by Anne Stuart
"Sometimes you have to take one to get the other," Constance said breezily. "That's what marriage is all about."
"Which is why I probably will end up an old maid," Angela said gloomily. "I'm not willing to make that bargain. You don't have to, either, you know. Why don't you take some designing courses? You've got such talent. Wouldn't you like to be designing dresses for people? For Hollywood stars," she added, seeing Constance's moue of distaste.
"Heavens, no. I make clothes because I can't afford to have them made. If I had enough money I'd never touch a sewing machine again. Besides, I don't want to be a dressmaker to the stars. I have every intention of being a star."
Angela had heard this too many times over the last seven years to be surprised. "Well, then, why don't you get involved with the local theater? Take some acting courses?"
Constance bestowed a kindly look upon Angela, shaking her head at her sister's obvious naiveté. "I don't want to be an actress, Angela," she said simply. "I want to be a star."
There was nothing Angela could say to that, and it was too dreary a day to argue. Yesterday's perfect weather had given way to clouds and gloom, with the faint threat of rain lingering overhead. "All right, Joan Crawford," she said, ruffling her sister's perfect hair. "Dream on. I'm going in to work."
"But I need the car!" Constance carefully smoothed her hair back down. "Don't be such a killjoy, darling. I haven't had a chance to go anywhere in weeks! You can walk to the hangar."
Angela hadn't bothered to argue. She'd always had a hard time saying no to Constance, and today wasn't any different. Besides, the walk to the hangar was just what she needed. The peace and quiet of the deserted building was a haven she was looking forward to. Even Sparks seldom showed up on a Sunday when the weather wasn't fit for flying. She'd have the place to herself, and she could begin to figure out where in heaven's name she was going to find herself a decent mechanic.
The sliding metal door on the west side of the hangar was open, the padlock dangling uselessly. She stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. Someone had used a key, and the only person she'd entrusted one to was Sparks. But she knew without looking that it wasn't Sparks rattling around inside the hangar. For a moment she was sorely tempted to turn around and walk back home.
A light mist had begun to fall, a mist that could easily turn into a drenching rainstorm. And if she started out her working relationship with Jack Clancy by running away, it was going to set a precedent that would be hard to live down.
The delicious smell of coffee filled the air, mixing with the scent of gasoline and the fresh ozone of the spring rain. She didn't see Clancy anywhere, but that meant nothing. He had to be somewhere in the old building.
He was, all right. Sitting at her desk, booted feet propped up on the littered surface, drinking a mug of coffee. From her mug.
"I'm glad to see you've made yourself at home," she said when he looked up at her out of those lazy bedroom eyes.
"I thought you'd appreciate it," he said, making no effort to get up and move out of her seat. "You look more like a pilot today," he added, a note of approval in his voice. "You going up?"
"Not in this rain. I've got work to do."
"Chicken."
She slopped some of the coffee she'd been pouring. "You're calling me a chicken?" she demanded, whirling around. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Easy, Red," he said. "No need to fly into a fit. If a little rain scares you, far be it from me to tease you about it. Besides, your planes aren't fit to fly."
She didn't know what to start screaming about first. Taking a deep breath, she took the most important. "What do you mean, my planes aren't fit to fly?"
"Oh, they look pretty enough. And on first glance they seem in good shape. But the Avian's got a cracked fuel line. The Vega's altimeter is on the blink, and the Percival's got a wicked shimmy. I can take care of the fuel line, even replace the altimeter, but the Percival's beyond me. You need a mechanic, lady. And if you're going to make a go of this business, you need the best."
"How do you know about the planes?"
"Simple. I took them out. Not the Avian, of course. I checked them over first, like any wet-behind-the-ears pilot would do. The Vega's a sweet little thing, plenty of pep, and she handles well. Not bad for a single-engine. The Percival's sluggish and she handles like a barge, but maybe if someone could take care of the shimmy she might prove to be decent."
"You'd be flying the Percival," Angela snapped. "If you're not up to it, I can always find someone who's capable."
"Where?" he shot back. "You'd be damned lucky to get anyone to come here, what with Charlie Olker riding your tail. Don't look so outraged—Sparks and I are old friends. Of course he'd tell me what was going on. Listen, Red, let's get a few things clear. I said I'd work for you, and I will. And if a plane's capable of being flown, I'm the best there is to fly it. But I'm not going out with faulty equipment because you're too cheap to hire a decent mechanic."
"I'll hire the first good mechanic I can find. There happens to be a shortage of them, especially considering what Charlie Olker's willing to pay. And don't call me Red!"
"Why not?"
"My hair isn't red." It was a stupid conversation, when she'd rather talk about airplanes, but he had the annoying ability to distract her.
He cocked his head to one side. "I guess it isn't. Not really. Still, you've got the soul of a redhead, Angela Hogan. Fiery temper and all. You want a mechanic, we'll find you a mechanic."
"How do you plan to do that, Mr. Know-it-all?" She took a deep drink of her coffee and almost threw the rest of the mug at him. It was ten times stronger than she usually made it and infuriatingly better.
"You've only known me a few hours, Red," he said, dropping his boots off her desk and standing. She'd forgotten how tall he was, and it took all her fierce determination not to back up when he started toward her. "You'll find that there's no overestimating my capabilities. What I want, I get."
He was too close to her, she thought, struggling for breath. Too close, and he wasn't even in touching distance. "Good for you," she managed. "Get me a mechanic."
She didn't know what that look in his dark eyes signified. It looked a little like approval, a little like amusement. And uncomfortably tinged with a slumberous, latent desire. And then it was gone.
"I'll find you a mechanic," he said. "But you'll have to do the getting." He took one step closer, and Angela had the odd feeling that her throat was going to close up. "Remember one thing, Red. You've got me. But on my terms." He stepped away. "I'll be working on the Avian." And he headed out into the hangar, whistling a jaunty little tune.
And Angela Hogan, noted for her cool head and iron self-control, slammed her office door after him, shattering the smoked-glass window.
Chapter Three
"What happened to the door?" Sparks asked, ducking inside Angela's office, raindrops glistening on the top of his wiry blond hair.
Angela looked up and glared, her displeasure with Clancy spreading to all the males of the species. "What are you doing here? It's Sunday and we don't have any customers."
"I knew Clancy would be here, and I thought I'd show him around a bit."
"You don't have to show that man anything," she said bitterly, watching as Sparks helped himself to a cup of coffee. "He's made himself right at home. If I'd known I was going to get a nursemaid, I would have thought twice about hiring him."
"Sure, Angela," Sparks said easily, not fooled. He took a deep drink from the mug. "Your coffees improved."
"Get out of here," she snarled. "I have work to do."
"Yes, ma'am." He backed away, grinning. "Want me to fix your door?"
"I want you to leave me alone."
"Yes, ma'am," he said again. "Great coffee."
She hurled her empty mug at him, not even wincing as it shattered on the cement floor outside her office. Sparks moved then, hastily, and Angela had the faint regret that there wasn't anything more she could throw and
break. And that she didn't have Clancy as a target.
Leaning back, she turned on the cathedral-style radio, tuning past all the fire-and-brimstone preachers, past Father Charles Coughlin and his anti-F.D.R. tirades, past opera and comedy skits and family dramas, finally settling on something smooth and soothing, Benny Goodman's big band playing "Sing Sing Sing." She settled back with a frustrated sigh and began to concentrate on the stack of bills, not yet overdue, but close to it.
*
"You ready for dinner, Angie?" Sparks poked his head inside her office door hours later with the wary air of a man who rightfully believes he might have something thrown at him.
She stretched, looking around her. "Is it that late? Heavens, I'm tired. Do you think Rosa's made any lasagna tonight?"
Sensing all was well, Sparks straightened up and strode in, dropping down in the chair opposite her. "If she hasn't, all you have to do is ask. She'd do anything for you, and you know it."
"I didn't pay for little Tony to go to college."
"No, but you talked to the right people, helped get him in there and made arrangements for the scholarship. People like the Baldinos don't forget things like that."
"Little Tony earned that scholarship."
"Sure, but do you think he would have gotten it without your help?" Sparks shook his head. "What's wrong with taking credit for a good deed?"
Angela busied herself turning off the radio in the midst of Jack Benny. "I didn't do it for credit, Sparks. I just hate to see the waste of a good mind."
"Whereas I," Clancy said, lounging in the doorway, "hate to see the waste of a good woman. I can't decide, Red, whether I like you in pants or in a dress. Guess you haven't decided whether you want to be one of the boys or not."
She kept herself from breaking the knob off the radio and hurling it at him, managing a serene smile before she turned around. "I've decided," she said coolly. "You just aren't in any position to know what that decision is."
"Come on, now," Sparks said. "Why don't you two kiss and make up? We're all going over to Tony's for a nice spaghetti dinner and a couple of rounds of drinks. If you two keep arguing, I'm going to lose my appetite."
"You mean he's going?" Angela demanded.
Clancy grinned. "I live there."
"At Tony's? Where, under the bar?"
"You're getting me confused with your other pilot. Anyone with any sense would have known better than to hire a deadbeat like Robert Bellamy. And I bet you pride yourself on being a good judge of character."
Angela gritted her teeth. "I am. The fact of the matter is, I didn't have any choice at the time. Just as I don't have with you, Mr. Clancy. I simply have to grin and bear it."
He nodded. "Let's see a little more of that smile, Red."
"Tony's got a couple of rooms upstairs that he rents out," Sparks intervened quickly, before they could start in on each other again. "He was glad to let Jack have them."
"Great," Angela said. "Now I don't even have Tony's to go to."
"You gonna let me drive you away, Angel?" Clancy taunted lightly.
A tense silence filled the room. "Don't call me Red," she said. "And don't call me Angel."
"I'll admit, that one doesn't suit you in the slightest. But it tickles my sense of the absurd. Come on, Miss Hogan. Let's get out of here and figure out what we're going to do about a mechanic."
She could have refused. Told them Constance was due back, and that they always ate Sunday supper together. But Sparks would know it was a lie and he was already looking at her with too much concern beneath those bushy eyebrows. Besides, the sooner she managed to put Jack Clancy firmly in his place, the better.
"Okay," she said, pushing back a wisp of hair that had escaped from the rubber band she used to keep it out of her face. "As long as no one tries to pay for my dinner."
"Hell, no, Angel," Clancy drawled. "You can treat me."
Tony's Bar and Grille had to be Angela's most favorite place on earth. From the warm welcome of the Baldinos, to the easy-going camaraderie of the other patrons, two-thirds of whom were either pilots or somehow involved in aviation, from the smell of beer and whiskey and the strong, heavenly scents of garlic and tomatoes, to the smoke and noise and steady sound of music from Tony's prize possession, a brand-new jukebox, the whole place seemed more like home to her than any of the houses she'd ever lived in, both plain and fancy.
Even Clancy's presence couldn't diminish her pleasure. As she allowed herself to get cosseted by Mama Rosa, bussed by Tony and slapped on the back by half a dozen men, she felt the warm glow spread over her. By the time she got settled in her favorite booth, a foamy glass of beer in her hand, a plate of lasagna in front of her, she was feeling very mellow, indeed. Until she glanced over at the bar and saw Clancy deep in conversation with a thin, bespectacled man who'd never seen the inside of a cockpit.
She put her fork down, frowning.
"What's the matter, Angie?" Sparks asked over his own mug of beer, smart enough never to dare call her Angel.
"What's Clancy doing with Jefferson? He's Olker's man, or always has been. I don't like my pilots messing with him."
"He's left Olker, haven't you heard? He's working with a bank now. You know what a cheapskate Olker is. I guess he felt he's making so much money he doesn't need an accountant, and word has it that Jefferson's bearing a grudge. I'm guessing that Jack is just checking things out."
"I don't trust him."
"Listen, Angie, Clancy's one of the swellest guys I've ever known. If you'd just give him a chance..."
"I mean Jefferson," Angela said irritably. "I trust Clancy. As far as I need to, that is. I don't know if I trust anyone completely."
"What about me?"
She turned to look at him, at his crazy Irishman's face, the bushy eyebrows, warm blue eyes, cheerful mouth and burly, barrel-chested body. "I trust you, Sparks," she said softly, with real affection. "You're the brother I never had."
She was so absorbed with Clancy over at the bar that she almost missed the faint shadow that darkened Sparks’ eyes for a moment. But when she looked closer it was gone, vanished, and she told herself she'd only imagined it.
When Clancy dropped down in the booth across from her, he was carrying his own half-empty beer and a plate of lasagna. He took another gulp of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and caught her fastidious gaze. "Got your mechanic," he said. And he dug into his lasagna.
*
Jack Clancy wasn't used to experiencing the intense, sophisticated pleasure of driving a woman crazy. But when it came to a stuck-up broad like Angela Hogan, he simply couldn't resist. He could feel her sharp blue eyes on him, watching as he calmly, slowly ate his lasagna, waiting to pounce on him with more questions. He had to be very careful not to wait too long before shoving another forkful of the delicious stuff in his mouth. He wasn't doing justice to Rosa's wonderful cooking, but he'd make up for it later. He'd already learned he could come down the back way and raid Rosa's kitchen at all hours, with her maternal blessing. For now he was content to wolf down the food and make Angela Hogan wait for the news she so desperately needed to hear.
He'd already figured out she was someone who prided herself on her self-control. He'd also figured out some of the best ways to make her lose it, and he couldn't resist experimenting. He wasn't going to enjoy his tenure at Hogan's Air Freight, and he knew it. His boss lady had the ability to get under his skin, instantly, just as he was trying to get under hers. And it wasn't because she was a woman. He'd worked for women before; some of the best pilots he'd ever met were women. He just had a problem with Angela.
Maybe it was because he'd seen her in that damned sexy dress first, got a view of her endless legs, her boyish body with its understated curves. If he'd only seen her in flight overalls, he probably would have never thought about what lay behind the baggy cotton.
But now, every time he looked at her, he was remembering those legs of hers and thinking about what they'd feel like, wrapped around
him.
He started to choke on the last forkful of lasagna. He quickly swallowed, washing it down with a huge gulp of beer, and managed a deliberate belch for the lady's edification.
He had to grant it to her—she didn't even flinch. Probably figured he was just living up to his reputation, he thought, reaching for his pack of Luckies, politely offering her one.
"Are you quite finished?" she asked in an icy voice, ignoring his gesture.
He took his time lighting the cigarette, glancing up at her through the match flame. He shook it out, leaning back, his gaze never leaving hers. "Finished," he said. "Unless you want to wait till I have dessert and coffee."
"I'll strangle you first," she said flatly. "What mechanic?"
"Yeah, Jack, what mechanic?" Sparks echoed. "I've been checking around for weeks, putting out the word, and I haven't heard a thing."
"I guess it's your legwork that's paid off, then," Clancy said. "Though it's not a direct offer, it's more along the lines of a possibility."
"I'll take anything I can get," Angela said. "Who, what, where?"
"Will Parsons."
"Who's he?" Angela questioned.
"I've heard of him," Sparks said slowly. "Wasn't he with Lockheed out in California?"
"For a while. He ran into a bit of trouble. I guess he's a drinker."
"I don't need another lush on the payroll," Angela snapped.
"You need what you can get. When Will's sober, he's supposed to be one of the best in the business—a genius with machinery. He knows the Wasp engine inside and out, practically designed them, and, lady, you have nothing but Wasp engines in varying states of disrepair. The least we can do is go see the man, see if he's in any shape worth salvaging."
Angela's face was a study in dismay. "What do you mean by that?"
"He hasn't been working the past few years. Been bumming around the country, riding the rails. He was last seen in a shanty town outside of Albany, New York. Or at least, that's what the word is."