On the Wings of Love

“They wouldn’t have to know. Papa wouldn’t even have to know. It could be our secret.”

“The very idea! What will you think of next, Alexandra?” Maude sank lower in the seat, adjusting her protective veil as if she didn’t want to be recognized. “It strikes me that you have too much time on your hands and too much energy for your own good. A husband and babies would take care of that. Elvira Townsend’s nephew will be at the party today. He has excellent prospects, and he’s keen on meeting you. Promise me you’ll be nice to him.”

“All right, Mama. I promise not to scratch or bite or spit.”

“You’re impossible!”

“Yes, I know.” Alex swung the auto through the wrought-iron gate and up the long drive toward the palatial neo-Roman-style house. Her organdy gown felt damp and itchy, and her lips burned where Rafe Garrick’s stubble had roughened her skin. She could feel the beginning of a headache moving upward from the clenched muscles at the back of her neck.

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

Rafe was sitting up in bed, wolfing down a late lunch of cold ham, deviled eggs and fresh, buttered rolls when Buck Bromley strode into his room.

“Feeling better?” Buck placed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two crystal glasses on the nightstand. Then he sat on a leather-covered side chair next to the bed.

“Much better, thanks,” Rafe said, trying not to talk with his mouth full. “Maybe I was just hungry.” He put his fork down and gazed levelly at his host. “I meant it when I said I didn’t like being obligated to anyone. I plan to pay you for every bite of this meal, and all the rest as well.”

“All in good time, lad.” Buck leaned backward, clasping his broad, hairy hands around one knee. His tan trousers were cashmere, Rafe noticed, and the white shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up was exquisitely tailored linen, the monogram on the pocket sewn in ecru silk.

“Cigar?” Buck opened a drawer in the nightstand and produced a gold case, monogrammed with the same ornate B that graced his pocket. “After you’ve finished your meal, of course.”

“I’ve just finished, thanks.” Rafe put his tray to one side. It had been, literally, years since he’d had a really good cigar between his teeth. That was just one of the sacrifices he’d made to get his aeroplane built.

“Here.” The golden lid swung open at a touch. The molasses-sweet aroma of expensive tobacco filled Rafe’s nostrils. He selected a cigar and balanced it between two fingers for a moment, enjoying its weight, its perfect symmetry. Then, with exquisite deliberation, he placed one hand between his lips.

The match flared in Buck’s hand. Rafe inhaled, feeling the mellow, bittersweet sensation trickle through his body. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

“We hauled your aeroplane into the old carriage shed out back,” Buck said. “From the looks of it, I’d say you’re damned lucky to be alive.”

Rafe’s eyes opened. Buck was watching him intently, the way a cat watches a bird. Rafe sucked pensively on the cigar, meeting the older man’s gaze head-on. Life had taught him to be wary, and right now his instincts were on full alert.

“I looked at the engine,” Buck said. “Can’t say as I know horseshit about aeroplanes, but I do know engines. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s a rotary engine,” Rafe said. “You can buy them in France these days, but I built this one myself, with my own improvements. It’s the best of its kind. I only hope it’s not ruined.”

“It’s hanging loose from its mountings, but aside from that it doesn’t look too bad.” Buck lit his own cigar. The smoke obscured his face as he puffed on it. “If you can fix the framework, your aeroplane ought to fly again.”

“No matter.” Rafe tried to sound disinterested, though inwardly he sensed that his whole future could be teetering in the balance. “I could build another one from the same design. I could build a hundred if I had the resources.”

“The design is your own?”

“All mine.” Rafe directed a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “I’ve got others on the drawing board, mind you, including a monoplane, but this is the only one I’ve perfected.”

“Perfected?” Buck snorted with laughter. “Then why the hell did it fall out of the sky with you?”

“I don’t know. But as soon as I’m able, I mean to find out.” Rafe tapped the end of the cigar into a black onyx ashtray. “For whatever it’s worth, that flying machine out there has taken me as close to heaven as it’s possible for a man to get!”

“Not as close as a few of the women I’ve known could take you, I’ll wager.”

“Have you ever flown?” Rafe asked earnestly.

“Not in an aeroplane!” Buck’s strong white teeth flashed in a devilish grin.

Rafe put the cigar down on the edge of the ashtray. “My aeroplane’s built to carry a passenger. Why not let me take you up after it’s repaired? I promise you, it’s an experience like you’ve never—”

“Oh, no. Not me, lad. Flying is for young fools with nothing to lose. Me, I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got plans. Listen.” He leaned toward Rafe. His eyes gleamed like the eyes of the mounted tiger head on the wall behind him. “Last fall I made a trip to Germany. Shook hands with Kaiser Bill himself, the cheeky bastard! But that was the least of it. The real high point of the trip was a visit to Essen and a tour of the Krupp Works!”

Buck puffed furiously on his cigar, sending up volcanic clouds of smoke. “Lord, you’d have to see it to believe it! Miles of factories! More than fifty thousand workers! It was a city in itself—a damned kingdom! The Arms of Krupp!”

Rafe knew something of the world. He knew that the Krupp family had built their empire on the finest Bessemer steel ever made. Though they produced everything from railway wheels to razors, the fame and glory of the Krupps was vested in one thing: the manufacture of weapons.

Buck’s eyes glazed for a moment, as if the mind behind them were making a brief journey to some secret place. Then, chomping down on his cigar, he impaled Rafe with a gaze that was frightening in its intensity.

“That’s my dream, lad,” he rasped. “An empire. A family dynasty like the Krupps. That’s why I can’t go risking my neck in some damned flying machine. I want to live to see that dream come true!”

He paused long enough to twist the stopper off the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pour two fingers of whiskey in each of the glasses. He handed one to Rafe, who was staring at him in disbelief. The man sounded slightly mad. But madmen with money weren’t to be taken lightly.

Buck took a swallow of the amber liquid. “Sounds damned far-fetched, doesn’t it? But I know a few things you don’t.” Buck paused long enough to wet his lips. “Between you and me, I’m just wrapping up a deal with Uncle Sam. Burnsides and Bromley will be making rifles for the United States Army! What do you think of that?”

“Impressive,” said Rafe.

“But that’s just the beginning,” Buck continued. “My engineers are already drawing up plans for light and heavy artillery pieces, mortars, shells and rockets.”

“Pity for you there’s no war going on,” Rafe remarked cynically, at once regretting his words. War had never made much sense to him, but the last thing he wanted to do was antagonize this man.

“True.” Buck had taken Rafe’s comment at face value. “But mark my words, the way things are going in Europe, there will be. Get a real man like Teddy Roosevelt back in power, instead of a fat pantywaist like Taft. That’s when you’ll see America show her fighting spirit!”

“And that’s when you’ll build your empire.”

“That’s right. I’m already expanding my factory. If war comes—when it comes—we’ll be ready to produce more than rifles! We’ll be cranking out motormounted artillery, howitzers, shells, bombs—”

“Have you thought about the role of aeroplanes? They could be useful for reconnaissance in a war.” Rafe spoke casually, letting the words drop as if they weren’t of vital importance. There, he’d opened the door. The next move would be Buck Bromley’s.

Buck leaned backward in his chair and studied Rafe through narrowed, calculating eyes. Maybe his mind was formulating questions, Rafe thought. Maybe he was pondering the use of the aeroplane in modern warfare. Maybe—

Buck spoke, and his words caught Rafe completely by surprise.

“What do you think of my daughter?” he asked.

“What?”

“Alexandra. You look like a man of the world. What do you think of her?”

Rafe took a deep gulp of whiskey. Its mellow fire burned its way down his throat as he thought of Alex in his arms. He remembered the supple curve of her back as she struggled against him, the warm pressure of her hips against his groin, the rush of passion that had brought him to a throbbing arousal in an instant.

He remembered her soft, full mouth, resisting at first, then clinging to his in wild surrender. He remembered the fury in her violet eyes as she struck him, the sting of her palm on his cheek. He had deserved that slap, Rafe knew. He should never have crossed the forbidden barrier between them. He should never have touched her. But, by heaven, he wasn’t sorry.

What did he think of Buck Bromley’s daughter?