On the Wings of Love

“Well?” demanded Buck.

Rafe drained the glass. “We were talking about aeroplanes.”

“I know. And I asked you what you thought of my daughter.”

“Oh, she seems to be a bright girl,” Rafe said cautiously. “A bit headstrong, but I suspect she gets that from you.”

Buck laughed, a hard, humorless sound. “Forgive me, but I’m just airing my fatherly frustrations. You do find her attractive, right?”

Rafe stared down into his empty glass. “Yes, in a coltish sort of way. Frankly, I prefer my women a bit more…shall we say, ripe?”

“Aha! I understand,” said Buck. “I’ll even admit to liking them that way myself. But Alex is hardly what you’d call a child. She’s twenty—old enough to be married and cranking out the next generation.”

Rafe willed away the urge to mention the aeroplane again. Clearly, this was a time to listen.

Buck opened the whiskey again and refilled both glasses. “The girl’s driving me crazy. You’d think she’d have suitors swarming all over her. But she doesn’t show any interest in the men she meets. I’ve begged her, threatened her. She claims she doesn’t want to get married. She wants to live her own life. Live her own life! Can you imagine? What would you do with a girl like that, Garrick?”

“Maybe you should stop pushing her so hard,” Rafe suggested cautiously. “Give her a little more time to come around.”

“More time? What the hell for?” Buck’s fist came crashing down on the nightstand. “Damn the girl! She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my sweat, my blood or the future of the company! She wants her own life on her own terms. The selfish little—”

His words fell off into muttering as he rose to his feet and began pacing the carpet. Abruptly, he stopped.

“Never mind. My daughter’s my own problem.” He sat again and picked up the whiskey glass. “Garrick, I’m not a man who believes in mincing words. I have a business proposition for you!”

“Business?” Once more Rafe was caught off balance. They’d been discussing Buck’s daughter, not his business dealings.

“I’m a fair judge of men,” Buck continued. “There’s something you want from me, and I’m pretty sure I know what it is. Maybe I can help you out.”

Rafe waited, trying to look disinterested. Inside he was churning. If Buck was talking about the aeroplane, then the dream he’d worked for, starved for, for so long, could be within reach. He felt light-headed, afraid that if he reached out everything he wanted so badly would be snatched away from him.

“I’ll get to the point,” said Buck. “The empty carriage shed where we stashed your aeroplane has a furnished room on the second floor. It’s yours while you work on your machine. You can take your meals with the family, or in the kitchen if you’d rather not stand on formality.”

Rafe weighed the offer. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was bloody tempting. If he accepted, he wouldn’t need to rent new work space and move the aeroplane or dig into his hard-earned savings to live while his leg healed. But at what cost? Nothing in this world came free, especially from a man like Buck Bromley.

He picked up the cigar, studied it a moment, then put it down again. “Thanks for your generosity, but the answer is no. I won’t be a charity case.”

“Charity has nothing to do with it,” Buck said. “I’d like to buy your aeroplane with exclusive rights to its design and any others you might create. You’d be working for me.”

Something dropped in the pit of Rafe’s stomach. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted backing for his own company. He wanted the freedom to manufacture and sell his aeroplane under his own name and to improve the design as he went along, like Glenn Curtiss and the Wright brothers were doing. But maybe that was never going to happen. Maybe this was the best he could hope for. Right now everything he owned was tied up in a pile of twisted wreckage. His back was against the wall, and Buck Bromley knew it.

Rafe toyed with his whiskey glass, trying to look nonchalant. Behind that facade, all was turmoil and chaos. He wanted the success of his aeroplane more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He ached for it, hungered for it, and now it was within reach. All he had to do was grasp it.

But he was a proud man with a sense of his own worth. He knew the value of the aeroplane he’d built, knew its power, knew its beauty. He knew the sweat and sacrifice that had gone into its making.

Buck Bromley knew none of those things. To him, the aeroplane was just a pawn to provide him with the means of getting what he wanted—the services of someone who might otherwise emerge as a competitor. For a pile of garbage, Buck’s offer would have been the same. And what he had in mind would be like making a deal with the devil. Rafe would never be his own man again.

“Well, what’s your answer?” Buck’s manner was cocky. He seemed sure of what Rafe’s reply would be.

Rafe took a deep breath. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to wait and see how the aeroplane performs?”

Buck’s eyes narrowed.

“You hardly know anything about my aeroplane,” Rafe said. “You don’t even know if it’s any good. The risk you’d be taking—”

“What the hell has risk got to do with it?” Buck snapped. “I’ll make you a fair offer, and if the damned machine won’t fly you’ll make one that does. What’s wrong with that?”

“Just this,” Rafe said. “You’re welcome to back my aeroplane as a partner, but it’s not for sale. Lord knows I could use the money. But I want to be my own boss, not an employee. I won’t bargain away my future, and I won’t be bought. Not for any price.”

Now he’d done it. Rafe braced himself, waiting for the explosion. But Buck only laughed.

“Proud young whippersnapper, aren’t you? I wasn’t so different at your age. But I had the sense to recognize an opportunity when it came along. That, and hard work, got me where I am today.” He poured another two fingers of Jack Daniel’s into each of the glasses. “Take your time, then. The shed’s yours in any case, and I can give you some kind of work if it’ll ease your fool pride. My offer stands open in case you change your mind.”

“That’s very generous of you, sir.” Rafe picked up his glass and swirled the golden liquid cautiously.

“It’s Buck, not sir. Hell, I’m as common as you are!”

“All right, Buck,” Rafe said, knowing he might be making a fatal mistake. “You’ve been very good to me. But since I won’t be working for you, I think it best that I move myself and my aeroplane somewhere else. As soon as I can get out of this bed on my own, I’ll do just that.”

Buck’s florid color darkened. “You’re afraid that if I can’t buy the design I might steal it from you? Is that what you think?”

“Frankly, that hadn’t even occurred to me.” Rafe set his glass on the nightstand. “I just feel that since we can’t come to an agreement, I shouldn’t impose on your hospitality any longer than I need to.”

A vein twitched in Buck’s temple. “Of all the mule-headed—”

The words froze on his lips as Maude Bromley stumbled into the room. Her face was chalky. One hand hovered at her throat.

“Buck.” Her voice quivered. “The police are downstairs. They just brought Alexandra and me home.”

“What the devil—?” Buck gasped.

“The auto. She wrecked it—ran it off the road five miles out of Glen Cove. It’s mired to the running boards. You’ll need to go and see about getting it out.”

Buck was on his feet. “Is Alex all right?”

As if in answer to his question, a tattoo of light, rapid footfalls echoed along the upstairs hallway, followed by the impassioned slam of a door. Buck glanced in the direction of the noise, then rushed headlong out of the room. His wife bustled after him, closing the door behind her and leaving Rafe alone.

Rafe picked up his whiskey and drained the glass. His head ached, his leg throbbed and he felt as if he’d crashed into the middle of a lunatic asylum.

If he didn’t get out of here soon, he’d could end up as hell-ridden as the Bromleys.

Chapter Five

The aeroplane lay in the cavernous space of the warehouse like a crumpled bird in a child’s pasteboard box. The sight of it jerked a knot in Rafe’s stomach. Compared to this utter calamity, his fractured leg was nothing.

A week after the accident, Rafe had dragged himself out of the Bromley mansion and paid his friend Jack Waverly, who ran a construction firm in Queens, to haul the shattered aeroplane by wagon to Minneola. They’d been lucky to find this empty warehouse with an office and bathroom facilities inside. The rent wasn’t cheap but since Rafe could move out of his tiny flat and live here for the duration it would be affordable enough. Best of all, he wouldn’t need to worry about traveling back and forth.

His leg and ribs still pained him. It wouldn’t be easy getting around the place on his crutches, but at least he’d disentangled himself from the Bromleys. Now he could concentrate on his work.