by Anne Stuart
It was nothing compared to what he was feeling right now. And the damnable thing was that it was more than lust. That was part of it, all right, but mixed in was a grudging respect, an honest liking, a strange, misplaced need to protect. And if his old friend Sparks were to show up at that moment and stop him from what he was planning, Clancy would punch him in the kisser.
She stumbled again, sliding against him, and he wondered if she could feel how hard he was. If she'd even recognize his condition. He couldn't believe Hal Ramsey had been such a sucker to have such a delicious morsel within his reach and never to have plucked it. At least he wasn't troubled with any extraneous sense of honor, Clancy thought.
The record stopped; the room went silent. Clancy stopped dancing, still holding her, and he moved his hand from her waist to her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her expression was solemn, her eyes only slightly dazed. "Are you ready to finish what we started?" he asked softly, giving her one last chance to escape.
The nod of her head was almost imperceptible. But he saw it. Sliding his hand behind her neck, under her hair, he pulled her up to meet his mouth.
Her lips were soft and sweet beneath his. And open. He was so hungry for her he forgot preliminaries, forgot gentle seduction. His mouth ground down on hers, his tongue swept into her mouth, catching hers and demanding a response. He felt a shiver pass through her body, and then she was pressing closer, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips pressing up against his.
He moved his head away for a moment, moving his lips back and forth across hers, dampening them. And then he kissed her again, and this time she was ready. He drank in her quiet moan of surrender, and when her tongue reached out and touched his, he almost exploded.
He wanted to haul her up on the wide expanse of polished walnut bar and cover her, take her there and then. His hands were shaking with need and he couldn't get enough of her. "Let's go upstairs." His voice was a ragged breath of sound in her ear.
She looked up at him, her mouth damp and slightly swollen, her eyes confused. "Why?"
He grinned wryly. "I've got a radio up there. We can tune in 'Make Believe Ballroom' and dance."
" 'Make Believe Ballroom' 's over," she said, scrunching up her delectable face in an effort to concentrate.
"We'll find something else to dance to," he promised, grabbing the bottle of champagne off the table and not bothering with the glasses. He'd have to sneak down after she fell asleep and clean up. Tony would get too suspicious if he left the glasses down here, and he didn't want his landlord to find out he'd deflowered Angela Hogan in the sagging iron bed upstairs. He'd soon find himself out of a billet, and he found Tony's rooms too comfortable to give them up.
Hell, he might be out of a job, he thought belatedly. His plane was arriving by freighter in New York the day after tomorrow—by seducing Angela Hogan he might end up with no place to take it, no mechanic to work on it.
He looked down at Angela, swaying slightly beside him, at the rise and fall of her small breasts beneath the skimpy evening gown. To hell with his plane, he thought absently. Inexperienced, untried and endearingly clumsy, Angela Hogan was going to be worth it.
He put his arm around her and headed her toward the long, narrow flight of stairs that led up to his rooms. She went willingly enough, a faint, otherworldly smile on her face, but the stairs proved to be a little too much for a woman in her condition. Halfway up he hoisted her into his arms, continuing up with barely a pause, kicking open his door and kicking it shut behind him.
"I didn't realize you were so strong," she said as he set her down carefully.
It wasn't a come-on. The silly dame was too damned tight to know what she was saying. She leaned back against the door, a come-hither smile on her wonderful mouth. As he leaned forward to kiss her, she began sinking, still with that smile in place. By the time his mouth would have reached her, she was sitting on the floor, her legs stuck straight out in front of her, that idiotic smile still on her face. Her eyes were closed and she was snoring slightly. Miss Angela Hogan had passed out in the midst of her big seduction.
Clancy leaned his head against the door and cursed. Then he backed away, squatting down beside her and taking one limp hand in his.
He patted it, slapped it. "Wake up, Red. Come to bed."
She responded by slapping at him. "Go 'way," she muttered.
He hauled her up. She was heavier now as deadweight than she was moments before when he'd carried her up his stairs. Of course, he'd had a goal then. Now he had the depressing suspicion that all his evil intentions had gone down the drain.
"Coffee," he muttered under his breath. Maybe he could make some coffee, sober her up long enough to have a little bit of participation. He couldn’t actually say he’d never been tempted to take advantage of a comatose female, but somehow he couldn’t see doing that to Angela, no matter how gorgeous she was. Besides, he didn't just want sex. He wanted her. Body and soul.
That was the kind of thought that scared him. Angela Hogan was coming to affect him more than any female in his long years of existence, and it was time he showed a little sense. It was a lucky thing he didn't believe in anything as ridiculous as falling in love. If he did, he'd be coming too damned close to it. Tonight he'd been given a reprieve from making one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He'd better get out while the getting was good.
He hoisted her up over his shoulder, her luscious little rump beside his face, her arms and legs hanging down limply. "You'll never know how close you came, Angel," he muttered, heading for the outside staircase. If Tony saw Clancy carting a limp Angela from his room, all hell would break loose. He needed to get her home and in bed with the minimum of fuss. And then he was going to take the first train to New York, to his plane, and if he had any sense at all, he'd never seen Angela Hogan again.
There were airplane hangars all over the East Coast, and a man with Clancy's connections and reputation could weasel his way into one. He'd come dangerously close to losing everything tonight. Thank God she'd managed to forestall a disastrous mistake for both of them by passing out. There were no happy endings, no little cottages and white picket fences for a man like him. Besides, he sure the hell couldn't imagine Angela in a frilly apron.
He dumped Angela into the front seat of Tony's Hudson, then moved around to the driver's seat. It started quietly enough and a few moments later he was out on the empty streets of Evanston, heading for Angela's bungalow.
The lights were blazing when he pulled up in front of it, and no sooner had he gotten around to the passenger side when the front door opened and Constance appeared, dressed in a negligee that belonged in some Ginger Rogers movie and not in a working-class neighborhood outside of Chicago. Her fluffy, high-heeled mules tap-tapped on the sidewalk as she rushed to the car, and her voice was high-pitched with irritation.
"What have you done to her?" she demanded. "I was worried sick."
"I didn't do a thing to her," he said irritably. "More's the pity," he added under his breath as he tossed Angela back over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "It was her Cousin Clement who got her snockered."
"Clement?" Sweet little Constance's voice got even more shrill. "What was she doing with him?"
"You remember. She was conning some money out of him." The house smelled like cheap perfume, not the kind Angela had worn, and coffee. "For some flight of hers. Where's her bedroom?"
Constance gestured to the left. "The only one in the house. Put her down carefully," she said, trailing after them.
Clancy had already dropped Angela down with a touch too much enthusiasm. She was still off in dreamland, that silly smile on her face, and her evening gown had pulled lower, exposing most of one perfect breast.
He was reaching out to touch her when he heard Constance's gasp. She rushed past him, covered her sister with the sheet, then surveyed her critically.
"Who would have believed it of Angela?" she said. "Was she in this condition when you found her?"
&n
bsp; "Your cousin's chauffeur dropped her off at Tony's. And yes, she was already pie-eyed."
"I don't mean the drinking. She never could hold her champagne. I mean had she been kissed?"
Clancy leaned over and studied the sleeping woman. Her lipstick was smudged now, her pale cheeks slightly abraded from his own late-evening beard. He just wished the rest of her body was similarly attended to.
"I didn't touch her," he said self-righteously. "It must have been your cousin."
Miss Constance Hogan didn't like that notion in the slightest. "He's Angela's cousin, not mine," she snapped. "I don't believe he'd do it."
Clancy shrugged, wishing Constance would go away so he could pull the sheet down again. Finally he gave up, heading into the living room with only a last, lingering glance. He didn't intend to see Miss Angela Hogan ever again, and he was feeling sentimental.
"Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
He turned, his eyes focusing for the first time on Constance. She'd belted her silky peignoir low over her spectacular figure, and there was no missing her generous endowments or the hint that that peignoir might come off quite easily.
He would have killed for a cup of coffee. "No, thanks. I've got to get going."
"What's your hurry? You aren't afraid of little old me, are you?" She smiled, that cute little-girl expression at odds with her wise eyes.
"Not in the slightest, toots," he said, considering it, just for a moment. After all, he was only human.
"Why don't you sit down and tell me what you find so attractive about my sister? You don't strike me as the type to like forceful women."
"Why don't you tell me what she got that money for?" he countered. "What flight is she planning?"
"You mean she hasn't told you? I guess I got the two of you wrong. I thought there was something between you."
"Not a thing," Clancy said. "What's she planning?"
"To break the record from some place in Canada to Havana. Just like Hal Ramsey tried."
"Hell and damnation," Clancy said bleakly. "I should have guessed."
"Why don't you sit down and I'll tell you all about it?"
His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her sweet little face. "No, thanks," he said. "You might fool your sister and her buddies with that little-girl act, but I've been around. Girls like you are nothing but trouble."
Constance smiled, unmoved. "But trouble can be nothing but fun."
"Sorry. I've got better things to do."
She slammed the door after him, and he half-expected her shrill voice to curse him all the way to the car. Instead the quiet of the early-morning hours settled around him as he started the Hudson, taking off toward Tony's. Things were even worse than he'd thought. He had to get out of here and fast. Before he told Angela Hogan that she was crazy to do what she was planning on doing.
Before he told her that it was his record she was attempting to break.
Before he told her he was falling in love with her.
Chapter Thirteen
"I'm going to die." Angela heard her own voice echoing from beneath the pillow, and it sounded as if it were coming from beyond the grave. She only wished it were.
"No, you're not." Constance's voice penetrated the thick feather cushion. "You're going to wake up and drink your coffee and face the real world. There are worse tragedies in this life than your hangover."
At the sound of the word coffee, Angela surfaced from beneath the pillow, groaning as the midday light speared through her eyes. "Such as?" she demanded, sitting up and holding out her hand for the cup her sister had brought with her.
"Such as the Duke of Windsor marrying that woman," Constance said, fluffing herself down on the bed opposite her sister.
"This is a tragedy?" Angela scalded her tongue on the first sip, but she didn't care.
"It means your sister will never be queen of England."
Angela took a larger sip, burning her entire mouth. "Have I missed something along the way? As far as I remember, King Edward abdicated last December to marry the woman he loved. I don't remember your name being mentioned."
"A girl can dream."
Angela sighed. "Better settle for reality. Why would you want to live in England? I hear it's cold and rainy all the time."
"Maybe I'll have to settle for being a movie star," Constance said in a meditative voice.
Angela laughed, willing to be distracted. "What in heaven's name happened to me last night?"
"Don't you remember?"
"Not much. Clement gave me a check for expenses, we toasted the flight with champagne, Cousin Eleanor was glaring at me—"
"Cousin Eleanor always glares," Constance said cheerfully.
"How would you know that? I didn't think you'd ever met her."
Constance's smile was evasive. "She sounds like someone who glares."
"She is. So how did I get home? Did the chauffeur drop me off?"
"Not exactly."
Angela sat up straighter in the bed. "What do you mean, not exactly?" She looked down at the blue evening dress that was tumbling down to her waist. Somewhere in the mists of her memory she was remembering hands on her, dark hands, strong, arousing hands on her.
"Clancy!" she shrieked, spilling her coffee over the white sheets, over the blue chiffon dress.
"My dress!" Constance gasped, diving for the bed and mopping up the mess.
It took several moments for that overwhelming crisis to be averted, and by the time Angela was standing in the bedroom in her silky underwear, her recalcitrant memory was slowly coming back. "I had Evans take me to the bar," she said. "It was locked and closed, but Clancy was there. Oh, God!"
"So what?" Constance's voice was uncharacteristically brisk as she scrubbed at the coffee stains. "He's scarcely a lust-crazed beast. I'm sure he'd be able to control his evil impulses."
"What would you know about lust-crazed beasts?" Angela questioned darkly. "You've lived a sheltered life. The closest you've come to lust is on the movie screen."
"If you say so," Constance muttered. "Anyway, Clancy drove you home about three o'clock in the morning. You were out like a light. He dropped you on the bed and left."
Angela was prey to conflicting emotions. "I hope you didn't wear that peignoir to the door?"
Constance looked down at the filmy creation. "Are you crazy? I was wearing your chenille bathrobe, with flannel pj's underneath."
Angela wondered for a brief moment why Constance had changed, then dismissed the question as one too many for her poor overworked brain. "I left Clement's before midnight. What was I doing between then and three when Clancy brought me home?"
"You tell me," Constance said, tossing the stained gown over her arm and heading for the kitchen.
Angela looked down at her slender body. The silk stockings were still attached to her garters, the tap pants were in place. Her body looked white, smooth, unblemished, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Clancy hadn't had his wicked way with her. He was a man who'd leave a mark, on her flesh, in her mind, in her soul. He already had.
It took hours for coffee, aspirin, a hot bath and clean clothes to turn her into the semblance of a normal person. The Packard was out of gas, but she couldn't bring herself to chastise her sister. Not when she was so busy chastising herself.
It was a cool, rainy day, just the kind of weather to match her mood. She dreaded seeing Clancy again, uncertain how she was going to react. On the one hand, he'd obviously played the gentleman for once in his life, bringing her safely home when she was in no condition to watch out for her own well-being. On the other hand, he'd always insisted he wasn't a gentleman. Was she that unattractive that he wasn't even tempted?
She reached up a tentative hand and brushed her swollen lips. No, he'd been tempted, all right. She couldn't remember clearly, but something told her she'd come awfully close to losing what she'd held on to for far too long. She just wished she knew whether Clancy had desisted out of nobility and a belated caring for her or out of sh
eer apathy.
She couldn't very well ask him. She'd simply have to pretend nothing had happened and leave it up to him to mention it or not. In the meantime, she had plenty to keep her busy. She had the money, she had the plane, now all she needed was the weather. She squinted skyward into the light drizzle that misted down over her. Maybe things were clearer on the East Coast.
*
"Where the hell have you been?" Sparks demanded when she walked into the hangar some forty-five minutes after one on June 3. "It's not like you to be late."
Angela smiled tightly. "There were extenuating circumstances. What's the problem?"
"Charlie Olker."
"So what else is new? What's the villainous SOB want now?"
"That villainous SOB has come to give you a friendly piece of advice." Olker loomed out of her office, his impressive bulk rolling with each step, like a sailor on a storm-tossed ship.
"Your friendly advice I can do without. I thought I told you to keep off my property," she snapped, her headache leaping back in full force.
"I don't take warnings from snippy little girls. Especially when my motives are so pure."
"Your motives are as pure as John Dillinger's conscience. Speak your piece and get out."
Olker shook his head sadly. "Such a lack of manners. Your father would be grieved at one of his daughters being so graceless."
"My father's dead," she shot back, enraged. "And I have no intention of discussing him with a reprobate like you."
Olker chuckled deep within his massive bulk. "That's a hell of a way to refer to a war hero, Angie."
"Go away, Charlie," she said wearily, the fight going out of her. "My head hurts too much to deal with you."
