by Beth Ciotta
“What’s Cosmo?”
“Never mind.”
She frowned, thinking about him on the other side of the door, looking handsome and dapper, damn him. “What are you doing here? You’re a little dressed up to fix a wing.”
“I took a drive. It brought me here.”
She slowed her combing and smirked. “Machines have a tendency to take over, don’t they?”
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“It’s more personal than you think.”
“What is?”
“Sex.”
She worried her lower lip, thinking how close they’d come to having sex. She’d been naked, willing, and . . . he’d stopped. Once again insecurity flared, and she cringed. She stomped to the door in her bare feet, ready to blast him with her anger, but the words stuck in her throat. What would she say? How dare you not have sex with me? That sounded so stupid. So . . . childish. Disgusted, she dropped her forehead to the closed door. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex with someone you just met.”
“I won’t lie to you, Grace. But there’s something here you’re missing.”
“What’s that?”
“I like you. I think you’re cute, funny, and interesting. I also think you’re brave as hell. I know what it took for you to drop that towel. I also understand why you did it. But I don’t want to be a means to an end, Grace. Not with you.”
He liked her. Respected her. He thought she was cute. She hadn’t expected that. Nor had she expected to feel so flattered. She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “What about starting our own show? We can’t—”
“Our show?”
“Well, mine, but with your help.”
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go out. Let me take you on a date. You might find out you don’t even like me. But at least you won’t hate me tomorrow.”
She turned and slumped back against the door. Dizzy with conflicting emotions, she gazed across the room at the mirror hanging above the sink. Her curls had already sprung back. Her blue eyes were wide and confused. “You really think I’m cute?”
“Yeah. Now get dressed before I forget I’m a gentleman.”
“SO HE WENT to Grace’s,” Mick said.
Izzy furrowed her brow. “Where else would he go? He said he was going crazy. We know who’s making him crazy.” Yet how could that be? She’d been turning it over in her mind for hours, and it still made no sense. What did Grace have to offer Rufus, really? He’d flirted with Cora and Velma. He’d even turned on the charm for that argumentative shoe customer. Rufus Sinclair was a natural flirt. A sheik who loved women. Lots of women. She’d bet her new camera that he had more notches on his bedpost than did Rudolf Valentino.
So why wasn’t he interested in her?
Was it possible she’d lost her touch? That intangible something that drove men wild? Panic fluttered in her belly.
“I should’ve killed him when I had the chance,” Mick growled.
Izzy peered at him through the darkness of the Caddy’s interior. “You don’t mean that.”
“I’d have to argue, doll.”
Mick was no sissy boy. Grace might have poked at him when they were kids for wetting himself on that roller coaster, but he wasn’t afraid of anything now. She wondered if it was Grace’s ribbing that had turned him into such a tough guy. He’d always loved Grace, had always wanted her attention. Still . . . “You’ve never killed a man.”
He remained stone-faced.
Frowning, Izzy unscrewed the cap on her hip flask and swigged a shot of moonshine. “Grace can take care of herself.”
“So she says.”
“It’s not as if she’ll let him do the dirty. You saw her. She went bananas when he grabbed her behind.”
His right eye twitched. “That was in broad daylight, with you looking on. Now they’re alone. It’s dark. If he’s really a pilot, he might seduce her with aviator talk. She might not care what he grabs.”
Izzy didn’t want to think about Grace hot and heavy with Rufus. She wanted to think about Grace obsessed with her plane. Grace spouting Pop Pop’s intimate-relations-equal-disaster nonsense. She took another swig. “If you go out there now, she’ll hate you.”
“She’s not exactly fond of me as it is.” He turned the car onto Atlantic Avenue. “But I agree. She’ll never forgive me if I bust down the farmhouse door. She’s made it clear she wants to make her own mistakes. Still, I don’t have to sit by while Sinclair charms her out of her pants. I don’t trust him. He’s lying about something. As we speak, I’m getting the goods on him.”
She whirled in the seat so fast, she lost her balance and knocked into him. “If you solve his amnesia, he’ll go back to where he came from!”
“That’s the idea. Not that I believe he has amnesia. Although if he does, we’d want to cure it, not ‘solve’ it.” He elbowed her upright. “How much have you had to drink?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I started at six o’clock.”
“You’ve been drinking for three hours?”
She hiccupped and took another belt. She was three-quarters numb. Another hour should do it.
“Give me that flask.”
“No.” She held up two fingers. “Butt me.”
Mick sighed, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a pack of cigarettes. Steering with his thigh, he slipped a fag between her fingers, then held a match to its tip. “What took you so long to call me?”
“Got caught up in a crossword puzzle.” Actually, she’d cried buckets for two hours, then spent another hour reapplying her makeup. In between she’d smoked and drunk and sung sad love songs to the stuffed pink poodle that Buddy—her first husband—had won for her at Coney Island. “So how are you going about getting the goods?”
“Called in a few favors with the A.C.P.D. They can’t find any records on a Rufus Sinclair. Are you sure that’s his name?”
“If you mean did I see any identification, no. He lost his wallet.”
“How convenient. I described him to their department sketch artist, who did a drawing. They’re sending it to New York.”
She took a long drag, then blew out the smoke. “Wouldn’t a photograph be better?”
He slowed at an intersection. “You think he’s going to stand still while I snap a shot?”
“You don’t have to. I already did.”
He jammed on the brakes. She flew forward and knocked her head on the dash.
“Dammit.” He eased her back against the seat. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Everything’s Jake.” She flipped the cig out the window and pressed a palm to her forehead. “Didn’t feel a thing.”
“Sorry, baby.” He maneuvered the Caddy curbside. “It’s just . . . You have a photograph of Sinclair?”
“I took it this morning.” She downed another swig. “With Grace.”
He scooted closer and leaned in. “May I have it?”
“Sure. I’ll have it developed and delivered to you tomorrow.” As if she needed the thing, a physical reminder of a morning she’d sooner forget. She winced when Mick swept off her hat and prodded her forehead.
“I thought you said you didn’t feel a thing.”
“I lied.” She hiccupped. “I didn’t want you to feel bad.”
He frowned. “I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”
She studied his face in the moonlight. A handsome face, if you liked tough guys. She liked tough guys. She liked Mick. And he, unlike Rufus, liked her. She remembered her earlier plan. The one to seduce Mick to make Grace jealous. “I have a better idea,” she said, tracing a finger down the front of his shirt. “Why don’t you join me?”
He quirked a dark eyebrow. “In bed?�
�
“We’ve been there before.”
“I remember.”
“Was it so bad?”
He smiled, then tucked her hair behind her ears. “Actually, it was very good.”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “So?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So?”
He chucked her chin, then slid back behind the wheel. “Not a good idea.”
Panic fluttered again. “Don’t you find me attractive?”
“Absolutely,” he said, easing back onto the road.
“But you’re not interested.”
“Neither are you, doll. You just want to get back at Grace. Not that I’m convinced she’d care.”
Truthfully, Izzy was more concerned that she might have lost that intangible something than with getting back at Grace. And Mick wasn’t helping. She desperately needed someone to smother her with adoration. To make her feel desirable and loved. Obviously Mick wasn’t in the mood to comply. He was, after all, in love with Grace. Wasn’t everyone?
“So am I taking you home?” he asked, sliding her a concerned glance. “Or to Roy’s?”
She had a sudden vision of Roy Tadmucker making her tea. Of him massaging her temples as he lulled her to sleep with stories of Monet and Lautrec. Mick was right. She was blotto. How else could she explain this sudden urgent need to see the stodgy taffy tycoon? She forced a tremulous smile. “When have you ever known me to miss a party?”
Chapter Fifteen
“I DON’T LIKE THE Boardwalk,” Grace said. “It’s too crowded.”
Rufus took a deep breath. The night smelled of sweet roasted peanuts and tangy salt air. “It’s perfect,” he said as he opened her door. He refrained from helping her from the Pierce, though. She’d just look at him as if he’d lost his mind. When he steered her toward the commotion, she gave his hand on her elbow a dubious glance but spared him a wisecrack.
His hand, only a shade darker than her summer skin, looked large against her delicate bones. Only she wasn’t delicate, nor did he want her to be. They passed ladies in willowy dresses and high heels, and none of them struck him as sexy as Grace in her crisp khaki trousers, white button-down shirt open at the throat, and suspenders emphasizing her small shape and breasts.
Before coming to the Boardwalk, they’d gone to see Robin Hood. He’d barely survived the intimate atmosphere of the Royal Theater. Barely been able to keep himself from taking advantage of the darkened place she had referred to as the “petting palace.” What had he been thinking? Take her someplace public, so you don’t jump her outrageously sexy bones. He honestly didn’t know what to do with her.
Oh, he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to keep her from marrying Mick Mahoney. The very idea made him want to claw out of his skin. What had happened to change her mind so drastically? Had she wanted to have sex with the drifter, just as she wanted to have sex with him? Him. Not Mick.
But Rufus wanted more than sex. He wanted to make love. Slow, hot, tender. He wanted to love every part of her. Learn it. Know it. He wanted to bathe with her in that claw-footed tub, in the soft morning light. Unnerving for a man who’d perfected one-night stands and meaningless relationships.
He didn’t want to think about why he’d fallen so hard for Grace. Most likely it was due to her intense spirit. Her ferocious pursuit of life. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met. Maybe he was the drifter, his soul reincarnated. As crazy as that sounded, it would help explain his mixed-up emotions. Still, he wasn’t ready to consider that weird a picture of the situation.
Grace disrupted his musings with a jab to his ribs. “You’re certainly keeping your distance from me.”
“Again you miss the point, m’lady,” he said in a debonair Douglas Fairbanks accent. “The only way I can keep my hands off you is to put a mob between us.”
“Why fight it if it’s so hard?” she asked, not looking at him.
If she were anyone else, he’d have thought she’d said it to tease him. But her throaty question had been rooted in frustration, not a knowing taunt. He gulped in a dose of salt air as they crested the wood-planked ramp. What he saw made his eyes widen. An endless line of amusement piers stretching out over the Atlantic Ocean. Electric signs sparkling with thousands of light bulbs: Gillette Safety Razor, Wrigley’s Spearmint pepsin gum, Tadmucker Saltwater Taffy.
The last sign made him wonder if Izzy had gone to Roy’s party. He hated to think of her at home alone, mad at him or, worse, upset. Knowing her, she wouldn’t pine for long over him or any man. She’d probably called Mahoney, cried on his shoulder, given the thug another reason to despise him. As if another reason were necessary beyond stealing the woman Mahoney thought of as “his girl.” A crime punishable, according to thug law, by death.
Shaking off a chill, Rufus shoved Mahoney from his mind and focused on the throng of people strolling the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. Unlike the last time he’d visited—he and a naked Barbie had glided along in The Sky Ride over the beach . . . seemingly a lifetime ago—these tourists were dressed in their evening best. Many laughed or held hands as they zipped by in a parade of three-wheeled wicker rolling chairs, a service still offered but mostly ignored in his time.
Grace turned and looked up at him, brilliant moonlight and old-fashioned streetlamps illuminating her agitated expression, the strong ocean breeze tousling her already wild curls. “What about after this date?” she asked. “What then?”
He smoothed her hair from her eyes, reeling from the hot blue gaze that invited trouble. Her small body vibrated with sexual restraint, a charged energy that zapped him every time they touched. He’d jumped a foot in the theater when she’d rested a hand on his thigh. Not wanting to seem too much the prude, he’d said nothing and left her hand there. It had burned a hole through him. He’d barely been able to focus on the movie.
He swallowed, wondering how he’d manage to leave it at a good-night kiss. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“There’s no point fixing the wing if I can’t concentrate on flying.”
She’d grown increasingly agitated since they’d left the theater. He sought to reassure her. “Sweetheart, somehow I doubt you lack such discipline or focus.”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you know you can’t maintain your professionalism despite our attraction?”
“Because I didn’t today.”
“You flew phenomenally today.”
“I death dove with a civilian passenger. I don’t do that. I never do that.”
“I guess you felt I could handle it.”
“What if you hadn’t really been buckled in? What if you’d panicked? Maybe I didn’t screw up with Tuck, but I did with you.”
He cringed at the tension in her voice. He’d never learned all the specifics of the accident involving Tuck Cagney. According to James and Izzy—even Grace herself—the crash wasn’t technically her fault. Still, she was obviously grappling with a certain amount of guilt. Not surprising, considering Tuck had broken both legs and lost an eye. He wondered, however, if Grace hadn’t suffered just as much. Her reputation, her conscience. He remembered his earlier conviction: to learn everything about her. Her childhood, her career, and the details regarding Tuck.
He pressed his hand to the small of her back and guided her onto the bustling boardwalk. Again she looked down at his arm. “I can find my own way, you know. I’ve been finding my own way for years.”
He kept his hand on her back. “I thought you might like to be treated like a lady tonight.”
“I want sex, not a courtship.”
God, she was stubborn. Well, so was he. The hand stayed.
He continued. “I know you don’t like to talk about it, Grace, but what exactly happened with Tuck?”
She shrugged. “I don’t mind talking about it
. Not now. Not with you. If we’re going to be partners, we should both know what we’re getting into. No secrets, no surprises.”
She glanced sideways, and he experienced his own brand of guilt. He knew if she asked, he would come clean about his amnesia. At least in part. What part, he didn’t know.
“It was Tuck’s last show. He was giving up stunting for the sake of his marriage,” she said, disgust evident in her tone. “We were the perfect team. After working together for a year, we knew each other’s every move. We trusted each other with our lives.”
Her voice was thick with resentment, and he understood what it had truly meant for her to ask him to be her partner. He felt the true measure of her faith and his responsibility, and he wanted to hug her.
“Tuck had a reputation for being a hotshot and wanted to go out in a big way. Something everyone would remember. Especially his new wife. He called it ‘The Crash.’ He would climb onto the wing—something he could do in his sleep—then lower himself so he stood on the bottom rung of a rope ladder, which was rigged to the landing gear. I was supposed to buzz low over a pasture, pretending to struggle for altitude when we neared a ramshackle barn.”
Rufus frowned. “He wanted you to crash the plane into a barn?”
“He wanted me to pull up last minute, but not high enough to save him from crashing through the structure. He claimed the wood was rotted. Claimed he’d wear protective bandages beneath his flight suit and hat. Said he’d set up the interior with mattresses and mounds of fresh straw. Obviously, I refused. I might be daring, but I’m not suicidal. Or homicidal. We argued until he finally agreed that I’d pull up enough so his feet would skim the roof. We’d still give the audience heart attacks.”
“So what happened?”
“We nearly scared them to death. I pulled up, and Tuck lowered himself an additional six feet by hanging from the bottom rung. He plowed through the roof, taking the landing gear with him. I crash landed in a lake, narrowly missing the spectator stand.”
Scenes from Waldo Pepper flashed in his head. He imagined Tuck in a body cast, a patch over one eye, and grimaced. “I guess the mattresses didn’t help.”
