Читать книгу On the Wings of Love - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 15

Maude’s white-gloved hands clung helplessly to the side of the open-topped Pierce-Arrow. “For heaven’s sake, slow down, Alexandra! You’re going to get us both killed!”

Alex eased back on the gas pedal of the elegant black automobile. “I was only going thirty miles an hour, Mama. It’s a perfectly safe speed.”

“Not on this road. You can’t see around the curves. You could hit a cow or a horse or even a child. And you’re throwing up dust all around us. Use some sense!”

Alex sighed. Since Felix, the chauffeur, had gone home sick, it had fallen to her to drive herself and her mother to tea at the Townsend mansion. Ordinarily she would have been pleased. But after her encounter with Rafe Garrick, she was in no condition to sit behind the wheel of a dangerous machine.

“What’s bothering you, dear?” her mother asked. “I’ve never seen you in such a state.”

Alex’s only answer was a tightening of her jaw. The yellow ribbons on the shoulders of her dress streamed out behind her like battle flags. Her heart was pounding like the pistons on a runaway locomotive. She could still feel the burn of Rafe Garrick’s kiss on her lips and the raw, masculine pressure of his body against hers. Heaven help her, she didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want him, or any man, to have this kind of power over her. Anything would be better than ending up like her mother—a faded ghost of a woman, cowed and emotionally frozen.

She swerved to avoid a white leghorn rooster that ran squawking out of her path. The auto lurched as its left front wheel hit a pothole. Alex cursed. Her mother gasped.

“Alexandra! Wherever did you learn to talk like that?”

“Where do you think?” Alex sighed and eased back on the gas again. The engine slowed to a chugging purr. “Maybe you should learn to drive, Mama. It isn’t hard at all. In fact, it’s fun. I could teach you today, on the way home from the tea.”

“Goodness gracious!” Maude shook her head. “I could never do that! What would people think?”

“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?

“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.