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

by Anne Stuart

  "Anything wrong with that?" Clancy asked.

  "No. Except that he's a married man with a great deal of money, and Angela really needs that money if she's going to make her stupid flight."

  For a moment Clancy said nothing, eyeing the pretty little beast from behind hooded lids. "Exactly what do you think is going to happen?" he asked finally.

  Constance didn't have half of Angela's formidable brain power. She turned eagerly, convinced she had a sucker. "She wore one of the evening dresses I made. Not the Worth one, which is much more her style. She took the Lanvin one, with no back and just about no front to it at all. I'm afraid in her desperation to get that money she might... well, she might..." She allowed words to fail her, dropping her magnificent blue eyes.

  "You think she might whore herself to her cousin in order to get enough money to make her flight," Clancy supplied flatly.

  "You put it so crudely!" Constance protested.

  "I'm a crude kind of guy. Isn't that what you were saying? Isn't it?"

  "Don't browbeat her," Sparks protested, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in dismay. He didn't like what his saintly little Constance was saying any more than Clancy did, but he was cursed with divided loyalties. Clancy didn't have any such restraints.

  "Isn't it?" he demanded again.

  "I suppose it is." Constance said, raising her head to look at him, her eyes swimming with tears. She dabbed at them carefully, not touching her very subtle makeup, and he noticed that she was one of those women who managed to cry well. Her nose didn't run, her eyes didn't get red and puffy. He would have bet a fiver she practiced in front of a mirror.

  "I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Miss Hogan," he said. "Angela isn't about to throw her innocence away for anything as paltry as money."

  Sparks and Constance were staring at him in shock. "What makes you think she's still innocent?" Constance demanded abruptly.

  Clancy only grinned. "Go back to your boys, Miss Hogan, and don't worry about Angela. She knows how to take care of herself."

  The two men sat in relative silence for a while after Constance left them. "You didn't answer her question," Sparks said heavily.

  "What question?" Clancy knew full well, but he hoped Sparks would taken the hint and drop it.

  "How did you know Angela is still innocent?"

  "Isn't it obvious?"

  "No," Sparks said stubbornly. "I want an answer, Clancy. If I have to beat it out of you."

  Clancy sighed, putting down his drink. "Listen, Sparks, Angela Hogan isn't my type. In case you haven't noticed, I've been keeping a careful distance from her."

  "Maybe not distant enough."

  "Stop looking for a fight, Sparks. I know enough about women to know who's phony and who's not. Angela Hogan, for all her tough-guy exterior, is an innocent lamb underneath. As for her sister, she has the soul of a—"

  "Watch it, Clancy!"

  "What is this? Defend-the-Hogans night? I don't give a damn about Constance, Sparks. Form your own opinion."

  "What about Angela?"

  "What about her?"

  "Do you give a damn about Angela?"

  He'd known Sparks for fifteen years, off and on, and in all that time he'd never lied to him. He had a certain code of ethics: you lied to bosses, you lied to superior officers, you lied to policemen and you lied to women. But you never, ever, lied to your buddies.

  "Not a spit, Sparks," he said, his eyes wide and honest. "I couldn't care less."

  Sparks stared at him for a long moment. "I wish I believed you were telling the truth."

  Clancy didn't bother getting mad. "So do I, Sparks," he said obscurely. "So do I."

  *

  Angela slid back on the leather cushions of the Pierce Arrow and giggled. She held on to the half-empty bottle of champagne very carefully, not wanting to spill a single drop.

  She didn't know how, and she didn't know why, but stingy Cousin Clement had written her a check without a word of demurral, written it before his battle-ax of a wife, Eleanor, could enter the drawing room and find out what he was doing.

  Angela had been dressed to kill for the simple reason that she knew Clement had a weakness for pretty women. It was that weakness that had gotten him involved with Hollywood, a move that had proven very profitable for him. She knew well enough to try to appeal to his baser instincts, safe in the knowledge that their distant blood relationship would keep his animal lust under safe, Catholic control. All during dinner, when Eleanor wasn't looking, he let his dark, pouchy eyes slide down the naked back of the Lanvin evening dress, and it was all Angela could do not to reach for the evening cape she'd brought along with her. She reminded herself that she liked Clement, she really did. And she particularly liked his willingness to fund her next flight.

  They'd had champagne to celebrate her upcoming flight, and Eleanor had toasted her, unaware that the money for that flight was coming from her philandering husband. They had champagne to toast Clement's new investment in RKO Studios. They had champagne to toast Eleanor's latest charity drive.

  And then Eleanor had sent Angela home in the Pierce Arrow before Clement could offer to drive her himself. The champagne had a dangerous effect on all of them. It made Eleanor more gimlet-eyed and suspicious, with her catty remarks about Angela's sweet little sister. It made Clement forget consanguinity and squeeze Angela a little too enthusiastically as he brushed the chauffeur aside and helped her into the back of the Pierce Arrow himself. And it made Angela giggle most of the way back to Evanston, particularly once she realized that Clement, ever the perfect host, had sent along a chilled bottle of Moet et Chandon to keep her occupied during the long ride.

  She surfaced a while later, staring out at the rain-wet streets. She didn't want to go home and go to bed, she wanted to share her good news with someone. She wanted to share this delicious bottle of champagne with someone. She'd left her watch at home and hadn't the faintest idea what time it was. Nonetheless, she leaned forward and gave Eleanor's rigidly proper chauffeur the address to Tony's Bar and Grille. She needed to be with her own kind to celebrate her good news. Not with a stuck-up witch like Eleanor and a lustful stuffed shirt like Clement.

  Her legs were only slightly unsteady as she headed up the sidewalk to Tony's. She'd quelled the chauffeur's protests with her iciest glare, then giggled all the way to Tony's door as she heard him drive off. Drunk or sober, she knew how to keep a man in his place, she thought cheerfully, reaching for the doorknob.

  It was locked. Leaning against the glass, her eyes focused and belatedly she realized that the bar was almost dark and most certainly silent. It must be much later than she realized. And there she was, alone in the middle of Evanston in the middle of the night, in shoes that weren't working right, and with a bottle of champagne and no one to share it.

  She banged on the door, not expecting much of a response. She was just about to sit down on the sidewalk and finish the bottle herself when the door opened, and Clancy stood there in the darkness, staring down at her.

  "You better come in," he said after a moment.

  And Angela, knowing it had to rank with one of her stupider moves, stepped inside.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clancy closed the door behind her, locked it and pulled down the shade. Then he turned, letting his eyes slide down her body, and let out a low whistle. She was dressed to kill, all right. The dress was a midnight blue, studded with beads that caught the light, and the top of the damned thing was just about nonexistent. It was cut low over Angela's small, firm breasts, it was cut to the waist in the back. She was clutching a half-empty bottle of champagne. Her elbow-length white gloves were sagging around her elegant forearms, her hair was loose and wonderful around her face, and her lipstick was unsmudged. Whoever she'd been out to impress, she hadn't kissed him. For some reason Clancy felt some of his frustration fade.

  "Angel," he said wryly. "You have had a snootful tonight."

  Angela managed a woozy smile as she leaned over to slide
off her silver evening sandals, wobbling somewhat as she tried to maintain her balance and not spill the bottle of champagne she clutched in her gloved hand. "It's the champagne," she confided, kicking off the other shoe and wiggling her toes on the bare wood floor that Rosa had just swept.

  "I thought you told me you were allergic to champagne."

  "I am. Whenever I drink it my brain flies straight out the window."

  "You could have fooled me," he muttered under his breath, putting a steadying hand beneath her elbow. "So why drink it?"

  "To celebrate." Out of her delectable cleavage she pulled a slip of paper and waved it under his nose. It smelled like her perfume, and he was tempted to warn her that the gesture was tantamount to waving a red flag in front of a bull, but he controlled himself, instead letting his eyes linger over the front of her dress. Why in heaven's name had he ever thought he preferred busty women? Angela was perfect.

  "Why don't I find a couple of glasses and I'll celebrate with you?" he suggested affably, moving behind the bar.

  She looked doubtful, glancing at her bottle. "I don't have much left."

  "What's going on in there?" Tony loomed in the doorway.

  "Just me, Tony," Clancy said easily.

  "I thought I heard someone at the door."

  "You did. It was Angela."

  Tony's burly shoulders relaxed. "Oh, Miss Angie. That's okay, then. Can I get you anything?"

  "Got another bottle of champagne stashed anywhere? Angela's celebrating."

  "Sure thing. I keep it around for special occasions. This a special occasion, Miss Angie?"

  "You bet," she said cheerfully, sinking down in a chair, her skirt billowing out around her.

  "I'll get the bottle. You'll have to ice it."

  "We can wait," Clancy said, his eyes never leaving Angela's face.

  A few minutes later a bottle of domestic champagne was chilling in an old mop bucket full of ice and Tony was heading back to the rooms he shared with Rosa, his three young children, his mother-in-law and his uncle. "You'll close up after Miss Angie leaves, won't you, Clancy?"

  "You can count on me," Clancy said, forcibly ignoring the brief flash of guilt. He had no intention of closing up after Miss Angie. He was going to continue to ply her with champagne until she could barely walk straight, and when she was ready to fall on her luscious little behind, he was going to make sure she landed in his bed.

  He hadn't the slightest qualms about taking advantage of a lady in Angela's condition. It was probably the only way he was going to get her, short of going down on one knee and offering her his heart and hand and dubious income. And that was something he wasn't going to offer anybody.

  No, he felt guilty about seducing Tony's beloved saint. He felt guilty about taking what Sparks wanted and couldn't have. He felt bad about betraying his buddies. But he didn't feel bad at all about betraying Angela Hogan.

  They had to make do with beer shells. Setting the glasses on the table, he took a chair, deftly turned it and straddled it, watching her out of deliberately enigmatic eyes. "So what are we celebrating, Red?" he asked, tipping the last of the champagne into her glass. "What's the money for?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know?" she said archly, draining half her glass with tipsy enthusiasm.

  "That's why I'm asking. Who's the check from?"

  "My Cousin Clement," she said with a happy sigh. "He's decided to be the soul of generosity. I knew he would. He's investing."

  "Investing in Hogan Air Transport?"

  "In a manner of speaking. He's underwriting a flight I intend to make."

  Clancy felt an unaccustomed edginess pricking at his nerves. "So Amelia Earhart's pushed you into action," he said mildly enough, sipping his own champagne. It was lukewarm, slightly flat, but Angela was drinking it with real enthusiasm.

  "You might say so. Now's as good a time as any."

  "And what are you planning to do?"

  "Uh-uh-uh," she reprimanded him, waggling her gloved finger at him. "It's none of your damned business."

  He caught her hand in his. "Watch your mouth, Angela. I don't like women who swear."

  "Hell, you probably don't like women who fly, either. Or run their own businesses or wear pants or think they're the equal of men," she said, yanking at her hand. He held it tight. "You probably like women like Betsey. Or Con..." Her voice trailed off.

  "No," he said, releasing her hand. "I don't like women like your sister. If I did, I'd have done something about it by now."

  "She's probably too sweet and nice for you."

  "I wouldn't say that," he drawled. "As for Betsey, I'm surprised you even noticed I was going out with her. It didn't last very long."

  "I don't imagine things usually do, with someone like you."

  "Hey, Red, I thought we were celebrating, not fighting," he protested, grinning. "Betsey wasn't my type, either."

  "Then what is your type?" she demanded. He could tell by the faint flush on her high cheekbones, the faintly belligerent air to her beautiful mouth, that she was spoiling for a fight, saying things she'd certainly thought a lot about but never dared mention when she was sober. The thought of her quietly fuming over him and Betsey was one of the best things he'd heard in months.

  "I thought I told you. Long-legged, cold-hearted, acid-tongued fliers."

  "Since when?" she demanded, pulling off her gloves and dumping them on the table. "There've been a million rumors about your romantic exploits, and none of them have ever involved a pilot."

  "I'm getting better taste in my old age," Clancy said softly.

  She looked up then, her eyes meeting and focusing on his for a moment, and something hot, fast and inexplicable shot between them. A moment later she was pushing back from the table. "I should be getting home," she murmured.

  "How do you plan on doing that? You're certainly not driving in your condition. For that matter, how'd you get here?"

  "Clement's chauffeur dropped me off. My car's back at the house." She gave him a hopeful look. "I don't suppose you...?"

  "I don't own a car, Angel. I usually count on Sparks to give me a ride to the hangar." He almost laughed at the look of dismay on her flushed, elegant face. "Don't worry about it. I can always borrow Tony's Hudson. Particularly if it's to ferry his saintly Miss Angie back home."

  "I'm not a saint," she muttered.

  "What's that?"

  "I'm not a saint," she said louder. "I just do the best I can."

  "Including taking on all the lost souls in the world."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Sparks, Parsons. Me. A bunch of misfits. Sparks has only a few good flights left in him, and then what? You'll put him to work in the office, won't you, or navigating or something. At the same salary, which I damned well know you can't afford. Same for Parsons. Oh, sure, you needed him. And he's just about the best damned mechanic around. But he's a drunk, even if he's off the bottle right now, and a jinx, and you welcome him with open arms. You would have hired Langston if he'd accepted, a move that would have driven you into bankruptcy faster than anything Charlie Olker can dream up."

  "What about you? What makes you a misfit?"

  "I'm the worst of all. I don't take orders, I don't listen to warnings, I do things my way and I can't be counted on. Sooner or later, when you least expect it, I'll be off without so much as a fare-thee-well."

  "You said you were going to stay until we beat Olker."

  "Maybe I lied," he suggested.

  She shook her head and the thick chestnut wave tumbled in her face. She brushed it away with an endearing clumsiness, and for a moment Clancy wondered why he was trying to warn her. Why he didn't just pour more champagne down her throat and carry her upstairs?

  "I trust you," she said simply.

  Clancy swore underneath his breath. "Then you're a fool."

  "Maybe. I guess I'll just have to wait until you disillusion me."

  "It'll happen sooner or later."

  "I imagine so," she agreed. "
In the meantime, do you think that other bottle of champagne is chilled?"

  You asked for it, lady, he thought, not without a trace of grimness. And you're going to get it. "It's got to be colder than this stuff. I'll get it."

  The beer shell held about three times the amount a flat-bottomed champagne glass would hold. He waited until she drained the first one, then refilled it before heading over to Tony's beloved jukebox. Shoving a nickel in, he pushed C 12.

  "You're not playing 'Harbor Lights' are you?" she demanded. "I heard that enough in that little restaurant in Albany. I don't ever want to hear it again."

  "Not 'Harbor Lights,'" he said, standing over her as Bunny Berigan's trumpet began the first, perfect notes of "I Can't Get Started." "Dance with me, Red."

  "I don't know if I can even stand, much less dance," she said, but he could see the faint tremor of apprehension in the back of her beautiful blue eyes, and he knew it wasn't falling that she was afraid of. It was him catching her.

  He took her arm and pulled her slowly to her stockinged feet. "Don't worry, Angel. I'll take care of you." And with infinite care he pulled her into his arms so that her body pressed against his, as Berigan's whiskey-flavored voice started singing.

  She stumbled slightly, and he could smell her perfume in the cloud of hair tickling his nose. It was French and expensive and classy and the most erotic thing in the world. He groaned, pulling her closer, feeling her curves mold against him.

  "I don't think this is a good idea," she murmured, her face pressed against his shirt.

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not that squiffed, Clancy. And neither are you." She yawned like a sleepy kitten and snuggled closer in his arms.

  "I'm not squiffed at all," he told her. "Try it this way. You'll be able to hang on better." And taking both her arms, he pulled them around his neck so that her body was draped against his. He put his arms around her slender waist, pulling her closer, and shut his eyes for a moment as Berigan began his trumpet solo.

  He was being a romantic sap. He shouldn't be romancing Miss Angela Hogan to the strains of "I Can't Get Started." He should be off with his own kind. But she moved so sweetly against him and her head felt just right beneath his chin and his body was strung as tight as a wire. He'd never wanted anyone as much in his life, not even when he was fifteen years old and lost his virginity in the hayloft of a barn in Kansas. Back then he'd thought Elsa Lambert was the hottest thing he'd ever seen, and he'd been in an absolute paroxysm of lust for her.