Elizabeth Lane - On the Wings of Love

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.

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.

“How long will it take you to fix it?” Jack, who was blond, husky and affable, gave Rafe work when he wasn’t flying. Now he stood beside Rafe with his hands in the pockets of his coveralls.

“That’ll depend partly on how the engine’s fared. I won’t know until I’ve tried to start it up. But the framework’s wrecked. I can salvage a lot of pieces, but it’s going to need a complete rebuilding and new canvas to boot. I’ll start on that as soon as you bring my tools and spare parts.”

“I’ll bring your clothes and bedding and a few groceries along with the rest,” Jack said. “I’ll bring your motorcycle, too, but you won’t be able to ride it anywhere with that cast on your leg.”

“Thanks. I’ll get better over time. It’s the aeroplane I’m concerned about.”

“Well, the damned aeroplane won’t get fixed if you starve to death. I’ll wager you got spoiled staying with those rich folks, all that champagne and that caviar on those fancy little crumpets. Now you’ll be living on beer and cheese sandwiches, if you even remember to eat.”

“I’m just glad to be out of there and well enough to work.”

“Well enough is debatable, friend. But I know you’ve got a one-track mind, so I’ll be off now to get your things. It’ll take me a couple of hours. Sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Rafe shook his head. He needed some time alone before he pulled himself together and went to work. It would take a calm, clear mind to transform a twisted mass of wreckage into a creature of the sky once more.

As Jack’s wagon rolled out of sight, Rafe sank onto a wooden crate. The past week had been draining. The crash and his injuries, the long hours of inactivity and the constant tension in the Bromley household had left him with frazzled nerves. The work of rebuilding his machine loomed as all but insurmountable. But he was grateful to be back in action again. If he could move, he could work. If he could work, he could accomplish whatever was needed. He was going to be all right, damn it, and so was the aeroplane.

“Hello.”

The throaty voice startled Rafe, but only for an instant. He knew without turning around who had spoken. “Hello yourself, Miss Alexandra Bromley,” he replied. “After what you did to your father’s fancy new motor car, I’m surprised your parents would let you out of your room.”

“I’m not a child,” she said, leaning her bicycle against the door frame. “And the auto wasn’t that badly damaged, just stuck in the mud. All it needed was a good scrub and polish. What a pity your own machine won’t be so easy to fix.”

Rafe turned the crate around to look at her. She was wearing a divided skirt with a plain white blouse that clung damply to her skin, showing glimpses of the lace camisole beneath. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair tousled by the morning breeze. He had the distinct impression that if he were to bury his face against the warm hollow of her neck, her scent would be the pungent, earthy aroma of a woman’s sweat. He let his gaze roam up and down her body, not caring whether she noticed.

“You’ve come a long way just to argue,” he said. “It’s a pity you’re not a man. I could put you to work.”

She answered him with a toss of her head. “Don’t let my being a woman stop you. There’s nothing here that I’m not smart enough to learn.”

Rafe squinted up at her, dazzled by the light that fell through a high window to play on her caramelcolored hair. “Cocky little chit, aren’t you? I could be tempted. But your parents would skin me alive if you came in with grease stains on those dainty hands of yours.”

“Dainty? Ha!” She extended her hands for Rafe to see. They were large for a woman’s, the fingers long and tapered, the nails cut short, the skin tanned to a golden apricot color. “These hands can saddle and bridle a horse, drive an automobile and do a lot of other things that I have yet to try—maybe even fix an aeroplane. Or maybe…” Her violet eyes impaled him. “Maybe even fly one. So don’t sell me short, Mr. Garrick, or you might be very sorry.”

Rafe chuckled, warmed by her outrageous cheekiness. He’d sworn not to go near her, he reminded himself. But on this anxiety-ridden afternoon, with his spirit shrouded in gloom, Alex Bromley was a ray of pure sunshine.

“Come here and make yourself useful,” he said, struggling to stand. “I need a close look around the aeroplane and these crutches are murder on cracked ribs.”

She eyed him suspiciously, the color rising in her cheeks. “Haven’t we been down this road before? As I recall, the last time I did crutch duty, you ended up getting your face slapped.”

“I earned that slap fair and square,” Rafe said. “But this time I promise to behave. On my honor.”

“Your honor!” She cast him a scathing look. “I’d count more on a he-goat’s honor than on yours!”

“Then resolve to live dangerously, Miss Bromley.” Rafe proffered his arm.

She hesitated, head high, nostrils flaring. “Will you let me help work on your aeroplane?”

“Your father would have me skewered.”

“My father doesn’t have to know.”

Rafe sighed. “Maybe a little. No promises.”

“No promises?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, then, goodbye, Mr. Garrick. Have a lovely day.” She turned on her heel and strutted toward the door, her hips twitching in a way that almost made Rafe groan out loud. He cursed under his breath. Let the brat go, he admonished himself. But even as he willed himself to heed the warning he heard his voice calling out to her.

“Blast it, Alex, come back here!”

She turned slowly, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. “Will you show me how your aeroplane works—without snarling at me even once?”

Rafe exhaled sharply. “Come on, then. Help me over there.”

The task that had loomed as tedious with Buck became something entirely different with the man’s daughter. Alex’s frame fit perfectly beneath Rafe’s arm as she took his weight. The warmth of her softly curved body, resting against his side, was pleasantly arousing. But it was her intelligence that intrigued him most. Her questions were insightful, her grasp of scientific principles swift and sure. Pity she was a mere woman. Otherwise Buck Bromley’s only child might have made one hell of an engineer, or even an aviator.

They made a slow half circle of the wreckage, Rafe thinking aloud as he assessed the damage to his precious machine. The rudder and rear elevators were fully intact. But everything forward of the wings was hopelessly shattered. The wings themselves would need new ailerons and a complete rebracing. Maybe while he was at it, he could improve the warping mechanism, making the craft easier to maneuver in the air.