by Anne Stuart
"Do that. And tell him when he gets back here I'm going to kill him."
"I'll do that." Sparks headed for the office telephone.
"And Sparks," she called after him.
"Yeah, Angie?"
"Tell him thanks."
The rain was still coming down at a steady pace, battering against the tin roof of the hangar. Angela was alone in the semidarkness, staring sightlessly at the papers in front of her.
It had taken all her self-control not to grab the phone and start screaming at Clancy when Sparks had finally gotten through. Instead she'd stood in the background, listening as Sparks joked with him, knowing that if she took the phone she'd burst into tears. Instead she walked back out into the hangar, into the shadows where no one could see her and wonder why in the world the indomitable Angela Hogan's eyes were wet with unshed tears.
"He's fine," Sparks announced when he found her staring at the Vega. "He was heading out to a bar with a bunch of the pilots there. They wanted to buy him a drink to celebrate. Apparently that was one hell of a tricky landing."
"I imagine it was." Her voice sounded only slightly strained, and she was hoping Sparks wouldn't notice. "I hope you told him to stay put until the weather improves."
"I did. Jim Manning was there, and he has a sister who's just Clancy's type. Short and blond and plump. I guess he'll keep busy waiting out the storm."
"Swell," Angela said sourly.
There was a moment of silence. "Are you crying, Angie?"
"What the hell would I be crying for?" she replied fiercely. "The plane's okay, isn't it? Clancy's worthless hide is okay, too. Everything's positively copacetic."
"Sure, Angie. I told Clancy you were pretty upset."
"Thanks a lot. I hope you told him it was the plane I was worried about?"
"Sure," Sparks said again. "You coming to Tony's? I find I'm in need of a good stiff drink after all this. I think I even managed to talk Will into joining me."
"You go ahead. I wasn't able to concentrate this afternoon and I'm way behind on the paper work. And I want to call Woodward and tell him his precious cargo is delivered and he owes us a nice fat check." She managed to feel positively cheery at the thought.
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
But she wasn't accomplishing anything. She was sitting alone at her desk with not enough light from the goose-necked lamp on top of the steel file cabinets to accomplish anything more than eyestrain. And she was thinking about the damnable thing that had happened to her.
Clancy mattered to her.
It was the last thing she needed, the last thing she wanted. She'd been through enough heartaches, lost enough friends, to know that she never wanted to get involved with a flier again. Particularly not a womanizing, cynical barnstormer like Clancy. Somehow, when she least expected it, he'd begun to worm his way into her thoughts, into her heart, and she didn't dare let that happen. She had to force him out, ruthlessly, turn all her concentration on the flight she was planning to make. Sooner or later Clancy was going to end up dead in the twisted remains of whatever plane he was flying. She didn't want to be the one to mourn him.
But for right now, for a few hours, she was going to sit alone in her deserted hangar and do just that. Mourn Clancy, mourn something she wasn't going to allow herself to feel. And then she was going to head over to the liquor store, go home and get gloriously, stinking drunk. And by tomorrow she'd be hung over and back to normal.
When she first heard the sound she couldn't believe it. Over the steady beat of the rain came the faint whisper of an engine. An engine she knew far too well. She'd flown the Percival enough times to be able to pick out its engine with unerring accuracy. And it was the Percival flying overhead in pea-soup fog, planning to land.
Chapter Ten
Angela slipped once, racing to the radio set in the front of the hangar, skinning her knees through her trousers. "Hogan Air Transport calling Clancy, flight 3. Come in." Nothing but static while the unmistakable sound of the Percival droned overhead.
Throwing down the microphone, she ran over and flipped on what meager runway lights she could afford. Hogan Transport wasn't really equipped for night flying, but she'd been putting lights in whenever she had cash to spare. Clancy hadn't tried landing there at night, but he knew the runway as well as anyone by this time, and besides, there was his incredible luck, the luck that served as his copilot time and time again.
Back to the radio, for one last futile try. And then, to her relief and exasperation, Clancy's voice came through, filtered by static, calm and seemingly amused. "Anyone down there? Must be, since I see what passes for landing lights. I'm coming in. Tell Red she can bawl me out in person."
"Clancy, there's no ceiling. It's fog all the way down," she said desperately.
"Anyone there? Or don't you want to use the radio? Maybe you're all out on the tarmac waiting to see me crash. I'm coming in now. Let's see how I do with Blind-man's Bluff."
"Clancy, don't..." But it was obvious he couldn't hear. The radio in the Percival could only send, not receive.
She ran back to the huge, sliding metal doors, pulling them open and letting the rain and fog roll into the hangar. And she waited, listening, knowing exactly what the plane was doing without having to see it, knowing the sounds of the engine too well.
"Be careful," she muttered under her breath. "You're coming in too fast, Clancy, pull up. Pull up, damn you. That's it. Try it again. You've flown this enough times that you can do it blind. Try again, and this time come in a little lower. That's it, Clancy. Steady now."
She could hear the rattle of static from the radio behind her, and then Clancy's voice, loud and clear. "Coming in now. If I land this crate safely I'm going to want a stiff drink, Sparks. And a welcome-home kiss from Red."
"I'll cut your throat," Angela snarled to herself, peering through the fog in a vain effort to make out the lights of the Percival. "Don't crash, Clancy," she whispered. "For God's sake, don't die."
And then there he was, dropping down out of the fog with all the grace and precision of a dancer. The wheels bounced slightly, then settled down as the plane taxied to a stop.
Within seconds she was racing after him, oblivious to the soaking rain, the heavy fog, oblivious to rational thought. He was just jumping out the side door when she reached him, and she flung herself at him, shrieking with rage, pounding at him with her fists.
"Damn you, damn you, damn you," she cried, beating on his leather flight jacket, her tears mixing with the rain pouring down from the sky.
He didn't hesitate. He hauled her into his arms, turned her and pressed her against the cold wet metal of the plane, and set his mouth on hers, kissing her with a hungry desperation that matched hers.
Her mind wasn't working. His big, warm body was shielding her from the rain, his arms on either side of her imprisoning her against the plane as his mouth did things she'd never even imagined. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth, demanding a response, and she shivered, twining her arms around his neck and kissing him back. A moment later he'd reached over and yanked the door of the plane open again, and she felt herself lifted up and tossed inside, out of the rain. And then he'd followed her in, pushing her down on the floor and covering her.
His hands held her head still as he kissed her again, his mouth tracing erotic patterns on her face, her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips. He moved his hand down, between their bodies, and captured her breast, his long fingers sending a shiver of reaction through her. She heard the rip of her buttons, but she was too caught up in the sensations his mouth, his hands were coaxing, no, forcing from her. It was dark, velvet dark in the hold of the plane and he was big and strong and demanding, blocking out what light there was as he kissed her again. For the moment she was content to let her mind float, to simply let her body react to the force and passion in his. For a moment she told herself, why not? It was dark and still in the plane, no one would see, no one would know. He wasn't going to stop unless
she made a big fuss. It wouldn't be her fault. Why didn't she just give in to the frightening, overwhelming feelings sweeping over her body?
She could feel the unmistakable hardness between his legs pressing against her. And the hardness of his hands against her breast, the hardness of his mouth on hers. And suddenly she was frightened. Frightened by the darkness, by the desire, both his and hers. She began to struggle against him, but he seemed to pay no attention to her futile battings, merely capturing both of her slender wrists in one hand and holding her still while he continued to kiss her and his other hand reached the waistband of her slacks and began to yank at the buttons.
She whimpered then, a tiny sound of fear, and he froze. She could feel the tension rocketing through him, the tightness in his muscles.
And then he lifted his head, staring down at her in the murky light, and she knew the dangerous moment had passed. He'd regained control, and she told herself it was relief flooding her, not regret. "Those aren't tears, are they, Red?"
It took her a moment to find her voice. "Damn you." she said.
"You've already said that. Several times, in fact. How about trying something else? Like welcome home? Of course, you've already given me quite a welcome. Maybe we're better off not talking at all." And he kissed her again, a brief, thorough, teasing kiss, as if he knew she was about to shove him off her.
Which is what she did, scuttling back against the side of the cargo area, out of reach of his hands and unsettling mouth. Out of reach of that frightening passion that flared so brightly between them. "What the hell do you mean, flying back in this weather?" she demanded, her voice only slightly shaky.
"Sparks said you were missing me. I figured I'd better come back and face the music."
"You could have been killed! It was too dangerous."
"Hell, I'm a dangerous kind of guy."
"Not with my airplanes, you're not!" she snapped.
His eyes narrowed. "Are you going to try to convince me it's the airplane you're so worked up about? It won't wash, Red. I know you too well. Besides, my Fokker is on its way from South America, and it's a helluva lot better plane than this tub."
"This tub just got you through some of the worst flying conditions we've had around here!" she shot back, stung.
"It was my skill, not your plane that got us through. Will had better look at the radio first thing in the morning. Not to mention the rudders—they felt sluggish."
"Don't tell me what to do!"
For a moment they sat across from each other on the floor of the cargo hold, glaring at each other. She could smell the gasoline, the cool damp rain, the leather of his flying clothes. She was trying hard to hold on to her anger for fear that if she stopped being so angry she'd be back in his arms, and that was far too dangerous a place to be.
And then Clancy laughed. "Listen, Red, we don't need to sit here and argue. I promise, I'll be a good boy from now on. No flying into hailstorms, as long as you don't agree to any contracts that hinge on deliveries no matter what the conditions. You shouldn't need to, after this. Word gets around. You can deliver when you have to, and do it safely."
"What do you mean, I can?" she countered. "You can."
He shrugged. "Lady, I work for you. You've already got a decent reputation. With luck and a few more jobs, you should be sitting pretty. In the meantime, why don't I change out of this flight suit and we'll go to Tony's and see whether he's got any champagne? I deserve it after a night like this."
"I can't drink champagne."
"Why not?"
"I'm allergic to it," she said stiffly. "But I'll go to Tony's with you."
"You didn't happen to call that old skinflint Woodward, did you?"
She grinned then. "The moment we heard from you. I don't think he was pleased to get my call. He probably took one look at the weather and figured he was going to get the other five deliveries free."
"Did he arrange for future shipments?"
She shook her head. "Nope."
"Why not?"
"I told him we weren't interested. I don't want my pilots endangering their lives for someone like him."
"Am I your pilot, Angel?" he asked softly.
This was getting dangerous again. "One of the best," she said briskly, moving toward the door.
He didn't move. "I have to tell you something. I didn't endanger my life for Woodward."
Her eyes met his in the murky light of the quiet plane. "Then why did you?"
He paused, long enough for her heart to slow, waiting for the answer. "Because I like a challenge, toots," he said with a wry grin.
She ignored the irrational disappointment that flooded her. "Why didn't you stay in Detroit? Sparks said Jim Manning had you all fixed up with his sister."
"I find I'm losing my taste for dumb blondes," he said, putting a long finger under her chin and tipping her face up to his. "I like redheads who don't have any red in their hair." And he dropped a light kiss on her lips before leaping back out into the rain.
By the time she followed him back into the hangar, he'd changed out of his leather flight suit. A cigarette was dangling from his lips, and he was humming under his breath. "You look like a drowned kitten again, Angel," he said. "Maybe I'm a bad influence on you."
She pushed her wet hair back. "Maybe you are. Have fun at Tony's."
"You aren't coming?"
"I've had a tiring day," she said wryly, brushing a hand over her lips. Her mouth felt hot, sore, and then she realized what had caused it.
Clancy was watching her, watching her mouth with an unnerving intensity. And then he shrugged. "Suit yourself." A moment later he was gone, without a backward glance.
She moved slowly, flicking off the bright landing lights, turning off the staticky radio, locking the big sliding doors and the small side door. The Packard didn't like the dampness, and for a moment she was afraid it wouldn't start. But it did, and a few minutes later she was driving slowly home through the fog-shrouded streets of Evanston. Thinking about Clancy.
*
He got drunk, all right, Clancy thought hours later as he stripped off his clothes and sat down heavily on his bed. But not drunk enough to forget about Angela Hogan's mouth. The feel of her breasts through that wet, clinging shirt, the tears in her eyes that were for him and not her stupid airplane.
And he didn't get drunk enough to take Rosa's waitress up on her very obvious offer. He only got drunk enough to brood about the kind of trouble he was in, falling for the wrong kind of dame.
He shouldn't have let her go in that safe, warm cocoon of an airplane. He could have held her still, kissed her back into submission, into enthusiastic participation. She was strung so tight with nerves and emotion that a devious man could have done anything he wanted with her. And he prided himself on being a devious man.
But he also prided himself on being a man who understood risks. He'd taken enough of them that day, that night. Making love to Angela Hogan could have been far more dangerous than simply flying blind in a hailstorm. If things had gone wrong in the air, if his wings had iced up, all he would have done was crash.
If he got involved with Angela, ended up being her lover, he might never escape. Or if he did, he'd feel guilty for the rest of his life.
Angela wasn't made for lovers. She was made for a husband, for kids, for a house in the country with a picket fence and a mortgage. She might be a hell of a flier, but she was also a woman. And try as she might to squash them down, she still had the emotions, the needs of a woman, and those needs were at complete odds with his.
He was going to have to stop kissing her, even though her mouth was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. He was going to have to stop watching her when she wasn't looking, stripping off her clothes with his dirty mind and taking her in his arms. He was going to have to be a good boy for once in his life, when he'd spent almost his entire thirty-six years being as bad as he could possibly be.
Because she was no good for him and he was no good for her. He neede
d to remember that. And hope that she'd have the good sense to remind him, if it seemed like he was forgetting. Because otherwise they'd have a disaster on their hands and everyone would lose.
*
She couldn't stop thinking about him. During the long drive home through the fog and rain, all Angela could think about was the rough demand of his mouth on hers. The seductive feel of his tongue. His hand on her breast. No man had ever touched her breast before. She had no idea it would be quite so arousing, almost painfully so.
She couldn't stop thinking about the feel of him, hard against her. She shivered, telling herself she should be outraged, disgusted, even horrified. Instead she kept reliving it, the pressure, the pure demand vibrating through his body. A demand she was too cowardly to answer, much as she wanted to.
She glanced down at her shirt beneath her open raincoat. She had no idea where the buttons were, but it was loose enough that she was able to pull it around her, covering the plain white cotton bra. The thickness of the bra should have blunted some of her reaction to his hand on her breast. How would it have felt on her bare flesh?
The car skidded on the wet pavement and it took her a second to regain control as she turned the corner onto Carroll Street. It was a lucky thing few people were out driving in this weather. It would have looked pretty strange for her to end up in an accident with her shirt torn halfway off.
The lights were on in the bungalow, and Angela didn't know whether to be sad or sorry. She wasn't sure if she was in the mood for a tete-a-tete with Constance. For a while she just wanted to climb into bed and think about what happened, what almost happened tonight.
Constance was stretched out on the battered living room couch, her hair in pin curls, her face creamed of all its usual makeup, her fingernails and toenails glistening with a fresh coat of Max Factor's Vermilion. She was dressed in a faded old chenille bathrobe and reading Angela's copy of Colliers, and as usual she looked absolutely beautiful.