Elizabeth Lane - On the Wings of Love

Others were running, too, now, but Alex was ahead of them all. She was the first to reach the sand, the first to scramble up the landward slope of the dune and the first to sight the wrecked aeroplane.

The aeroplane had crashed nose-down near the water’s edge. Its double wings were twisted, its tail askew. The front end was partly buried in the sand. Waves eddied around it as the tide moved onto the beach.

Where was the pilot? Alex spotted him as she tore down the side of the dune. He was hanging out of the plane, his legs caught in the wreckage, his head dangling in the water.

Fearing he would drown if the crash hadn’t killed him, Alex plunged into the surf. The waves were swirling around her waist by the time she reached the aeroplane. A ripple washed over the pilot’s goggled face. Then Alex had her arms around him. She lifted him, feeling the heaviness of his upper body. He was a big man, rock solid. She cradled his head against her breasts while she waited for help.

“Is he alive?” Buck was beside her in the water now, his strong arms supporting the pilot’s shoulders.

“I don’t know.” Alex ran a finger along the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. He was bleeding from a gash on his temple. The blood made wet red streaks down the front of her gown. “I can’t feel anything,” she said, fumbling with the leather chinstrap.

By now, other men had reached the aeroplane and were trying to free the pilot’s legs. Alex held his head steady with one hand while the other hand tugged at the stubborn buckle.

Finally the strap came free. Alex pulled away the helmet. The goggles came with it. Underneath was a square-jawed face—a face that was young, yet somehow not young at all. The hair, plastered damply against the head, was dark reddish-brown. The nose was crooked, as if it had once been broken. The eyes were closed.

She pressed his neck where the strap had covered it and caught the faint throb of a pulse. “He’s alive!” she exclaimed, weak with relief. “Hurry! Get him out!”

At the sound of her voice the pilot’s closed eyelids twitched. The wet lashes fluttered upward. Alex found herself staring into a pair of riveting, green-flecked eyes.

He blinked, trying to focus on her face. “Don’t worry,” she said, feeling the warm pressure of his cheek against her breast. “You’re safe. They’re just trying to get your legs loose.”

As she spoke, the rescuers suddenly pulled the man’s legs free of the wreck. With a sharp moan of pain, he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Alex glanced over her shoulder and saw that one of his high-topped leather boots was grotesquely twisted. His leg, she realized, was badly broken.

“Let’s get him to the house!” she shouted. “Careful—support that leg!”

“We’ll take him,” Buck said. “Alex, you run on ahead. Get somebody to call a doctor.”

“No, I’ve got him.” She cradled the unconscious head, refusing to let go. She had found him. She had reached him first and saved him. It was as if, somehow, the young pilot had become hers.

Most of the party guests had lined up along the top of the dune to watch. Alex felt their eyes on her as she backed out of the water, her skirt dripping and encrusted with sand. Hands reached out to support the weight of the pilot’s torso. He stirred against her breast, his lips forming words she couldn’t hear.

Alex’s mother struggled down the slope toward her, walking sideways to keep from sliding in the loose sand. “What a sight you are, Alexandra!” she gasped. “I almost fainted when I saw you out there in the water.”

“The pilot’s hurt!” Alex said. “Have someone run to the house and telephone Dr. Fleury!” She cradled the man’s head, ignoring her mother’s outstretched arms. “Please, Mama, I’m fine!”

Her mother stared down at her, still hesitant. “But your gown—you’re covered with blood!”

Alex glanced down at the ugly lavender dress. The bodice and skirt were blotched with crimson. A little shiver went through her as she felt the pressure of the pilot’s firm jaw through the thin fabric. Her head went up. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s not my blood. It’s his.”

Rafe awoke with a body-wrenching jerk. He had felt himself falling, spinning downward in a ripping descent that seemed slow only because it had no bottom. Now he felt the starch-crisped softness of a pillowcase against his cheek and realized he’d been dreaming. The dream had merged with reality until he was no longer sure where one left off and the other began.

Keeping his eyes tightly closed, he tried to piece together the fragmented memory of the crash—the plummeting plane, pulling on the stick until his hands bled, the water rushing upward to meet him. Then blackness, broken only by a flash of lucid pain.

Even then he’d been hallucinating, Rafe reckoned. Those violet eyes looking down at him could not have been real. Only angels had eyes like that. Or devils, maybe. And considering the life he’d led, Rafe would have been less surprised to find himself in hell than in heaven.

Not that it mattered. No body that ached as much as his could be dead. He was still among the living. But where?

Rafe forced his leaden eyelids to open.

The first thing he saw was sunlight streaming through a tall, cane-shuttered window. It was so bright that he had to close his eyes again. The hospital, he thought. That’s where he was. And running up the bloody bill, most likely. When they found out he wasn’t rich, he’d be out on the street.

He turned his head to one side, even that small motion hurting. Lord, what had he done to himself?

Concentrating, he willed his eyes to open again. This time he could see more of the room—a large teakwood armoire with oriental hardware; a richly woven Turkish carpet on the floor; a four-foot brass vase trailing the fronds of a huge, lacy fern. On the wall above the vase—Rafe gasped when he saw it—was the snarling, mounted head of a Bengal tiger.

A hospital? “Not bloody likely,” Rafe muttered out loud.

Burning with curiosity, he raised himself on one elbow and tried to sit up. Pain shot a searing path up his right leg as he twisted it. Broken, Rafe concluded dourly even before he felt the heavy splint. Broken nastily. It would be many weeks mending.

Blast! Rafe cursed his luck. Next week’s big air show, with $100,000 in prizes, was to have been the turning point of his life. He was gambling everything on the chance that he would find a backer to invest in the aeroplane he’d designed and built. He’d had a chance. A good chance. Now his aeroplane, his leg and his dreams all lay shattered.

Slowly Rafe sank back onto the pillow. He would rebuild the aeroplane, of course. And he would fly again. But he’d lost the season. He had missed his big chance. Damn! He glanced around the strangely exotic room again. Where in hell’s name was he, anyway? And where was his aeroplane?

The sound of approaching footsteps outside the half-open door broke into his thoughts. Instinctively Rafe froze. Life had taught him to be cautious. Even in a place like this, you could never tell who might be slinking around the halls. Once, in a perfectly respectable New Orleans hotel, he had gone to sleep and almost lost his life to a wallet-snatching bellhop with a stiletto in his boot. This place looked too ritzy for such shenanigans, but all the same…

Hinges creaked softly as the door swung all the way open. Rafe lay still, his eyes closed, as the footsteps padded across the carpet toward him. They were light and swift—a woman’s, Rafe guessed, relaxing a bit. Though a woman could be just as dangerous as a man. What would she look like? he caught himself wondering. Would she be young? Pretty? And what would she be doing in this room? He let her come closer, playing the game as long as he dared.