Kindred Spirits

by Beth Ciotta

  He angled his head. He almost thought she’d said “take the stick.”

  Smirking, she raised her hands in surrender.

  For the love of . . . He faced front, positioned his feet on the rudders, and grabbed the stick control. The vibration zinged up his right arm, spreading throughout his body. An immediate surge of power. The plane responded to his touch, and he smiled. Though harder to handle than his Cessna, he felt the Jenny’s complete attention. No state-of-the-art instruments or automatic anything as a buffer. Just him and the plane. As Grace had said, he had eyes—he could see how high he was flying. Besides, he’d put in his hours flying VFR.

  He banked the wings left, circled over the field. Dipped the nose, buzzed over the barn. The farmhouse. The Ford. He spotted Izzy jumping up and down, waving and blowing kisses. He returned the gesture by wagging the wings, then issued her a hearty salute.

  Grace tapped him on the shoulder. Actually, it felt more like a punch. He got it. She wanted her plane back. Three minutes later they bounced down the overgrown field as she steered the Jenny toward the massive red barn. He could barely sit still in the cockpit, his molecules zapping like sparks against his skin. Life couldn’t get any better . . . yet he knew it would. Next time he’d walk on the wing. He didn’t know how he’d maneuver his body through the force of the wind, nor did he care. All he knew was that he couldn’t wait.

  Grace maneuvered the Jenny to a stop. A feat in itself, as the plane had no brakes.

  Rufus hit the ground behind her. Body humming. Skin tingling. Brain buzzing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this jazzed.

  He whooped, picked her up, and spun her in circles. “Amazing doesn’t do you justice.” He set her down, and they both teetered. Catching her balance, she shoved her goggles atop her head. Her cheeks smarted with red half-moons. Her electric blue eyes sparked and snapped. The same live wire inside them danced, loose and alive.

  Jolted by a zap of lust, he nearly stumbled. Bargain be damned.

  He grabbed Grace LaRue and kissed her. She shocked him by digging her fingers into his hair and opening his mouth with her tongue. Blood rushed from his head, leaving him dizzy. He burned as he explored her mouth, adrenaline speeding his movements, heightening his senses. He lost himself, pressed against her hard, compact body. His hands slid down her spine to her backside.

  An action he instantly regretted.

  She stiffened. Shoved him away. And he did stumble.

  The world snapped into focus. She glared at him, face burning, breath labored beneath her skewed shirt.

  Izzy stood two feet away, eyes wide, cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

  Beyond her sat a shiny black Caddy.

  He whirled around to find Mick Mahoney—hulking, red-faced. Steaming. “You sonuvabitch.” He threw a meaty fist.

  Rufus ducked, and knuckles grazed his hair. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “Not if I break your jaw first. No more talking. No more kissing.” Mick drew back his fist, eager for a second shot.

  “Have it your way.” Rufus whipped off his tie. He’d tussled with childhood bullies. He could handle Mick Mahoney.

  “Stop it,” Grace said, grabbing hold of Mick’s arm.

  He shoved her behind him. “Stay out of this.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Someone has to. You’ve obviously lost your mind.” Mick took off his jacket and tossed it to Izzy, who caught it while hurrying forward.

  “It’s Rufus who lost his mind,” she said. “He has amnesia. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  Mick stared hard at Rufus. “He knew what he was doing.”

  Rufus ignored Izzy. He kept his eyes on Mick. Or, rather, on the man’s shoulder holster. The polished wood handle of a gun jutted out of it. He should’ve known. He recalled James’s warning. “You’d already be dead. Mick’s not as nice as I am.” His gaze slipped to the man’s gangster-like spats. Hadn’t Al Capone worn shoes like that? Or was it Dillinger?

  Grace inserted herself between the men, her back to Rufus. She poked a finger into Mick’s wide chest. “I said stop it. You’re overreacting.”

  Mick looked down at her, his eyes hot with rage and hurt. “Overreacting? He mauled you. Grabbed your ass. Who the hell is he, anyway?”

  “My partner.”

  “Your what?”

  “Partner. He’s replacing Tuck.”

  “Not with a broken face, he isn’t.”

  She balled her fists at her sides. “You will not ruin this for me.”

  Rufus steamed under his collar. “I can defend myself.”

  Mick ignored him. “First I’m ruining our friendship. Now I’m ruining . . . what, Grace? What?”

  “He can help me regain my reputation. He’s a natural, Mick.”

  “He is,” Izzy said excitedly. “He dove out the tower window yesterday.”

  Mick’s face darkened. “You met him where?”

  “At Laguna Vista,” Izzy rattled on, even though Mick had asked Grace. “He was passed out on the lawn. I almost ran Grace’s car over him.”

  Grace glared at her. “Stop trying to help.”

  Mick glared at Rufus. “Who the hell are you?”

  “At first he was Julius Caesar,” Izzy continued to explain.

  “Step aside, Grace.” Rufus touched her shoulder. He didn’t want or need her to stand between him and Mahoney. He could defend himself, despite what she and Izzy seemed to believe.

  Mick clenched his fists. “Take your hands off my girl.”

  “I’m not your girl.”

  “You heard her,” Rufus said.

  Grace shrugged off his hand. “Shut up. I’m not your girl either.”

  Izzy cleared her throat. “Uh, may I say something?”

  “No!” Mick and Rufus bellowed.

  “But—” Izzy began

  “What?” Grace snapped.

  Izzy pointed past Mick. “Bessie Mae’s eating your wings.”

  “EVERYONE NEEDS someone sometime.”

  Mick had been right. She’d felt a need, if that’s what she wanted to call it.

  “Distraction equals disaster.”

  Pop Pop had been right, too. How could she not have heard Mick drive up?

  Easy. She’d been busy slobbering all over Rufus, making a spectacle.

  She looked over her shoulder toward Izzy, watching her shoo Bessie Mae through the shimmering heat and tall grass, expensive sunglasses shielding her eyes. Her long cigarette waved in the air as though trying to set it on fire. Her shouts of “Bad girl, Bessie Mae!” sounded tinny from this distance. Her khaki pants, crisp white shirt, and leopard-print scarf made her look like a debutante on safari, as though Bessie Mae were a rhino, not a cow.

  Grace turned back to the plane. Rufus and Mick each grabbed a wing, she the tail. No one spoke as they pushed the wounded Jenny to the barn. Everyone stewed in thought. The white ball of sun was so hot and bright, it faded and dried the blue sky to chalk. Dust kicked up by the plane’s wheels caught in her throat. She coughed a hot burst of breath. Grass crunched beneath her boots. Unseen crows cawed and complained from the overcooked trees.

  She felt so strange, so acutely attuned, as though the world on which she’d landed was not the one she’d left.

  It had started in the sky. Something terrific and terrifying. Rufus. His enthusiasm, his natural skill—both had sparked a longing she couldn’t quite name, whether from true ignorance or fear, she didn’t know. But she’d started to show off. She’d wanted to thrill him. Test him. Make him feel what she felt. Or at least exorcise the demon. Prove he wasn’t worthy.

  A death dive. With a passenger. She’d never taken such an irresponsible risk. She hadn’t planned it. She’d just pushed the ship highe
r and higher, and when they’d hung suspended, she’d known. Some invisible line was about to be crossed. She’d had to know the man she was dealing with.

  But what if he’d been lying about being a pilot? What if he’d panicked and fallen from the plane?

  But he hadn’t.

  She’d landed the plane with a mix of dread and excitement. When he’d kissed her, he shot her buzzing adrenaline to the moon. As in any crisis, she’d reacted on instinct. Followed her gut and kissed him back.

  So much for her gut. Pop Pop’s theories were proving to be true. She’d been so distracted by her brush with insanity, not to mention the absurdity of two men fighting over her, that she hadn’t noticed Bessie Mae chomping on her Jenny’s wing.

  She’d been warned about men, about losing her head. About the results. She’d never believed herself vulnerable. Done everything to avoid it.

  Now what?

  They maneuvered the plane into the barn. As soon as her girl was tied down, Grace turned to leave. No shared moment of sympathy with her Jenny, no pat, no rub.

  “How bad is it?” Rufus asked.

  “We’re out of business for at least two days,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice sounded normal. Not a hint of a tremor or uncertainty.

  Mick and Rufus followed her out into the squinty light. As though the heat weren’t bad enough, they wanted to smother her some more.

  “What can I do?” Rufus asked.

  “You’ve done enough,” Mick said, rolling up his sleeves.

  Izzy strolled up, breathless, handing her a stubbed-out cigarette. “No fires. Just as you asked.” She eyed Mick’s rolled sleeves. “If you’re going to punch him, Mick, please don’t bruise his face.”

  Mick rolled his eyes. “Right now I’m going to help Grace patch her wing.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Grace said.

  “So you keep saying. Give it a rest, will you? It’s not the first time a cow’s munched on your plane. It won’t be the first time I’ve helped with repairs. It’ll take twice as long if you do it alone.”

  “I can help,” Rufus said, resting one hand at the small of Grace’s back.

  The heat from his hand seeped through her shirt, through her damp skin. That electrical current . . . She jerked away, backing into Mick.

  “Maybe we should leave Grace alone,” Izzy said, her eyes a mystery behind her sunglasses. “She’s not used to . . . well . . . She looks flushed. Do you feel all right, Grace?”

  “Not really.” Her Jenny—her baby, her life—was disabled. Yet she was reeling only from that damned kiss.

  Mick clasped her shoulders. No heat. No zing. Just Mick. Solid, steady, safe Mick. At least, he used to be safe. She recalled his eighteenth birthday, the day he was drafted for the Great War. She’d cried. The only time she’d ever cried in front of him. He’d kissed her with a soft press of assurance. A seal of lifetime friendship. “I’m tough,” he’d said, his eyes unreadable. “You’ll see.” Then the war had ended.

  She’d forgotten that kiss. But at that moment, she’d bet he hadn’t.

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders. Rufus glared at him, a dangerous glint in his eye.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was jealous. He’d known her for less than two days. He couldn’t have feelings for her. But what about pure physical attraction? If she’d learned anything from Izzy—and, if she admitted to it, from her own reaction to Rufus—physical connections didn’t need time to develop. They were instantaneous, like combustion. A heartbeat. A zing.

  It was scientific, really. She’d read and loved Pop Pop’s Scientific American magazines, especially the back issue that had published photographs of the Wright brothers’ plane two years before their success at Kitty Hawk.

  Chemistry.

  She reflected on Rufus’s kisses. Those two earth-rocking, knee-melting kisses. Was it all just a chemical chain reaction?

  She realized, with horrifying clarity, that she wanted more. Grace LaRue wanted nookie.

  If Mick hadn’t still had a grip on her shoulders, she would have crumpled. Her world as she knew it had been ripped from beneath her.

  Izzy tugged at Rufus’s sleeve. “We could go shopping.”

  “Not now,” he said, locked in a stare-down with Mick.

  Grace could take no more. She yanked off her goggles and marched toward the Ford.

  Mick shouted after her. “Where are you going?”

  “For a ride.” She needed to clear her head. Unfortunately, the Jenny was injured.

  Rufus caught up to her. “I’ll come with you.”

  Mick fell in on her other side. “So you can grope her again?”

  “It was a mutual groping, if you ask me,” Izzy said, passing Mick his jacket.

  Grace burned with humiliation, indignation, confusion. “No one asked you.” She had the distinct feeling her friend wouldn’t let her live this down. But she had groped Rufus. He might have started it, but she’d lost her control. Thank God, Pop Pop hadn’t been here to witness her fall from . . . grace. She didn’t know whether to feel betrayed that she could be downed by simple lust—no one had warned her it could hit so hard, so blindly, so fast—or to feel grateful. If she had to suffer something, at least physical lust, as opposed to something involving feelings, could be simply cured.

  She reached the Ford, jerked open the driver’s door, and glared at Izzy. “Hop in. I’ll drop you and Ace off at Laguna Vista.”

  Mick shrugged into his suit jacket and eyed Rufus. “This isn’t over.”

  Tired of Mick’s bullying, Grace shouted, “Lay off, will you?”

  Rufus braced his hands on the car roof and pinned her with a searing gaze. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Swell,” Izzy said, opening the rear passenger door. “All of you are capable of looking out for yourselves.”

  Mick glanced at Grace. “Not all of us.”

  Grace bristled. If Mick thought he was going to use her guilt to prod her into marriage, he was nuttier than a pecan pie. She got to the point. “It’s none of your business who I kiss.”

  “I’m making it my business. Especially when it’s done to spite me.”

  This was the last thing on Earth she wanted to discuss. “I didn’t kiss Ace for spite.”

  “Then why’d you kiss him in front of me?”

  “I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Maybe not today. But what about last night? You saw me coming. You hauled your so-called partner onto the dance floor for a public display. Don’t tell me you thought that would make me happy.”

  Izzy left the open door and sidled up next to Mick. “She did it to make you jealous.”

  Grace’s eyes bugged out. “What!”

  Izzy continued. “You know Grace. She doesn’t know how to act around men. You flustered her. It was her way—”

  Grace’s blood pumped. “It was my way to make you understand that I don’t want to get married.” She saw a flash in his eyes she could’ve sworn was pain. Damn.

  “You’ll change your mind, Grace,” he said. “You’ll see. In the meantime, don’t go giving it up to Mr. No-Memory here just to prove you don’t want to marry me.” He pointed at Rufus. “Touch her and die.”

  “The name’s Rufus. Rufus Sinclair. And I’ve had it with your threats, Mahoney.” His gaze lowered to where the gun rested hidden beneath Mick’s jacket.

  “Not a threat,” Mick said. “A promise.”

  Grace tossed her goggles onto the front seat, then jammed her fingers through her hair. “Did you drive out here for a specific reason, Mick? Or just to make my morning hell?”

  “I drove out here to make sure this jerk got you home okay last night.”

  “Rufus didn’t see me home. I saw him home.”

&
nbsp; “I wanted to check on you last night,” Mick said, ignoring her harsh tone, “but the raid got ugly. The mayor’s tea-sipping wife has a bug up her ass. Rooney—”

  “Rooney Todd’s the mayor of Atlantic City,” Izzy told Rufus.

  “—reasoned that if the cops kept me locked up overnight, it might appease his wife—”

  “Ida,” Izzy said.

  Mick huffed. “Cut it out, Izzy.”

  “He has amnesia. Someone needs to help him along.”

  He eyed Rufus suspiciously. “Yeah, right.” Turning back to Grace, he added, “Ida’s under the illusion she’s going to clean up this town.”

  “Have to admire her ambition,” Grace said, wishing he’d get to the point so she could leave.

  “Ambition-smishin,” Izzy said, fluttering her lashes at Mick. “Ida needs to loosen her corset. Besides, we didn’t elect her. We elected Rooney.”

  “Got something in your eye, doll?” Mick asked before returning to the topic at hand. “Lucky for me, Rooney Todd is partial to dancing girls and hooch.”

  “Lucky for all of us,” Izzy said, squeezing his waist.

  Grace crossed her arms. Was Izzy trying to make her jealous? She didn’t know what to make of that. Too much buzzed in her brain, so she lashed out. “So Ida’s supposed to sit home like a good wife, minding her own beeswax?”

  Mick frowned. “I didn’t say that. Stop trying to pick a fight with me, Grace.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are.” He pried Izzy’s arm from around him. “I drove out here for another reason. To invite you to a party.”

  “We’ll be there!” Izzy said.

  “What kind of party?” Grace asked.

  “Rooney’s birthday party.”

  “That fancy shindig at the Marlborough?” Grace shuddered. “No thanks.”

  He shook his head. “That’s next week. Ida’s affair. I’m talking a real party. Rooney’s kind of party.”

  “When?” Izzy asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Roy Tadmucker’s beach house.”

  “Roy’s?” Izzy exclaimed. “That can’t be right. Roy’s a stuffed shirt.”