On the Wings of Love. Elizabeth Lane
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“There!” Alex pointed as they reached the railing. “See, there’s your aeroplane at the far end of the lawn!”
Rafe let go of her, braced himself with one arm on the railing and used his free hand to shade his eyes. “If I were only closer!” he muttered.
“Can’t you tell anything from here?”
“Not enough. You were right about the wings. They don’t look badly damaged. And the rear elevators can be fixed. But the engine and the propeller…” He shook his head. “I’d have to see them up close.”
“Why be so concerned? You built it once. You can build it again.”
“Yes. But how much time will it take? How much money?” He turned bitter eyes on Alex. “You’ve no understanding of what’s involved—people like you, with everything at their fingertips. You don’t know what it’s like to go without heat in the winter, to go without cigars and haircuts and decent meals just so you can buy an engine piece by piece and put it together, so you can afford the right kind of wood for the braces, the right kind of wire, the right kind of linen canvas.” His knuckles whitened on the railing of the balcony. “Damn it, how can anyone who’s always had whatever they wanted understand that kind of love?”
Alex had listened quietly to his outburst, but her own indignation was building. “That’s the most arrogant crock of nonsense I ever heard!” she stormed. “You think you’re better than I am because you’ve had to struggle! You think that building an aeroplane qualifies you for some kind of sainthood! Well, maybe it does! Maybe you are an expert on that kind of love! But let me tell you something, Rafe Garrick! You have no tact at all, no gratitude, no consideration for people at all! There are other kinds of love, and you don’t seem to know anything about them!”
She whirled away from him and started for the door that led back into the hallway. Let him stay there. He could crawl back to bed by himself or shout for help. She wasn’t putting up with his self-righteous arrogance another second!
She had almost reached the door when he caught her. His hand seized her shoulder with the strength of an iron vise and he whipped her back toward him. “Don’t tell me what I don’t know!” he muttered, jerking her hard against his chest.
His kiss arched her backward over his arm. Alex struggled against his strong hands and brutally seeking lips. Then suddenly, incredibly, she felt herself responding. A ripple of fevered excitement coursed through her as she softened against him and felt the hard contours of his aroused body through the thin silk. Her lips went molten beneath his. Her fingers dug into his flesh, clinging, demanding. Madness. It was running away with her and she couldn’t stop it—didn’t want to stop it.
No! Something in her was still fighting him, still struggling for control. This was insanity. He had no right!
He released her, and she spun away from him. They stood a pace apart, both of them breathing heavily. As Alex stared at him, she felt panic welling up in her body. She’d wanted a life in which there was no question of her being in control. Now, suddenly, she felt threatened. Rafe Garrick was all the things she despised in a man, all the things she had spent her life protecting herself from. And he had just violated her safe, well-ordered world.
Rage and fear exploded in her. Her hand came up and she struck him with all her strength across the face. The force of her own blow sent her staggering backward.
He did not move. He did not laugh, scowl or even wince. Only his eyes mocked her anger as he spoke. “If it’s an apology you’re wanting—”
“No!” Alex spat out the word. “I’d never accept anything of the kind! Not from you!”
He laughed then—bitter, knowing laughter—as she whirled toward the door. It was as if he saw through her anger, as if he knew how deeply he had stirred her, and how frightened she was of her own emotions. Damn him. Oh, damn him!
Slamming the door behind her, she hurtled down the hall. Her face burned. Her eyes stung. She wanted to hide. Damn Rafe Garrick! She never wanted to see him again!
At the landing she almost collided with her father.
“Alex, are you all right?” Buck gazed at her in surprise. He had spent the morning in the city and was dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt and bowler. He smelled of the expensive Havana cigars he smoked.
“I’m quite all right, Papa.” Alex smoothed her skirt in an effort to compose herself. “Your fallen angel, Mr. Garrick, is all right, too. You’ll find him on the balcony. Dr. Fleury said he should stay in bed, but I think he’s well enough to leave!”
She brushed past him to go to her room, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You’re sure you’re all right? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine, Papa. A little too much sun on the beach, that’s all. I was just going to my room to freshen up.”
“Well, you might want to hurry it a bit. Your mother mentioned something about tea at the Townsend place this afternoon.”
“Oh!” Alex gasped. “Oh, drat!” She’d completely forgotten about that ridiculous tea, but she had no desire to further upset her mother. “Tell her I’ll hurry!” She flew down the long corridor to her room.
Through the glass panel in the door, Rafe saw the husky, well-dressed man staring after Alexandra for a long, thoughtful moment. Then the stranger turned, strode down the hall toward the balcony and opened the door. “So you’re on your feet already!” he boomed.
Rafe was still leaning on the rail of the balcony. “You might say that,” he replied. “Though I’m still not up to walking without a crutch. I was just trying to figure out how to get back to bed by myself. You’d be Mr. Bromley, right? Your daughter’s got your eyes.” The last was a lie. Alexandra’s eyes were unlike any he had ever seen.
“Yes, I’m Bromley. You can call me Buck.”
They shook hands. Buck Bromley’s grip was bonecrushing in its power, as if he’d exercised his hand to strengthen it. “So you’ve met Alex,” he said. “She was the first one to reach you in the water. I was the second.”
Rafe rubbed his chin, which was shadowed with whisker stubble. “I’m much obliged to you for taking me in after the crash,” he said.
“We could hardly have left you lying on the beach,” Buck laughed. “Besides, I’m a curious man, and I’m intrigued by you and that machine of yours. I wouldn’t mind keeping you around until you and the aeroplane are both mended. It would be worth it, just to see what makes the thing fly.”
Was this an invitation? Rafe wrestled with his pride. He’d been keeping his plane in a small hangar at the Hempstead aerodrome. He could make minor repairs there, but its cramped space wouldn’t do for rebuilding the craft. And there was his tiny flat in the Bronx with its shared bathroom, as well as the motorcycle he wouldn’t be able to ride to the airfield until his leg healed. Staying here would solve any number of problems. But he’d be damned if he’d ask for charity.
“I owe you a debt,” Rafe said. “I repay my debts. I don’t like being obligated to anyone.”
Bromley’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “If you’re talking about money, forget it,” he said. “As you see, we’re not exactly paupers here.”
Rafe shook his head. “Most of what I have is tied up in that aeroplane out there. But I’m not useless. I can work.”
“With a broken leg?”
“I had two years at M.I.T. Mechanical engineering. I’m good with engines. Got fine marks in draftsmanship—”
“You’ve no family?” Buck interrupted him.
“None. I was fourteen when my parents died. I’ve been on my own since then.”
“M.I.T., you say.” Buck’s tone was cynical. “I never went to college myself. Never needed