All of You (A Carrington Family Novel Book 2)

by Sarah Monzon

  The glow returned. Oh heavens. Ignoring this man and the way her body responded to him would be harder than she initially thought. Good thing he would only be there for the next few hours. Then she wouldn’t have to see him again. Wouldn’t have to learn how to deny the instant attraction between them.

  What a bittersweet ache that thought brought.

  “Should we get started then?” He arranged them in front of the mouth of the huge hangar, then looked through his camera, directing those on the left to squeeze in a bit more. For some pictures he had them smile, while others were of a more serious nature. Next, he jogged a little ways from them, then instructed the group to walk slowly toward him. Alice felt stiff with self-consciousness as she took the small steps that kept her in line with the other women.

  “What do you think, ladies?” A dark-haired woman, with an accent so thick Alice had a hard time deciphering the words, flashed a smile. “Am I going to be the new pinup girl of 1944?” She batted her eyelashes dramatically while patting the goggles resting on her forehead.

  Alice laughed, her tense muscles uncoiling. The world was definitely upside down, but she couldn’t ever imagine it had changed so much that men would drool over them with their figureless flight suits. With parachutes strapped to their backs, they resembled khaki turtles. And if that wasn’t enough, the fact they were stepping out of their “rightful place” and invading a world men had forever thought of as their own—which Father believed was the greatest sin of all.

  Mr. Caldwell halted them again, calling girls individually to climb into the cockpit of a Hurricane. He snapped shots from all angles: up close, through the propeller at the nose, from the tail. He even requested Rose pretend to powder her nose from behind the instruments. Though Alice had touched up her lipstick once after landing, she thought it a rather chauvinist pose that Mr. Caldwell suggested. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt that such a photo would help the women who were trying to carve out equality, but she only saw it as perpetuating an archaic way of thinking

  Mr. Caldwell lowered his camera and gave them all a wide smile. “Time to take this to the skies.” His blue eyes penetrated her. “Miss Galloway, would you be so kind as to pilot a plane for me so I can take the pictures?”

  Her? While completely qualified, she’d only just finished the required training by the ATA. Didn’t he want someone with more experience with the Auxiliary?

  “I do believe we have been granted access to four Spitfires and a Percival Proctor.” He continued to await her answer.

  Both were single-engine planes, the Proctor able to carry three people, while the Spitfire cabin was constructed for the pilot only. Alice had never flown a Proctor, but that was the thrill of ferrying. She was licensed to fly any single-engine plane, whether she’d ever climbed aboard one before or not.

  Apparently Mr. Caldwell took her silence as acquiescence. “Splendid.” He turned to the four in full gear. “Two of you will take off first, and I’ll take some shots from the ground, then Miss Galloway and I will head up. Once all four of you are in the air, I’d like for you to make a formation. You know how to do that, right?” The women glared, and Mr. Caldwell was decent enough to cover his faux pas with a cough. “Right. I’ll get what I need up there then. You can follow Miss Galloway back down to the landing strip.”

  The four women hurried over to the waiting Spitfires, climbed up on the wings, and descended into the cockpits.

  Mr. Caldwell put a hand to Alice’s elbow. “Shall we?”

  They walked to the Proctor. Being a stationary wheel well, the plane set higher above the ground than the Spitfires. Though she could have climbed the wing herself, Mr. Caldwell assisted her. She ducked as she pulled herself through the window into the front seat behind the yoke. She caressed the leather, a rightness centering her.

  Mr. Caldwell grunted behind her as he squeezed through the small window. The safety harness clicked behind her.

  “Ready, Mr. Caldwell?” Alice asked over her shoulder.

  “Any time you are, Miss Galloway.”

  Alice removed the ferry pilot notes, a two-ring book of small cards, and quickly perused the directions there. That was pretty much the extent of instruction of these multiton machines the ferry school expected her to fly. She flipped switches. The engine rumbled to life, the propeller swirling like a tornado in front of her. She taxied the plane down the runaway, and it bounced along the surface. Once they reached optimal speed, she pulled back on the yoke, the nose of the plane rising, air streaming beneath the wings and lifting them into the sky.

  “Brilliant, Miss Galloway,” Mr. Caldwell shouted from behind her. The rushing wind through the open windows made a terrible loud noise.

  Alice banked to the left to give the journalist a winning view of the remaining two planes yet to take off. Once they all were in the air, she circled back around and pulled up on the far end of the formation. Her breath hitched at the precision and power displayed through the right window. The four war planes lined up in a perfect row, the twentieth century’s answer to the demands of opposition. She could imagine these same planes with RAF pilots flying into the fray and battling Luftwaffe head to head. Though most of the men she knew bragged about how many enemies they gunned down, the need to take a life to save a life still saddened Alice.

  Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Mr. Caldwell’s presence until his face appeared in her peripheral vision.

  “I was wondering, Miss Galloway, if you’d allow me to show you around town a bit this evening. There’s a great little place that serves fine food and has some smashing music.”

  What an awful niece she was that this man’s invitation sounded so tempting. She scolded the side of her brain that reasoned since she had yet to start her search for Aunt Sybil, one more evening would not matter all that much. But then, in London’s devastated condition, with bombs falling and crumbling whole neighborhoods, one night could tip the scale entirely on whether she’d ever see her aunt again.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Caldwell. I am sorry.”

  “I see.” His head didn’t retreat, and she could smell the cloves on his breath. “May I ask whyever not?”

  She turned slightly in his direction. “I have other plans.”

  He tapped her shoulder and pointed out the right window. “Go ahead and take her down.”

  Alice gently directed the plane into a landing pattern.

  “May I suggest that you cancel your plans with the other bloke?”

  She heard the grin in his voice even though he had to practically yell.

  “I promise you will have more fun with me.”

  “No doubt.” Who knew what her evening would look like? She’d seen pictures of bombed-out parts of London. If her aunt’s flat had taken the brunt of the Blitz in ’40 and ’41 or any of the more recent shellings, then she could be digging under rubble for the rest of her life.

  “Then you’ll reconsider?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The plane descended and bounced along the runway until finally slowing to a stop. Alice killed the engine and checked over everything to be certain all was in order. She turned to hoist herself through the small window and found Mr. Caldwell’s hand extended toward her. Her fingers curled around his palm, the strength in his grasp surprising her. She stepped onto the wing, her body trapped between the plane’s cabin at her back and the surprisingly formidable presence of Mr. Caldwell at her front. His sky-blue eyes held her captive once again.

  “If I can’t convince you to accompany me, then I am resigned to join you.” He hopped off the wing, her hand still secure in his. “So”—his grin brightened his face—“what are the plans, my lady?”

  Alice eyed him, unsure whether accepting his presence would be a help or a hindrance. On the one hand, he surely knew London better than she and could help her get around the city. Perhaps his experience asking questions as a journalist would come in handy too. If she could locate her aunt’s flat, the neig
hbors might be able to answer some questions. Then again, Mr. Caldwell could be a bit of a distraction as well. One she didn’t need.

  “Are you familiar with London?” If he knew the city, he could come along.

  “Are the cliffs of Dover white?” He winked.

  “Yes?”

  Mr. Caldwell’s laugh was deep and rich. “Yes. I grew up on the east side of the city.”

  Alice nodded. “Then you may come along.”

  “Brilliant.” He rubbed his hands together. “Am I to be a tour guide then? Do you wish to see the bridge? Big Ben? Buckingham Palace?”

  Her lips remained in a flat line. “Three years ago my aunt went missing. You’re going to help me find her.”

  Chapter Six

  Present Day, Maryland

  From: Alice Abbott

  To: aerojack@gmail.com

  Subject: 1940s WW II Plane in need of restoration

  Dear Ms. Rogers,

  My good friend Tim Kirkpatrick, whose Boeing Stearman biplane you restored a few years back, highly recommended you and your work. I have a WW II plane in need of a professional restorer of your caliber. Before I go into too much detail, however, I do need to disclose that the plane is in England. Of course, we would cover your expenses. If you have room in your schedule to take on such a project, I’d love to discuss it in more detail with you.

  Best Regards,

  Alice Abbott

  One week. If the navy had waited seven lousy days before shipping Brett back out, then she wouldn’t be here right now. Jack stared through her windshield at the brick-faced corner pub, bright lights shining through the glass windows into the dark night sky. Irritation, more at herself than anything, fizzled like the Sierra Mist sitting in her cup holder. She should have been expecting the call. One of the Rogers kids got it every year.

  March 19. A hard day for them all, but time had lessened the grief for her and her brothers. Not so for Dad. The calendar seemed to dredge up all the pain and heartache of Mom’s death. His solution lay at the bottom of a bottle. Or a dozen. Sober three hundred sixty-four days a year. Drunk as a skunk the three hundred sixty-fifth.

  She sighed as she dropped her keys inside her purse and slung the bag over her shoulder. Nightlife downtown was buzzing with the nocturnal crowd, while all Jack wanted was to take a shower, put on her flannel pj’s, and crawl beneath the covers. But first she had to save Dad from alcohol poisoning, a bar fight, driving drunk, or who knew what else.

  A man stumbled out of the bar. She shifted her weight back from being plowed over as he righted himself, a silly grin tipping his mouth. His eyes traveled the length of her. “You’re looking fi-ine.” Alcohol-saturated breath carried the last word through two syllables.

  Drunker than drunk. No way any sober man would consider her attractive. Not in her grease-stained coveralls, her hair frizzy even in its messy bun, and the stench of a hard day’s work drifting from her underarms. She stepped around him. Not in a million years, buddy. Live music vibrated the air as she entered the bar; the soulful strains of a jazz band drummed a toe-tapping beat. She followed the wall, scanning the crowd for the grief-slumped figure of her dad.

  “Well, well, well. Who do we have here?”

  That voice. The Jersey accent. Her heart simultaneously pumped fire and ice. Part of her wanted to punch him right in the nose, while the other wanted to bolt through the door she’d just entered. She squared her shoulders and forced her eyes to hold his gaze. The very act made her skin crawl, but she’d never let him see it.

  “Mitch.”

  He took a step closer, invading her personal space, his look predatory, like he was ready to devour her in a single bite. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

  Disgust soured her stomach. How could she ever have fallen for his flattery? Had she seriously been so starved for romance that she let the first guy who paid her any attention wipe out all her good sense? Well, she had droves of it now. She dug around in the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out her keys, weaving them between her knuckles with the points facing out. “Get out of my way.”

  His face hardened and nostrils flared. In a blink, his charming mask fell back in place. He leaned his hands against the wall on either side of her head, barricading her in front of him.

  Maybe she had more guts than sense. But surely he wouldn’t try anything here. Not with so many witnesses.

  He tilted his head and fixed a pout on his face. “Now why would you hurt me like that, baby? You know I love you. I said I was sorry, and I swear to you I’d never do anything like that again. I came back for you.”

  Jack kept her hands fisted. “Get out of my way and stay out of my life, Mitch.” She ducked under his elbow, intent on putting as much distance as possible between them.

  His grip came around her arm like an iron clasp, and she sucked in air through her teeth. Warm breath heated her cheek, the strong stench of alcohol singeing her nostrils. “You do not get to walk away from me. You belong to me, you hear? You’re mine.”

  Jack’s fist flew through the air and landed against her ex’s rough jaw. The blare of the trumpet drowned out any sound the punch may have made, but her knuckles felt like the crash of a cymbal.

  Mitch’s eyes bulged as his head turned back to glare at her. Courage fled faster than a plane at Mach seven, and her eyes widened as his fingers curled inward. All her muscles tensed, preparing for the blow.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Jack’s gaze swung from Mitch’s thunderous scowl to the stranger’s hardened features. His square jaw ticked, the corners of his ocean-blue eyes tight. It was illogical, the way her body instantly responded to this stranger’s presence. Physical, yes. But more than that. His obvious desire to protect her made her feel safe. The uncontrollable shaking that had taken over eased as fear ebbed away in a warm feeling of safety. Which was crazy. Not only was she literally in the middle of two men who might, at any minute, start brawling, but except for that one time three years ago, she’d taken care of herself, defended herself. Growing up with two older brothers kind of prepared a girl that way.

  Mitch gave the guy a once-over and sneered. “Yeah? You gonna make me?”

  For the first time, Jack noticed the crutch tucked under the man’s arm…his only arm. A white sock of some sort covered the remainder of the other one. And one pant leg was creased above the knee and pinned up. US Navy printed in white letters across the front of his shirt reflected from the bar’s fluorescent light. A real-life Captain America and her present hero. If a bit banged up.

  Those blue eyes smoldered. “If I have to.”

  Mitch smirked and yanked on Jack’s arm. “We’ll finish this discussion in private.”

  “No.” She clawed at his hand, but his grip only tightened.

  “You heard her—now let her go.” Her rescuer put his sock-covered arm on Mitch’s shoulder.

  “Get that thing off me.” Mitch shoved at the man’s bicep, then pushed Jack toward the door.

  Captain America stepped in front of Mitch, and Jack sucked in a breath. Like watching the pressure build in a water rocket, Mitch exploded, fist balled and throwing a wide hook at the man’s head. Captain America ducked and in one fluid motion jerked his crutch up into his hand and shoved the curved padded part into Mitch’s throat until he was pinned to the wall.

  “You will apologize to the lady and then get your sorry carcass out of here.” The low timbre of the stranger’s voice held a rod of steel.

  Mitch hesitated and threw her a murderous look—which earned him added pressure against his windpipe. Veins popped out along his neck, his muscles straining to receive oxygen.

  Jack inched away. She didn’t need an apology; she needed to collect her dad and get the heck out of there.

  “Sorry.”

  Mitch’s croak made her pause.

  Captain America gave the crutch a shove along the side of Mitch’s head in the direction of the exit. He s
tumbled but quickly righted himself, pausing at the door long enough to throw her a threatening look.

  “Are you okay?” The man’s face had lost the hardness, concern now softening his features.

  Jack blinked slowly, trying to process everything that had just happened. Her life was turning into a bad prime-time drama. She looked toward the pub’s door and rubbed her upper arm where Mitch had caught her in a vise grip. She needed to work on her self-defense techniques. Maybe even take a refresher course now that Mitch was back in town.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Her gaze swung back around and collided with his. “Thank you for stepping in. Not many people would have.”

  He shrugged, brushing off her praise. “You’d be surprised. This place is a hot spot for servicemen.”

  Like the one who’d just left. “But you’re the one who intervened.” Even if there were others who could’ve faced the altercation more easily—without the aid of a crutch. “I’m Jack Rogers.”

  “Michael Carrington.” He said his name slowly and staccato-like, as if in a trance. His face drained of color, like the realization of what would cause the world’s end had dawned on him,

  Odd.

  The saxophone playing screeched to a halt, followed by the rest of the instruments. Hollowed sounds of heavy footfalls bounced around the room, then the loud tapping of the mic through the speakers.

  “Is this thing on?” The slurred question came from a swaying man on stage.

  Jack looked closer…and groaned. Exactly what she wanted to deal with right then. Not. She looked back to Captain America, er, Michael Carrington. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me.”

  Jack serpentined around the small tables dotting the pub’s dining hall until she faced the stage. Her father grinned down at her.

  “Dad,” she said in a harsh whisper. “Come down from there.”

  “Hi, darling. I wash just gonna shing your mama’s shong.” His inebriated words mashed together. “Come shing wish me.”

  Jack walked around the stage to the steps on the side, the first two lines of John Denver’s “Annie’s Song” being mutilated by her father. Then heart-wrenching sobs. The strongest man she knew doubled over, clinging to the microphone.