by Beth Ciotta
Rufus nudged Izzy. “James should be here,” he repeated, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Minding the business.”
“He’s out sailing with Roy.”
“I know. So it’s up to you.”
“What’s up to me?”
He gestured toward the commotion. “You should go over there.”
“Why?”
“An irate customer is bad for business.” So are gum-snapping sales clerks, disheveled shelves, uninspired displays, and fingerprinted glass countertops. Amazing, he hadn’t blown his cork.
She traded brown and tan saddle shoes for a pair of black calf skin Oxfords. “Ollie will handle it. What do you think of these?”
“Ollie?”
“Ollie Smithers.” She pointed to the bony man with the sharp chin. “The floor manager. Daddy says he’s an ace accountant.”
“Then he should be punching numbers in a back office. He’s about as good for customer relations as sand in a gas tank.”
“If it was on the sale rack,” Ollie said, “then—”
“What do you mean if it was on the sale rack?” The woman’s face burned red. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Ollie cocked an eyebrow at the silver-buckled heels. “If the shoe fits.”
Jesus. Rufus excused his way through a growing crowd of wide-eyed customers. Ollie Smithers was an incompetent ass. Marc would have served him his walking papers. So would he. If he had the authority, which he did in the twenty-first century. Here, in 1923, no one at VB’s knew his name. Still, he couldn’t allow Ollie-the-bony-faced-ass to insult a Van Buren customer.
“Where are you going?” Izzy demanded, clattering after him as he walked toward the fray. “This isn’t your business.”
“It’s Van Buren business,” he snapped. “That makes it your business.”
“But I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“I’ll do the talking. You just nod and agree.”
She squealed and squeezed his arm. “I love it when you’re aggressive.”
Rufus edged in next to Ollie. He smiled at the red-faced woman. “May I help you, Miss . . .”
“Derby,” she said. “Mrs. Clara Derby.” She met his sincere gaze, fidgeting under his warm regard. She held out the shiny black pump. “This shoe—”
“The Lorraine?” He nodded. “Stylish. High quality. Excellent choice for a woman of good taste.”
Ollie squinted at him. “Do I know you?”
“Sinclair,” was all he said. “Miss Van Buren’s personal assistant.”
All heads swung toward Izzy. She grinned and nodded.
Mrs. Derby turned her attention back to Rufus. He could see her wheels turning. Surely a personal assistant to a Van Buren was a step above a VB floor manager. “This shoe,” she repeated, “was on the sale rack.”
He nodded, smiling. “We’ll be happy to honor the sale price, Mrs. Derby.”
“But it’s not on sale!” Ollie sputtered.
Rufus cocked an eyebrow at the man. “Then it shouldn’t have been on the sale rack.”
“Now see here—”
“Please accept our apologies, Mrs. Derby,” Izzy piped in. “Allow me to escort you to the cashier.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Van Buren.” Mrs. Derby followed her toward the counter.
The crowd started to disperse.
“That was big of Isadora,” someone said.
“A store that owns up to a mistake.”
“I’ll be sure to shop here again.”
Izzy looked over her shoulder at Rufus.
He winked. Maybe she had an inch of depth after all.
“I’m going to speak to Isadora’s father about you,” Ollie said.
“Ditto,” Rufus said.
Just then James swaggered in, looking windblown and carefree. He glanced at the thinning crowd, then smiled at Rufus. “What did I miss?”
He fixed James with the best “dad” look he could conjure. “You and I need to talk.” He dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. He didn’t want to impose on the Van Burens any more than necessary, but he had to knock some business sense into James. Marc would expect nothing less. Besides, Rufus admitted, he liked James and hated the thought of his pissing away the little time he had left. A man could be responsible and have fun at the same time. He himself was living proof.
James shifted from foot to foot. “I—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Van Buren!” A flustered, prim-suited woman rushed up the aisle. Out of breath and gripping a steno pad, she slid Rufus a cautious look. “Your father called this morning.”
James snaked an arm about the woman’s thick middle and squeezed. “No hello kiss, doll?”
She gasped and slapped away his hand. “Really, Mr. Van Buren.”
“Really, Mrs. Lang.” James grinned at Rufus. “My secretary.”
Great, Rufus thought. Not only was James an irresponsible manager, he was also a prime target for a sexual harassment suit. But then, they hadn’t really had those in the twenties. He shook her hand. “Rufus Sinclair. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lang.”
She smiled at Rufus, then frowned at James.
James raised a tawny eyebrow. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” He palmed his Fedora to the back of his head. “I’ve been summoned to New York.”
She nodded. “Board of Directors meeting. J.B. expects you tonight.”
“I had another sailing date tomorrow,” he said. “Damn.”
Damn is right, Rufus thought. His day had just gone from bad to worse. He’d be alone at Laguna Vista tonight. With Izzy.
Chapter Thirteen
GRACE WORKED AT the back of the farmhouse in the ruthless afternoon sun, out of view of the spot where Rufus had kissed her. Sweat dripped off her forehead as she shoved a scraper across the old wood shakes. Peeling paint curled up like thick white eyelashes, then spiraled to the grass. Useless. Like her own tough skin. She scraped harder, straining her arm muscles, clenching her teeth.
“Nothing hard work can’t sweat out of you.” Pop Pop would say of human miseries.
He’d painted the house after his son—her father—had died. He’d said the house needed new memories. He’d hauled out the big ladder, some brushes, and bright white Benjamin Moore, and they’d painted and painted until the sun grew stingy and their limbs grew soothingly numb. Soaked with sweat, they’d rested on the front porch in the humid, dark silence, the air thick and sweet with Pop Pop’s whiskey and the blooming violets.
He’d tried to make things good for her. He told her stories about her parents so she wouldn’t forget—the father she’d lost at seven, the mother she’d never known. He encouraged her interest in science, arithmetic, and English when she only wanted to fly and not go to school. He taught her everything she needed to know in order to survive. How to recover from a stall, fix an engine, paint a house. There was nothing on this land that she couldn’t care for herself. He’d seen to it that she knew how to use every tool in the barn. He’d seen to it that she wouldn’t need anyone. Especially a man. He’d tried to protect her. Unfortunately, nothing could protect her from the inevitable.
Sex.
Another one of those cringe words.
It seemed sex was like death. Sooner or later it got you, ready or not. No voodoo spell could redirect it. No logic could dispel it.
Attraction. Friction. Combustion. Nothing personal.
Why couldn’t she feel that attraction for Mick? She already loved him, trusted him. Instead she felt it for Rufus Sinclair. If that was even his real name.
Growing dizzy under the relentless sun, she took a break and sat atop the three-foot ladder. Was that why Mick had intimated that she couldn’t take care of herself? Because he knew what it meant to combust with someone? How it took
over and made a person think crazy? Was that why Izzy had said she didn’t know how to act around men? Had she been trying to tell Rufus that her dear friend Grace had no experience with lust and might be a dud in bed?
Izzy wanted Rufus for herself. But Izzy was always chasing some man. How was anyone supposed to know when to take her flirting seriously?
Grace got up and went back to work, shoving the scraper harder.
She’d raced along country roads this morning, kicking up dust until she sputtered up the farm’s driveway on fumes. Stewing in the sweltering Ford, her goggles lying on the seat, she’d thought about fixing her wing but then noticed the farmhouse. Seeing it as though she hadn’t seen it in years. It hunkered and sagged like a wounded soldier in an overgrown field. Still, silent, waiting for rescue.
“Sell the farmhouse,” Mick had said.
The thought chilled her. Yet he probably wasn’t the only one who thought it was time. Then, some people probably thought it was time for a lot of things. So what if she slept alone in a dusty old farmhouse? So what if she slept even more frequently under a wing of her Jenny? She didn’t mind. Not really. If she started to feel lonely, she could always tighten some bolts.
She touched the smoothed wood shakes. What would Pop Pop have to say about Rufus?
She looked up to his bedroom window, the four panes blazing with reflected sunlight. His clothes still hung in the closets. Everything in his room remained untouched. But the bedspread now lay flat, no toes or knobby knees tenting the material, no rising and falling with his labored breath. She’d smoothed the spread after the mortician took him away, lain down to keep his spot warm, then slept for two days. After waking, she’d shut the door and disappeared for a year.
What would he say to her?
“Grace, look what happened to your mama.”
Dead from childbirth.
Not quite the advice she was looking for. She grinned up at the window. “You old coot.”
Then her smile faded. “Erratic emotions equal body parts taken away in buckets.” She’d warned Rufus, for all the good it had done. They’d both stepped over the line. Still, she didn’t want a different partner. Rufus Sinclair was a professional, a natural, one in a million. He was her chance to salvage her reputation. If she could exorcise this distracting physical attraction from her system. And if she could get rid of it by the time the wing was fixed . . .
The solution was simple, really. They needed to have sex. Today. Tonight. Now. A blue-sparked shock to diffuse the wild static electricity. She’d do whatever it took to save her Jenny and her reputation.
Pop Pop would agree with the result, if not the method. Well, Pop Pop wasn’t a single girl in the twenties. But she suspected he’d been well aware of that fact.
Combust, fizzle, get back to business. Then she could stop pacing as if she’d been poleaxed. Go back to being the best female pilot in the east. Maybe even the country. As Rufus had said, she could start her own air circus.
If, of course, Izzy didn’t kill her first.
“THE ONLY UNNATURAL sexual behavior is none at all,” Izzy said, quoting Freud. A man after her own heart. A man who understood her. Unlike Rufus. She slid on a stocking, careful not to yank too hard, given her volatile mood, then rolled the sheer hosiery to just below her shapely knee. Would Rufus appreciate the decadence of rolled stockings and powdered knees? Would he appreciate her scarlet fringed dress? The matching cloche with the clever cut brim and rhinestone ornaments? Would he appreciate that she’d spent two hours preening in preparation for their big night?
She wondered.
Up until that afternoon, she’d thought he was playing hard to get. Savoring the chase. She hadn’t minded. Anticipation, she’d learned long ago, brewed a powerful aphrodisiac. She’d been so sure they were peas in a pod. Two uncommonly handsome people who enjoyed flirting and the sweaty, intimate act of lovemaking. She’d been so sure that he would ultimately make a pass and that they’d end up in bed before the end of the week. Now, though, she wasn’t sure of anything.
She tightened the ankle straps on her new red shoes, wondering where in the Devil she’d gone wrong. She’d made it clear that she was interested and available. Unlike Grace. Grace was engaged to Mick. Almost. Was that the allure? Was Rufus only attracted to women who didn’t threaten his bachelorhood? Maybe he had a fear of commitment. She’d heard about people like that. She didn’t understand the fuss. She’d already committed twice. Saying “I do” to Buddy and Max hadn’t been a big deal. She’d loved them. She’d expected to spend a lifetime loving them. Unfortunately, things didn’t always go according to plan. People met other people. More interesting, more exciting people. People who made them forget about the person they’d promised to honor and cherish. Not that it would happen were she and Rufus to tie the knot. She couldn’t imagine anyone more interesting and exciting than Rufus Sinclair. She could almost forgive Grace’s traitorous behavior.
Almost.
Izzy straightened to admire her image in her vanity mirror. Her cheeks were flaming, two fashionably brilliant blotches, and she’d yet to apply her rouge. Just thinking about the way Grace had pawed Rufus made her blood boil. She’d never seen Grace kiss a man. The girl appeared to be pretty good at it, for a virgin. Maybe that was his fascination. Virginity. She’d thought such an impediment would turn off a man like Rufus. She’d sensed he preferred more experienced women. But then, some men became extremely aroused—and motivated—at the thought of being a woman’s first.
Why, Harley Peterson had strutted like a peacock after plucking her fifteen-year-old self.
She sighed, touching the silky white bedcover and feeling nostalgic if not sentimental. She hadn’t loved Harley, but he’d loved her to pieces. He’d told her that over and over while coaxing her into the boathouse of his daddy’s summer home. She’d enjoyed his ardent attention and let herself be seduced by his good looks and charm. She’d always been extremely curious.
Maybe curiosity had gotten the best of Grace. Rufus Sinclair could tempt any girl—it seemed, even Grace. Honestly, Izzy felt relieved, given Freud’s quote. Not to mention that her friend was nearly an old maid. She’d hate to think that there was anything unnatural about Grace. But why did she suddenly have to get natural with Rufus?
She should’ve ripped into Grace in the pasture this morning. That would have made her friend think twice about kissing her future husband again. But she’d been too stunned. Too hurt. Then Mick had shown up. She’d tucked away her anger. Tried to diffuse the situation instead of making it worse. So maybe she’d turned a little nasty, bringing up Pop Pop’s death and Grace’s lackluster life. But really, Izzy thought the insult slight, considering Grace’s attempt to steal her man. Attempt being the perfect word. Fly-girl didn’t stand a chance.
Izzy plopped down on her cushioned vanity bench and snatched up her lipstick. Her hand trembled as she defined the pointy arches of her lips. She’d never been nervous about seducing a man. She’d never had to give the matter any thought. Usually a flirty pucker and fluttery lashes did the trick. Neither had worked on Rufus. After their shopping spree, she’d gone so far as to pinch his adorable backside when he climbed into the backseat of the Pierce. Instead of sliding her a devilish look or, heaven forbid, returning the gesture, he’d closed the door before she could squeeze in beside him, forcing her to sit up front with Jimmy for the ride back to Laguna Vista. He hadn’t been at all amused. If he hadn’t winked at her after she’d offered to escort Clara Derby to the cashier, she would’ve sworn he didn’t even like her. But he had winked. He did like her. She just had to make him like her more. More than he liked Grace.
She pressed too hard on the lipstick, causing the tip to break off and land, thunk, in the middle of the vanity’s white lace doily. Tears filled her eyes. She quickly blinked them away. No use crying over mangled lipstick. No use causing her mascara to run, ruin
ing an otherwise perfectly made-up face. Rufus would appreciate her milky complexion and kohl-rimmed eyes. He’d appreciate her painted cheeks and her beestung lips. So what if the arches were slightly smudged? By the time he was through kissing her, she’d be smeared cheek to chin.
And he would kiss her. She’d see to it that he wouldn’t be able to resist. Subtle was out. Direct was in. Once he got a taste of her, he wouldn’t give another thought to Grace.
She relaxed a bit, knowing their romp was only hours away. She’d wine and dine him at the Marlborough-Blenheim. Then they’d skip over to Roy’s party, where she’d ply him with giggle juice and sing him a love song. Maybe “C-C-Crazy for You.” The perfect song for the perfect man. Then she’d bring him home and jump his bones. She just hoped she could wait that long. Not that she’d mind a lusty toss in the broom closet or the backseat of the Pierce, but as of two hours ago, Laguna Vista was the perfect love nest. Daddy had sent a company chauffeur for Jimmy, and though he’d taken his time about leaving, her brother must be halfway to New York by now. Lincoln and Mrs. Potts wouldn’t call her brothers at the first sign of hanky-panky, even though Jimmy had made them promise to do just that, because she’d bought their silence by giving them the next three days off with pay.
Yessiree. The scene was set.
Managing a shaky smile, she dabbed her wrists with Chanel #5, gave her cloche a confident tug, then stood and strode toward her bedroom door, fringe swishing, heels clicking. Rufus had agreed to meet her in the living room at six o’clock. It was five-thirty-five.
She headed for the west tower. If she was lucky, she’d catch him with his pants down.
“SPEAK UP, PROFESSOR!”
“If I speak any louder, I’ll be shouting! I am shouting!”
“I can barely hear you.”
“Am I breaking up?”
“No.”
“Then bear with it and listen harder.”
Rufus frowned. They’d hung up and redialed one another six, seven times over the last half-hour. Bookman seemed to be hearing him fine, but intermittent static on his end had Rufus struggling to hear Bookman. “Maybe if you moved closer to the window.”
