Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (8 page)

The orchestra was starting up again, flourishes that would settle into a waltz. Lewis looked at Alma, got the smallest of shrugs in return. “If Alma wants, sure.”

Alma looked up at von Rosen, and her smile had steel in it. “If you’re planning on picking my brains about the Cat, you’d be better coming by for a proper tour.”

Von Rosen tipped his head to one side. “Don’t tell me you don’t have all the figures at your fingertips, Mrs. Segura.”

“Oh, I do,” Alma answered. “I’m just not that good a dancer.”

Von Rosen blinked, and then smiled. It was an unexpectedly charming expression, and took ten years off his austere face. “Then I will definitely come to the harbor as soon as possible, and have a proper tour. And in the meantime, perhaps you would honor me with the dance? I promise to let you concentrate.”

Alma smiled back, and rose to her feet. “Sure. But I can only promise I won’t trip you up on the plane.”

“Understood entirely.” Von Rosen offered her his arm, and led her onto the dance floor.

Stasi gave him a sharp-eyed glance, and blew a wobbly smoke ring. “Who was that, darling?”

“Count Carl Gustav von Rosen,” Lewis answered. “I think he wants to buy a flying boat, though why I’m not sure.”

“Him or his government?” Stasi asked. “And who is his government, I wonder?”

“I don’t know. He’s related to the German Air Marshal, I think.”

“Which doesn’t necessarily make him German, of course.” Stasi blew another, more successful smoke ring, and Lewis saw her eyes fix on something to his right. He glanced casually in that direction, and saw one of the organizers, Fillipini, coming toward their table.

“Signore Segura, Signora Sorley! I hope you are well this evening?”

Lewis nodded, and Stasi gave him a brilliant smile. “This is a lovely party. Absolutely lovely!”

“It is by the courtesy of two of our sponsors,” Fillipini said conscientiously. “It is the sales departments of Bavarian Motor Works and of Fokker who have paid for the champagne.”

“Very nice of them,” Lewis said.

“Yes, indeed,” Stasi echoed. “Such a very nice party.”

“I am so glad you are enjoying it,” Fillipini said. “But — I wonder, Signora, if I might impose upon you just for a moment? There is one of your countrymen who perhaps is in need of assistance, but I cannot find anyone who speaks Russian —

Lewis turned to follow Fillipini’s discreetly pointed chin, and saw one of the young Soviet fliers slumped low in his chair in the darkest corner of the room. “Drunk.”

“Quite possibly,” Fillipini said, “and, again, Signora, I do apologize of asking, but perhaps a lady’s voice, in his native tongue?”

“Native tongue?” Stasi repeated.

“I believe your charming husband said you were Russian?” Fillipini smiled nervously.

“Did he?” Stasi matched him tooth for tooth, a sure sign she was rattled. “I’m sure he meant Austrian! I’m Austrian, darling.”

Fillipini looked confused. As well he might, Lewis thought, and cleared his throat. “If the man’s drunk — you should probably find some of his own team.”

“Ah.” Fillipini looked from one to the other as though he was certain his English had failed him.

“Austrian,” Stasi said firmly. “Not Russian.”

“Ah,” Fillipini said again. “Well. Then you will not speak Russian to him.”

“Is that their team leader?” Lewis asked. “By the orchestra?”

“Perhaps?” Fillipini straightened. “That would certainly be the best. Excuse me.”

He bustled off, and Stasi let out a long breath.

“Problem?” Lewis looked around for either Mitch or a waiter, but neither was in signaling distance, though Mitch was getting closer to the bar.

“And how. I don’t speak a word of Russian, darling. I’d never get by with it for a second with any actual Russians.”

“So what have you been doing?”

“I just speak Czech and nobody knows the difference.”

“Do you speak Austrian?” Lewis asked.

“German, darling. Austrians speak German — well, not to hear the Germans tell it, but I speak German like a duck.”

“Ducks speak German?”

“It’s a saying.” Stasi looked as though she really wanted that glass of champagne. “I’ve got to tell Mitch he can’t say I’m Russian —”

The music stopped, and they both clapped, Lewis glancing sideways to see Mitch finally returning with the three glasses of champagne.

“Darling,” Stasi began, but Lewis saw Alma and von Rosen coming back to the table, and shook his head.

“Trouble?” Mitch asked.

“Later,” Stasi said, and downed half her glass.

Von Rosen handed Alma to her seat, and lifted a finger to summon a waiter with a tray of drinks. Lewis accepted one, feeling that he’d earned it, and Stasi swallowed the rest of her drink. “Mitch, darling, let’s dance.”

Mitch blinked, but rose obediently to his feet and let her lead him toward the dance floor. Alma gave Lewis a sharp look, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She relaxed and he turned his attention to von Rosen, hoping that this conversation wouldn’t lead into deep waters.

T
hat’s it, Mitch thought. I am officially the gawking American. The ballroom glittered with light, the enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal, and more torchieres flared from every wall and pillar, also wired for electricity and hung with glass. The women in their sleek satin and diamonds were just as glittering, and the number of men in full dress uniforms was a little alarming. It was just that most aviation research was funded by the military, he told himself, but he couldn’t help being aware of the number of medals worn by men who were otherwise in civilian formal wear.

The French ace Vuillemin, now a senior commander of the French Air Force, caught his eye, the scarlet sash of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor bright across his perfectly tailored coat. While they were in Hawaii, the Lodge had managed to stop a plot to use the Legion of Honor to find and influence its members, past and present, and Mitch looked away before anyone noticed him staring. If the conspirators had managed to control Vuillemin — and who knew how many others in positions of power all over Europe — it didn’t bear thinking about.  The Lodge had blocked that path from ever being used, and that was something he could be proud of.

He glanced sideways at Stasi, walking decorously at his side, back straight and head held regally high, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. “So what gives?”

Her red lips quirked slightly, as though she suppressed a smile. “I’m Austrian, darling. Not Russian. Please try to remember that while we’re here.”

“Absolutely,” Mitch said. Keeping Stasi’s stories straight was always fun, though he thought this one was a little closer to the truth than usual. “Any particular reason I should remember that?”

“Because there’s a Soviet air team here, and I don’t actually speak Russian.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.” She paused.  ”How many people have you told I’m Russian, anyway?”

Mitch considered. “Not too many.”

“Let’s hope they don’t remember.” 

Her voice was tight, and he glanced down at her again.  ”Of course, it would be incredibly rude to ask a Russian countess to translate for a Soviet soldier. There’s no knowing what bad memories or old feelings there might be between them. A wronged lady who’s resourceful enough — or wronged enough — she might even attempt to take her revenge on one of them. No, probably safer just not to ask.”

Stasi smiled in spite of herself. “There’s that. But I’d rather not make a memorable scene.”

The orchestra began the prelude to a Viennese waltz, and he smiled down at her instead. “Shall we?”

She nodded, turning gracefully into his arms, and he steered them onto the floor, falling into step between two well-dressed couples. Stasi was light in his arms, responsive to each suggestion, and they circled the room, each formal figure perfectly performed. It was like a movie, he thought, some elaborate Hollywood adventure where the hero wanders into a troubled European kingdom, and ends up dancing with an elegant jewel thief.  That was a little too close to reality, and he pivoted neatly. The aviator hero ends up with the very dangerous princess who wants the throne for herself. Yes, that had possibilities, a memory he’d save for when they were back home, but at the moment… He smiled down at Stasi.

“I think I’m out of my league.” 

“Nonsense, darling.” They spun together, the most old-fashioned form of the dance they knew, no place here for the sparks and twirls they danced at home. “You’re an American ace. Of course you belong.”

But he didn’t, Mitch thought, as another set of turns gave him a good view of the crowd. He had seven kills, and each one still made him vaguely queasy; he’d gotten them because he was good, because flying was his one great talent, the thing for which he was born, not because he had the killer instinct.  The other aces here all had that, and he could see it in the young pilots’ eyes, the same sharp hunger he saw sometimes in Lewis.  Lewis should have been an ace twice over, if they’d counted the kills he’d made from two-seaters at the beginning of the war; he had two more in the eight months or so he’d been flying fighters, and had loved every minute of it…

He put that thought away, familiar doubt, and smiled apologetically at Stasi.  She was humming something under her breath, and he bent his head to catch it.

“… The Blue Danube Waltz, by Strauss, that louse, is sharing a house, with Mickey Mouse…”

He burst out laughing, the sour mood utterly exploded.  ”Where in the world did you get that?”

“Douglas.” Stasi beamed. “I think it’s in some cartoon or other.”

“Of course,” Mitch said, and swung her into a sweeping turn that was almost as good as flying.

I
t was well after midnight by the time they returned to the hotel. Dora was contentedly asleep with Merilee in the children’s bedroom, and it seemed easier to leave her there. Lewis tipped the young maid who had acted as babysitter while she assured them in excellent English that the children had been no trouble at all, and finally closed the main door of his and Alma’s room with a sigh of relief. Alma shed her fur on the nearest chair, and crossed to the window, pulling back the curtain to look down on the palm trees and the gaslit courtyard. The gold dress showed pale against the dark, and Lewis didn’t switch on the overhead, instead flicking on one of the small lights on the console behind the sofa. They had been given a semi-suite, with a sitting area in the big bedroom and a tiny second bedroom for Dora; it was nice to have the room entirely to themselves for an evening.

He came up behind Alma, and she let the curtain fall into place, leaning against him as he put his arms around her waist. They were nearly of a height, and he rested his cheek against her hair, breathing in the scent of her perfume and other people’s cigarettes.

“Well, I think I’ve got one buyer for Floyd,” she said.

“The count?”

She nodded.

“What does he want a flying boat for? I mean, I can’t see a lot of demand in Europe, and he didn’t look like the sort of guy who was planning to start his own air service.”

“He’s pretty slick, isn’t he?” Alma wrapped her hands over his, pulling him closer. “’He was cagey about what he wanted to do with a Cat if he could get one.”

“Mm.” Lewis closed his eyes, but all he could sense was her warmth and the sleek satin under his fingers. There was no tingle of warning, none of the floating symbols he was learning to recognize as the call of his talent. He hadn’t much liked the count, but there had been no reason for it — well, if he was honest, he hadn’t liked the count because the count had given him an all-too-familiar look of disdain. Your wife wears the pants, it said. You’re not a man. It was a little better than the story the reporters had come up with during the Great Passenger Race — jealous Latin lover, going to catch on eventually and then she’ll get what’s coming to her — but he resented it as much for Alma’s sake as for his own. But he didn’t have anything to prove, not in this company. He was as good as the best of them, and everyone could see it.

“Not that I think Floyd’s going to care,” Alma said. “He needs to sell a bunch of them if he doesn’t get that government contract.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you think of him?”

Lewis blinked. “The count?”

“No, Floyd! Of course I mean the count.”

Lewis shrugged, still keeping his arms around her. “I don’t really have an opinion. I don’t know anything about him. Why?”

“No funny feelings?”

“No.”

Alma sighed, leaning harder against him, and he shifted to take her weight. “He’s up to something. I’m sure of that.”

“Probably. Most of these guys are — they’ve got something they want from the show.” Lewis kissed the smooth skin of her neck. “And he doesn’t know what to do with a woman who runs her own company.”

Alma breathed a laugh. “Ok, you got me. That was annoying. But he got better.”

“He’d better.” Lewis kissed her neck again, following the tendon down to the pale and faintly freckled skin of her shoulder.

“Don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry.” Lewis brought his hands up, cupping her breasts, and she made a small pleased sound, then turned so that she could kiss him properly, gloved hands winding around his neck, then dropping to loosen his tie.

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

Alma smiled and turned so that he could work the zipper of her gown. Lewis tugged it down, and she let it fall to puddle at her feet, leaving her in stockings and garter belt, and brassiere, with the gloves and high heels looking sexier than any pin-up girl. Lewis drew a breath, shrugging hastily out of jacket and vest, and Alma rolled one glove and then the other down below her elbow. She tugged them off finger by finger, the thin leather clinging, and Lewis shrugged out of his suspenders. Alma took a step backward, still smiling, settled on the edge of the bed and reached down to unbuckle her right shoe. It was suddenly too much, more than he could bear to wait another minute, and he stepped quickly over her dress, hands on her shoulders to press her back against the covers.

“Oh, yes,” she said, spreading her knees, and reached for his buttons. She drew him down to her, smothering any sound he might have made in kisses.