by Anne Stuart
"The duration of what?"
"You really like things written in blood, don't you, Red? The duration of your little war with Charlie Olker. I'm an old hand at trench warfare. Though I tell you, his cigars smell too much like mustard gas for my state of mind."
She looked at him for a moment, rapidly recalculating his age. She would have thought he'd been too young to have fought in the war to end all wars, but clearly she was wrong. Maybe that accounted for the bleak expression in the back of his dark eyes when he thought no one was looking, an expression she'd seen on too many pilots who'd seen action over Germany.
"I'd appreciate your help," she said gravely.
He grinned. "No, you wouldn't. You're too proud to appreciate anyone's help. But you'll accept it because you're too smart to turn it down, even if it chokes you. Don't worry about it, Red. Think of it as castor oil. Nasty when it goes down, but ultimately good for you."
Sparks shifted in the doorway. "Are you two still going to Albany?"
"I'm going," Angela said. "I don't suppose you were able to get any of my poor broken birds in decent enough shape to fly?".
"Just the Percival, and we need that if we're going to complete our contract with Hudson Brothers."
"We're going to complete our contract," she said. "There's nothing Charlie Olker would like better than to get that away from us." She glanced at Clancy. "Are you still planning to come with me?"
"You aren't going to be able to find him without me," Clancy replied, still slouched in the chair.
"Well, then, let's go. You're going to have to step on it if you want to have time to change before we make the train."
"I don't." He glanced down at his leather jacket, baggy khakis and rough cotton shirt. "You think I'm going to wear a suit and tie to go rummaging through a shanty town? Sorry, Angel. For one thing, I don't own a suit. For another, even if I did, I would have thrown it out years ago. Ties make me feel like I'm being strangled." He let his gaze run over her, lingering a little too long. "And if I were you, I'd change out of that little frock you're wearing. Silk stockings and high heels aren't made for wading through trash."
"I'll wear what I'm wearing," she snapped, knowing he was right. He had an irritating habit of being right far too often.
"So will I."
Stalemate. "We'd better get a move on, then. I've got reserved seats, but it doesn't hurt to be too careful."
Clancy rose, stretching lazily. "That's the difference between you and me. I'm always just careful enough."
"That's arguable."
"We have a long ride to Albany. We can fight all the way."
"Terrific," Angela said. She had the gloomy conviction they were going to do exactly that.
*
Clancy settled into his window seat, a stack of magazines in his lap, a half dozen truly estimable Cuban cigars inside his flight jacket. Angela was sitting across from him, slender ankles crossed demurely enough, her hands holding the latest issue of Colliers. He'd spied on her choice of reading material, noting with approval that she'd bought the latest edition of Aviator and Air Travel along with her ladies' magazine. He'd chosen Black Book Detective Magazine, complete with a lurid cover of a buxom blonde being menaced by an Oriental villain, and topped it off with the latest editions of Thrilling Western Stories and Secret Agent Detective Mysteries. It was with a fair amount of relief that he noticed the aristocratic Miss Hogan had purchased a copy of Western Love Stories and the issue of Sky Devils he'd hesitated over. In his fondness for yellow journalism, he avoided things like Sky Fighters Magazine and the like. Most of the writers knew nothing about planes, and the inaccuracies drove him crazy. The writers probably didn't know a thing about the West or secret agents, either, but at least he was equally ignorant and he could read with a fair amount of pleasure.
He glanced over at Angela, who was holding her copy of Western Love Stories flat against her slender thighs in the vain hope that he wouldn't notice what she was reading. Were the women who wrote about true love on the range equally ignorant as the men who wrote about flyers? He couldn't imagine there was much of reality to the books—it was probably the chaste relationships that existed in a Fred Astaire movie, where he never even kissed the girl. It must come as a rude shock to the gentle women readers when they're confronted with a real man.
Of course Angela had been engaged. Hal Ramsey had been an okay guy—she had better taste than Clancy would have given her credit for. So she couldn't be as naive as all that. Her long fingers were clenched tightly around the magazine as the train started forward with an uncustomary lurch. Most young women would be thrilled and excited to be traveling on the famous Twentieth Century Limited, even if it was only between Chicago and Albany, New York. Clearly Angela was not so thrilled.
"You don't like trains?" He broke the silence, reaching for his cigarettes and holding the pack toward her.
She shook her head, closing her magazine and gripping it tightly. "I don't mind them."
"Of course you don't. That's why you're sitting there with your knees clamped together, your hands gripping that magazine as if it were a lifeline, your face pale and your lips trembling. Don't fight it, Red. None of us likes to be ferried around by someone else. We like to drive it, fly it, ourselves."
For a moment her tension relaxed. "You feel the same way?" she asked, allowing her vulnerability through, and for one crazy moment he wanted to move across, sit beside her and pull her into his arms. He didn't move.
"Always. Pilots are an egocentric bunch. We want everything our way."
"No, I don't—"
"Oh, yes, you do," he corrected lazily, sliding back in the seat. "And it's driving you crazy that I realized you were scared. Look at it this way, Red. At least we can't fall out of the sky."
"No, but we could smash into another train."
"We're in the middle of the train. We'd probably get a few bumps and bruises."
"What if we went off a bridge? Over a cliff, into the ocean?"
"I don't know that we're going by any cliffs or the ocean, Red. If we go over one, I promise to hold your hand."
She snapped the magazine upright, too irritated to remember she didn't want him to see her reading material. The cover showed a Gary Cooperish man with his arms clasped tight around a ginghamed blonde, probably the same one menaced by the yellow peril in his Black Book Detective Magazine. "No, thanks," she said coolly.
"Tell me something, Angel," he said, his voice low and caressing. "Does Red Rider kiss as well as Hal Ramsey did?"
Bright red flooded her pale face as she slammed her magazine back down. "You're despicable."
"And you're real cute when you're mad. Why don't you lend me your Sky Devils while you read about hearts in the West? If you're real nice I'll let you see my Secret Agent Detective Mysteries."
"Why don't you—"
"Tickets, please." It was lucky for her the conductor interrupted her tirade or the entire car would have gotten an earful. Clancy lounged back, watching as she handed in the tickets, well aware of the curious glances from beneath the conductor's billed hat. Clearly he wasn't used to masterful women. Neither, for that matter, was Clancy. "The dining car's to the front, the club car's ahead of that," the conductor said, his voice disapproving. "The porter will be by to make up your berths at nine. Have a good trip, Mr. and Mrs. Hogan."
Before she could protest, Clancy moved to sit beside her, putting his hand on her knee. She jumped like a startled rabbit. "We will. Won't we, honey?"
And Angela, smiling sweetly, covered his hand with hers and dug her short, sharp nails into his skin. "We certainly will, darling," she cooed, and the conductor, having missed her action, smiled on them benignly.
Chapter Five
She'd made some mistakes in her life, Angela decided later, but this one had to rank among the very finest of stupid moves. Why hadn't she realized that being cooped up on a train, even one as streamlined and modern as the Twentieth Century, would be enough to set her nerves on the
screaming edge? Add to that the impossibly disturbing presence of Jack Clancy, sitting across from her as they sped toward the northeast, seemingly oblivious to her very presence, while she couldn't even concentrate enough to read a paragraph without glancing up at him, and it all added up to a raw state of nerves.
Dinner was the worst. He'd sat across from her in the dining car, eating a huge, almost raw slab of steak, while she picked at the chicken breast with no enthusiasm. She hadn't really expected him to be adept at dinner conversation. What she hadn't counted on was his ogling the other women in the car. He seemed to do it every time he realized she was looking, and if she had a more devious, paranoid turn of mind, she would have thought he was doing it just for her reaction.
Of course he had no reason to, she chided herself, poking at the strawberry shortcake she'd been fool enough to order. Why should he care whether his blatant flirtations bothered her? He'd be smarter to worry about whether he was going to end up with a bloody nose when someone's escort took exception.
"Are you going to eat that strawberry shortcake or just mangle it?" Clancy asked, lighting a cigarette.
She glared at him. "Would you mind not smoking? I'm still eating."
"No, you aren't. You're just sitting there stabbing that poor dessert. I don't know why you ordered it—you didn't touch the rest of your dinner."
"I didn't realize you noticed." He grinned and she glanced down at her strawberry shortcake with a wistful expression. She would have given anything to shove it in his handsome face, but her Grandmother Maynard's upbringing was too strong.
"What's that dangerous look in your eye, Red?" Clancy asked.
"Do you remember the scene in Public Enemy!" she asked gently.
"When Jimmy Cagney shoved the grapefruit in Mae Marsh's face? Don't even consider it. That's the problem with seeing too many movies, Red. They give you bad ideas."
"Oh, I don't know if it's that bad an idea."
"Trust me. It is. There's no reason for you to be sore. I'm entirely capable of keeping my eyes on every single pretty woman in the car," he said. "You included."
She didn't know quite how to respond to that one. For a compliment it was a fairly oblique one, and she didn't want to be in a position to accept compliments from Clancy. She preferred the enmity.
Dropping her fork, she pushed back from the table. "I'm going to bed."
He raised an eyebrow. "It's only nine o'clock."
"It's an hour later on the East Coast. Besides, the more time I spend asleep on this trip, the better. I haven't been sleeping well recently." She rose, not the least surprised when Clancy remained sprawled lazily in the chair.
"Why not?"
"There are a dozen reasons, Mr. Clancy, none of which I'm about to share with you," she said. "Good night."
"Sweet dreams, Angel. I'll try not to wake you when I climb on top of you."
It took all her self-control to turn and walk away, knowing he was watching her. She wanted to tug at her skirt, make sure her stocking seams were straight, smooth her hair. Resolute, she kept her back straight, walking out of the dining car like a debutante.
The berths were already made up in the sleeping car. It took her a moment to find hers, and for the first she allowed herself to react to Clancy's deliberately taunting statement. She was almost tempted to take the upper berth herself, if it weren't for the fact that there were no windows up there. She was feeling claustrophobic enough on this train that was probably driven by some incompetent. She at least wanted to be able to see out a window as she crashed to her death.
The washroom was empty that early in the evening. She washed quickly, tying back her hair, deciding to change into her nightclothes once she crawled into her berth. Most people changed in the washroom, having no qualms about traversing the corridors in bathrobe and slippers, but Angela had no desire to run into Clancy in dishabille. She could just imagine those dark, disturbing eyes lingering over her body, suggestive without his having to say a word.
Of course, he'd already said any number of suggestive words to her, she thought, diving into her berth and pulling the green serge curtains around her. She still wasn't quite sure whether he meant them or not. Probably not. She knew full well she wasn't the sort to arouse overtly lustful feelings in men, and thankfully she hadn't been bothered by too many of her own. If she had, she wouldn't have kept putting Hal off when he'd made a few suggestions about increasing the intimacy in their engagement.
Most, if not all, of her friends were men, and she preferred to keep it that way. Nothing would make her happier than to end the barbed enmity between her and Clancy, letting things settle down to a comfortable working relationship. She'd done it with most of the other men she'd worked with. Why did she keep thinking it was a losing battle when it came to Jack Clancy?
It was tricky enough to undo those tiny buttons when you were pretzeled up in a lower bunk, she thought, staring out at the darkening countryside as the train sped east. Shimmying out of a girdle was also an experience, not to mention climbing into the enveloping nightgown she'd deemed modest enough for a brief fling at communal living. Indeed, there was more material in the nightgown than there was in the Vionnet day dress. So why did she feel so exposed?
Lack of underwear, of heavy cotton bra and girdle, neither of which she actually needed, was part of it. And the knowledge that Jack Clancy would be sleeping above her was the other part. She slid beneath the sheets, pulling them up around her, and reached for her magazine. She'd barely read a sentence before she closed it again. She couldn't read about Red Rider's thrilling kisses without thinking of Clancy's barbed comment. About Clancy's mouth.
She threw the magazine toward the foot of the berth, wincing as the next person down cursed her. Turning off the small wall light, she snuggled down in the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her. She was never going to sleep, she told herself. She was going to lie there and worry about Constance; she was going to worry about the doubtless inexperienced engineer who was going to plunge them all to their death the moment they came to a wide enough river; she was going to worry about Charlie Olker and the fact that he seemed to be winning the battle they'd somehow become engaged in. And she was going to worry about Clancy. She wasn't quite sure why, but she knew without a doubt that she would, and those worries would keep her wide awake until dawn....
*
She didn't know what time she woke up. It was too dark to see her watch and she didn't want to risk turning on her light. Clancy had finally come to bed, disdaining the short ladder the porter usually provided and landing up there with a decided thump that had woken Angela from the sound sleep she was certain she never would have enjoyed. She lay there, hoping to recapture it, but the creaks, the thumps from overhead couldn't be ignored.
She didn't know how long she lay awake. The time passed as endlessly as the landscape outside, the throbbing of the train beneath her no longer soothing but maddening.
One thing was certain—she wasn't falling back to sleep on her own accord. The bar car usually remained open all night long for fellow insomniacs or sailors on leave or the like. Her only recourse was to pull on her clothes and go find herself a couple of very strong whiskeys. Then she might be able to recover at least part of her night's sleep.
Grabbing her clothes, she slid from the berth onto the floor, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn't be running into anyone in the middle of the night. She stood up, reaching for her bathrobe in the darkened, swaying car, when the curtains directly in front of her face opened and Clancy stuck his head out.
"Where do you think you're going?" he whispered.
"To the bar car. I can't sleep."
"The hell you are. This isn't Tony's Bar and Grille, Angel. Ladies don't go to bar cars alone, particularly not at three o'clock in the morning. You're not one of the boys on this train, and I'm not getting up and coming with you to protect you."
"Nobody asked you to," she shot back in an angry whisper. A sleepy voice two berths down ordered
her to shut up.
"Listen, Red, you need a drink, I've got a flask. Dump your things and come on up."
"I will not."
"Suit yourself. I've got crackers and cheese up here, and you didn't eat any dinner."
Angela didn't move for a moment. She was absolutely starving and hadn't realized it until he said something. "You are the devil incarnate," she told him.
"I do my best. Come on, Red. Your virtue's safe with me." Before she realized what he was doing, he reached down, caught her arm and yanked her up onto the upper berth, her body sprawled across his, her legs thrashing out in the corridor.
She gave up the fight, more because she was afraid of rousing the other passengers and the porter than because she actually thought this was a good idea. Pulling her feet in after her, she scuttled across him, ending in the corner at his feet as the serge curtains closed back around them, plunging them into inky darkness.
"Mind if I turn on the light?" he inquired politely, turning it on before she could reply. He pulled himself up in the bed, but his long legs were almost touching her, and there was no way she could make herself any smaller. "That your idea of slinky nightwear? I would have thought you'd be wearing silk pajamas at the very least."
"I would have thought you'd be wearing pajamas at the very least," she shot back without thinking, and then blushed. She hadn't blushed in years and she could only hope the dimness of the yellow light couldn't penetrate into the far corners of the upper berth.
"I don't believe in 'em," he said, sitting up, the covers dropping to his waist as he handed her a silver flask.
"Apparently not." It was all she could do to tear her eyes away from his chest, from the unexpected silver cross that hung around his neck, and it took all her concentration to focus on the flask. "You don't believe in undershirts, either?"