Angel's Wings (Anne Stuart's Bad Boys Book 5)

by Anne Stuart

  "And I suppose you think I should fly to Albany, find the nearest hobo encampment and start looking for a mechanic to hire," Angela said, her voice rich with sarcasm.

  "Nope." His eyes met Sparks’ briefly, but his old friend wasn't giving anything away. "I think you should leave your crippled planes alone, take the train to Albany, and you'd damned well better have me along. From what I've heard of Will Parsons, he doesn't have too much truck with women. And I don't think a shanty town is any place for a woman alone, even one who thinks she's a man."

  The noise of the bar surrounded them, with the underlying strains of Fats Waller in the background. Tony didn't believe in segregation—he had race music and hillbilly music on his jukebox, as well as the latest swing. Clancy could see Angela chew her pale lips, and he had the brief thought that she'd look good in lipstick. Something bright red, to contrast with her pale, almost translucent skin.

  He waited for the explosions, the protests, the refusals, with almost happy anticipation.

  "Sounds like a wise idea," she said slowly.

  "What?"

  "Angie!" Sparks protested at the same time.

  "If I can take Clancy's word for it, none of the planes are in tip-top condition. Only the Percival's in running shape, and you're going to need that to fly the few jobs we have right now."

  "But I could go with you," Sparks said. "Clancy can handle the few jobs we've got."

  "Clancy doesn't know how we do things. You do," Angela pointed out calmly. "We can take the Twentieth Century Limited tomorrow afternoon. It costs more than the regular train, but it'll be worth it. Mr. Know-It-All has promised me a mechanic. It's up to him to put his money where his mouth is.

  "Why can't he go alone?" Sparks demanded unhappily, and Clancy remembered with sudden regret that Sparks had a bad case on his boss lady.

  "Because I don't trust him not to come back with some burned-out old rummy," she said frankly. "When, and if, he finds this man, it'll be up to me to decide whether I can hire him."

  "Does this mean you're going to treat me to a bedroom?"

  She smiled very sweetly. "Why not ask for a private car while you're at it? You get an upper berth, Clancy, and be thankful for that."

  "Fine," he drawled. "I like being on top." He said it low enough that Sparks missed it beneath the hubbub of the bar, so that only Angela heard it and couldn't be quite sure she'd heard him correctly. The expression in her blue eyes was startled into sudden, heated awareness, and once more Clancy was reminded that his irritation with Miss Angela Hogan sprang from several sources, not the least of which was his unlikely attraction to her.

  She wisely decided to ignore his comment. "Is tomorrow too soon for you?"

  "The sooner the better. I want this concern to start making money so that I can get my plane back up here. If we can find a crackerjack mechanic, half my worries will be over."

  "What about the other half?" she asked.

  "I wouldn't want things to get too dull."

  "Angie!" A burly male in a leather flight jacket loomed over them, hauling Angela up out of her chair and enveloping her in a bear hug that looked, as if it might crush a slighter woman. "Where the hell have you been the last few days? Ever since you told Rosa you liked lasagna, we've been eating it night after night. The least you can do is suffer with us."

  "If the worst torment you ever have to endure is Rosa's lasagna then you've got it made," Angela said, her face alight with pleasure. "What kind of trouble have you been getting into, Stan?"

  "Not enough, what with you giving me the cold shoulder," he replied, grabbing a chair and dropping down at the table without being asked. "Who's the new pilot?" He was looking Clancy over with an astute, possessive attitude, but Clancy couldn't figure out whether it was simply older-brother protectiveness or something more basic. Sparks seemed torn between the two emotions, as did most of the men present. As far as he could see, he was the only man whose positive reactions to Angela Hogan were direct and unfettered. He either wanted to fight with her or sleep with her. Not hold her hand or protect her from bullies.

  "Clancy," Jack said, holding out his hand.

  Stan's broad, Slavic face creased in sudden delight, and he pumped Clancy's hand with such enthusiasm he knocked over a couple of empty beer mugs. "You know, I thought you looked familiar. I've always wanted to meet you. I've followed your career as closely as I've followed Lindy's. Whatcha been doing lately? I don't think I've heard."

  "I've been down in South America. Mail routes over the Andes, that kind of stuff."

  "No more racing?"

  "No more racing. I figure if I'm going to crash, it might as well be for something worthwhile. Not breaking a stupid record."

  Dead silence at the table. It was considered bad manners to talk about crashing, and Angela's fiancé had died attempting just such a stupid move. "Well," Stan said, clearing his throat, "you're probably right. We've all settled down in the past few years. Got families to raise, that sort of stuff. You married?"

  "Nope. It's not my style. Sooner or later the little lady starts crying and begging you not to fly, and then where are you? No one's clipping my wings." He lit another cigarette, deliberately not meeting Angela's eyes. "But I bet you are, Stan. Got pictures?"

  It was all the other pilot needed. While Clancy tipped back in his chair and feigned interest, Stan trotted out snapshots of a dark-haired, cheerful looking woman and two round, blond babies. Clancy'd seen too many photos like that. Left among the effects of too many dead pilots.

  "So what are you doing here, Clancy?" Stan asked, after the proper attention had been paid to his family.

  "Flying," he said briefly.

  "I assumed that. I didn't know anyone was hiring."

  His eyes skipped over to Angela's composed face. "You don't mean you're working for Angie?"

  "Exactly."

  "You sure you want to do that? No offense, Angie, but you've got Charlie Olker determined to drive you out of business, and he plays rough. It's not the sort of life for a woman, anyway. You're a great pilot, Angie, but it takes a man to run a business. You should just go back to your air races."

  "You should—" She bit off her retort and managed a pleasant, strained smile. "You should wait and see what happens," she amended. "Ten years ago no one would have thought women could fly. We've proven you wrong. In another ten years no one will be surprised at women running businesses, colleges, banks."

  Stan laughed. "Always the kidder, Angie. I tell you one thing, with Clancy working for you your business is going to pick up one hundred percent. You might stand a chance against Olker after all."

  It wasn't what she wanted to hear, Clancy thought, though she took it gracefully enough. "Even without Clancy I'm going to make it," she said calmly.

  "Of course you are," Stan said indulgently. "We're all pulling for you."

  The bar lapsed into a sudden hushed silence, and Clancy pulled his attention away from Angela long enough to glance toward the entrance.

  The vision that posed in the doorway waited long enough for customers of the place, almost exclusively male, to appreciate her sheer loveliness, and then she advanced into the room, hips swaying just slightly enough to entice, not enough to outrage. And those hips were headed toward their table.

  She was quite a looker, Clancy thought distantly. The kind of woman he liked, with smooth blond hair waved close to her head, pale blue eyes, a bright red, hungry-looking mouth. Her eyebrows were plucked thin, painted with a high arch over those slightly protuberant eyes, and he would have taken a bet that those lush curves beneath the exaggerated shoulders were padded.

  A bet he would have lost, he thought, as he belatedly realized this was Constance. She was no aristocrat like her sister Angela. Constance knew exactly who she was and what she wanted in life.

  She paused at the table, bestowing a gorgeous smile on all of them. "I've come looking for my big sister," she said, her voice light and slightly breathy, sort of Shirley Temple crossed with Jea
n Harlow. She was looking across the table, directly at Clancy, with a big, innocent smile on her gorgeous face. "I don't know you, do I?" she murmured, dimpling prettily.

  "That's Jack Clancy," Angela muttered, clearly bothered by something. "Let's go home, Constance.”

  Stan was already in the midst of pulling up another chair. "Oh, let her have a drink, Angie. Don't be such an old maid."

  Stan wasn't long on brains, Clancy thought lazily. Either to be suckered by a pretty little piece of fluff like Constance or to think of Angela Hogan as anything like an old maid. "She better go home, Stan," Clancy drawled, paying little attention to the luscious blond newcomer. "We've got a long trip tomorrow and she needs her beauty sleep."

  "You're going somewhere?" Constance demanded, still eyeing Clancy with a covert interest he recognized and ignored.

  "To find a mechanic. We'll be back in a couple of days."

  "We?" Constance echoed, clearly astonished as she stared at Angela. "You're going off with him?"

  "You bet, honey," Clancy drawled. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of your older sister."

  Constance shook her blond head, grinning a likable grin. "She doesn't let anyone take care of her," Constance said. "She likes to be in charge."

  "So do I," Clancy responded, leaning back. "I imagine we'll work it out."

  "Clancy's right, we'd better get home," Angela said briskly. "See you tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow," Clancy agreed, watching them leave. And realizing, for all Constance's curves and sashaying hips accentuated by the clinging pink dress, he found Angela's slim, no-nonsense stride far more arousing. "Sparks," he said, not taking his eyes off the Hogan sisters. "See if Tony has a bottle of Johnny Walker. I think it's going to be a long night."

  Sparks followed his gaze, his own expression both troubled and mournful. "You're right," he said with a sigh. "Endless."

  Chapter Four

  Angela was out of the house the next morning by the time Constance even began to stir, her overnight bag stashed in the back of the Packard. The train didn't leave till late that afternoon—she had every intention of getting a full day's worth of work done before they left.

  That is, until Charlie Olker walked into her office, as big as brass and twice as hard, and heaved his impressive bulk into her protesting chair.

  "Do come in," she said affably, leaning back. "Don't stand on ceremony."

  "I thought it was time we laid our cards on the table," Charlie said. "Enough of this pussyfooting around."

  "All right. Lay your cards on the table," Angela suggested.

  Charlie Olker was an unprepossessing figure of a man. He was big, and what had been muscles in his youth had now spread to sloppy fat and a beer belly. He'd had either the good fortune or the sheer stupidity to have shot down several German planes during the Great War, and the subsequent medals and notoriety had sealed his profession as a War Hero for the rest of his days. He'd started an air-freight business a few weeks after Frank Hogan had died, jumping in while Angela was too distracted by grief and rage to pull her father's struggling business together.

  It had been an uphill battle since then, with Charlie's dirty tricks tripping her up when she least expected it. As far as she knew, he hadn't been in an airplane since he'd been smart enough to hire a crew of down-on-their-luck veterans, but he still dressed like one, complete with leather flight jacket, white silk scarf draped casually beneath his double chin, baggy khaki pants drooping low beneath his impressive stomach and dragging behind his heels. He was smoking a cigar, a big, cheap, smelly one, and Angela reached for her Luckies in self-defense.

  "I heard you fired Martin and Bellamy."

  "I did," she said, blowing a thin stream of smoke in the direction of his piggy little eyes.

  "Bellamy's a good pilot. Likes the sauce too much, of course, but then, what real man doesn't? You can't be too picky when it comes to hiring people, Angela. Just a word of friendly advice."

  "Then I'm sure you'll have plenty of room to take Bellamy back into your organization."

  Charlie batted his colorless eyelashes. "He never worked for me," he said innocently.

  Angela's own smile was sour. "Well, he can now. Martin, too."

  "That's another thing. You shouldn't ought to go firing people like that. It gives people a bad impression. If you have a little trouble with your employees, you just need to sort 'em out. That's why women can't run businesses. They can't take someone out behind the woodshed and give 'em a tarring."

  "And you could?" The thought of Charlie trying to pound some sense into Robert Bellamy was momentarily amusing, and she smiled.

  Charlie, of course, misread her smile. "Well, it's probably too late. I don't think you could get them back if you want to. Though maybe if I put in a good word for you, they might be willing to consider it."

  "No, thank you. I don't want them back." She set her cigarette down in the bright pink ashtray and met Charlie's gaze. "Is this laying your cards on the table, Charlie? Why did you come to see me?"

  "I hear you hired Jack Clancy."

  "Aha," she said. "That's what I figured was bugging you. How'd you hear?"

  "There's not much that goes on around here that I don't know about," he said. His cigar had gone out, but even the dead stogie still smelled foul. "Let me be straight with you, sister. It's a losing battle. No woman can compete with a man and ever expect to win. It goes against the laws of nature. This is a man's world, and the sooner you accept it, the happier you'll be."

  "Gee, Charlie," Angela said. "It's really swell of you to be so concerned about my future happiness. I didn't know you cared."

  He missed her sarcasm completely. "Listen, Angie, you can't go up against a man and expect to remain a woman. And letting yourself get involved with a playboy like Clancy! Your father, God rest his soul, would be whirling in his grave if he heard about it. Take some advice from an old friend. Sell me the pitiful remains of your business and get on with your life."

  "Stuff it, Charlie." She stubbed out her cigarette. "And get off my property."

  Charlie's moon face creased in anger, and his small dark eyes were bright with malice. "You think you got something with Clancy? Let me tell you, honey, he's been through more women than you could even imagine, and he's left every one of them. He'll leave you, too, just use you up and dump you, and then this place won't be worth spit. I'll just come in and mop up the mess, and you'll have nothing, do you hear me, absolutely nothing!" His voice had risen shrilly.

  "Why, Charlie," Clancy's voice broke through Olker's rage. "Long time no see." He was lounging in the doorway, an inimical expression on his face. "You busy warning Angel about me?"

  For a moment an expression of sheer dread passed over Charlie's face. The effect was oddly comical, particularly since the room was still thick with tension. Angela heard herself giggle.

  "Clancy." Charlie cleared his throat noisily. "I heard you were in town."

  "So I gather." Clancy straightened up and moved into the room with a sort of sinuous menace that left Angela momentarily stunned. "Next time you try to bully Miss Hogan, I'm going to take it personally. She's just doing her job, trying to run a business, and she doesn't need you butting in with threats and warnings and helpful hints. She's got enough going on without you interfering. Get it?"

  "Look, Clancy, Angela and I are old friends, and it's none of your damned business—"

  "It became my business when you started taking my name in vain, Charlie." Clancy's voice was a smooth, silken threat. He turned to Angela. "You want this guy here?"

  "No."

  Clancy smiled. "Get out, Charlie. And don't come back without a written invitation."

  "You'll be sorry, Angela," Charlie said, heaving his impressive bulk out of the chair and heading for the door, carefully skirting Clancy as one might skirt a wild animal. "Don't say I didn't warn you. He's no good for you. Listen to an old friend—"

  Sparks had appeared in the doorway, a very large, very nasty-looking wrench i
n one oil-grimed hand. "You need someone to show you the door, Charlie?" he questioned affably.

  Charlie turned and ran as fast as his bulk let him. Clancy dropped into the vacated chair, sniffing the air. "He always did like those cheap cigars."

  "I didn't know you knew Charlie Olker," Angela said carefully.

  "You stay in the business long enough, you eventually meet everyone. Are you going to ask me whether I'm on his payroll?" Clancy's voice was almost casual, but Angela wasn't fooled. If she came out with the wrong answer, he'd get up and walk out and she wouldn't see him again.

  She didn't want that. She told herself she needed a pilot, she told herself that he knew where the mechanic was and she didn't. And she knew well enough that those were only side issues. She wasn't ready for him to disappear.

  That was as far as she allowed her thought processes to go. "I'm not going to ask you that," she said.

  "Why not?" He pushed it. "You don't strike me as the kind of girl who trusts people, and you sure as hell don't strike me as someone who trusts me."

  "You're right. I just don't have much choice right now. I need you too much to worry about whether you're selling me out." The moment the words were out, she wished she could have called them back. In all her twenty-seven years she'd tried very hard not to need anyone, and certainly not to tell them when she did. She'd just placed a very useful bit of ammunition in Clancy's hands, and she could have kicked herself.

  Clancy, however, looked bored with her hard-won confession, as if it were nothing more than he expected. "Glad you realize it, Red," he drawled. "And let me give you a word of warning about Charlie. He's probably just been annoying you, getting in your way, because he doesn't consider you a real threat. If and when you do become one, he's going to get very nasty, indeed. Watch your back. Or I'll watch it for you."

  "Do you intend to be around that long?" she asked, curiosity and dismay swamping her at that thought.

  "Let's just say that if I'm not, either you've given up or Olker has lost."