew when he’d get his memory back and go home?
Grace was afraid. Izzy determined that she’d have to help her friend realize where she belonged. She’d seduce Mick, which would make Grace jealous. Make her realize she had real feelings for him.
Izzy drummed her fingers on the dash. Mick hadn’t been so bad in the sack. Not the best but not the worst, either. The challenge would be in getting him there again. He had moon eyes for Grace. Always had. She herself had lured him away once before, but only for a night. After all, she hadn’t wanted him for a lifetime.
Unlike Rufus Sinclair.
If Grace hooked up with Mick, Izzy knew she’d have Rufus in the bag.
Then they’d all live happily ever after.
She took a soothing drag, her eyes on the plane as she blew out the smoke. “Brilliant. If I do say so myself.”
Chapter Eleven
THE WALL OF air shoved his breath down his throat.
Rufus knew the Jenny pushed only seventy-five miles per hour, yet it felt twice that in the open cockpit. His borrowed goggles kept his eyelids from peeling back into his head.
What a rush!
Grace tapped him on the shoulder, shouting over the deafening roar of the propeller. “Safety belt on?”
He nodded, fidgeting with anxious energy. Yes! She was going to try something. Loops? Spins? Rolls? He’d bet she had some doozies in her repertoire. She was, after all, Amazing Grace.
She gunned the motor, the thunderous propeller roaring louder, only feet in front of him. He checked his necktie, making sure it was still tucked into his shirt. Who wore a tie to go flying? Then again, for the residents of Laguna Vista, every trip down the driveway s
eemed an excuse to dress up. He gripped the seat with excitement as Grace pulled the nose higher and higher. They strained toward the sun until the plane arched, flying on its back.
He hung upside down, the green earth buzzing by in a blur.
Then she brought the nose up again as they slid down and upright, ending at the same altitude and speed as when they’d begun.
His heart hammered. Oh, yeah. Major head rush. The loop shamed any theme park roller coaster.
Before he could catch his breath, she climbed again. Higher. Higher. Beyond the propeller, nothing but blue sky, up, up into the stratosphere. He recalled the end of The Right Stuff, when Chuck Yeager pushed his NF-104A training jet so high into the sky, he’d seen stars on a sunny day. Rufus quaked with excitement and the fierce vibrations of the Jenny. They didn’t make it quite as far as Chuck had before starting to level off. For a second they felt suspended, floating. Then the nose angled down. The Jenny hurtled toward the earth. Faster. Closer.
A death dive.
His breath stalled. He prayed the Jenny wouldn’t do the same.
Just when he was sure they were going to crash and burn, Grace leveled off, then swept up to regain altitude. Good thing. Saved him from puking all over the cockpit. Not the way to impress Grace. She circled the pasture at a steady altitude. His stomach leveled out. He’d never felt more awake or alive. His whole body hummed.
He understood what she meant about getting her thrills. How was a man supposed to compete with this?
She tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned.
“You okay?”
He didn’t hear her so much as read her lips. He gave her the thumbs up, then punched both fists to the sky. “Whoo-hoo!”
She rolled her eyes. “Take . . . stick!”