Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (108 page)

To be seen whole, and to be valued for it. Jerry caught his breath in spite of himself, in spite of knowing better, and Merrill went on as though he hadn't noticed.

"And they'll keep us safe from our weaknesses, too. Luxuria. Decadence. With all of us supporting each other, all in service of the greater good — you see it, don't you?"

Jerry took another careful swallow of his drink. He could see it, all right — work set before him, some might call it, the chance to build a perfect world. "Plato's chariot," he said, not caring if Merrill understood or not. "The white horse and the black."

The other man nodded eagerly. "Exactly. We are the drivers, who'll make the team pull together."

Make them, Jerry thought. That was the sticking point, and always had been. He remembered reading Phaedrus for the first time and knowing instantly that he would never be the modest white horse, obedient, temperate, and beautiful. He was the black horse, wanton, vainglorious, shaggy of ear and deaf to everything but whip and goad. "And the ones who won't agree?"

"They'll have to," Merrill said again. "Or they can leave. America must be united."

The ends justify the means, and the means… no, Jerry thought. This is not what I swore my oaths for. He shook his head, choosing his words with care. "I can't buy it, Merrill. I just can't see it working."

Merrill rocked back a little in his chair, as though the words had been a blow. "Give it some thought. Don't say no right away."

String him along, Jerry thought, but he couldn't find the words to be convincing. "Sure. I'll think about it."

Merrill's mouth tightened. "In any case, I hope you'll consider Pelley's proposition. Because the Met won't buy those artifacts."

"I can't say anything until I've finished my report," Jerry said. "You know that. But I'll certainly keep Pelley's offer in mind." He met Merrill's eyes with a smile that was like the clash of
swords
, and knew that he'd made an enemy.

M
itch dropped the needle carefully down on the outermost edge of the record and turned the switch to automatic repeat, an expensive feature Stasi had never seen before, but a very handy one, particularly if you had a reason to hear the same song over and over. For example, it was certainly handy for dance practice.

He turned away from the record player, a slightly sheepish expression on his face. "Ok. Where were we?"

Stasi stubbed out her cigarette in his green aluminum ashtray. "Getting down to the sparks, darling. How do you want to do these lifts?"

Mitch considered. "I don't think I can do the high lifts. I don't think I can get you much above my center of gravity without pulling something."

"Well, I shouldn't want you to rupture and die," Stasi said practically. "Let's stick with the low ones. Plenty of sparks there. Especially the spin when you're holding me by one hand and one foot. That looks amazing and it's still low."

"I can do the waist lift with no problem."

"Wonderful. Let's try that one at the end of the second combination then." She took a few steps across the floor, flexing her foot in its strappy black heel. "Start it over and let's take it from the top."

He carefully picked the needle up and set it at the beginning again, the sound of the French cabaret music filling the small apartment, the first bars of the opening.

"Darling, take your shirt off," she said, reaching for his buttons. "There's never in the world been a Parisian thug who wore a shirt like that. Verisimilitude."

"If you say so." He looked amused, but he unfastened the buttons anyway and shook out the starched white shirt, draping it over the radio cabinet, and turning around in his sleeveless undershirt. "Will this do?"

"Oh, much better," Stasi said. She'd wondered if he'd balk at that, but no. Still ready for a dare. That was her Mitch. Well, not hers precisely. And he did have very nice shoulders. "It's a pity men wear shirts at all," she said contemplatively.

"It's December in Colorado," Mitch said. "It's a little cold to run around without a shirt."

"Not in here," she said. "And you can put more wood in the stove if you're cold."

"I expect I'll warm up. Dancing."

And some nice innuendo there. Oh yes. Still game.

"Start it over, darling."

He picked the needle up again. "Ready this time?"

"Ready," Stasi promised.

There was the beginning, the first bars used for a lovely saunter, approaching each other like cats stalking, nothing casual despite casual stances. A head toss, a turn away on the beat.

And he grabbed her, a full spin back as the music grew, facing him, hands against his chest. Two, three, four…. Hands going up his chest and resting on each shoulder, ready for the next step. Perfect, just as they had practiced it, the long steps to her right, each extended glide matched so that their legs moved as if glued together…

That was easy, that was good, so good to dance with someone who knew how, who knew how to make it look right and feel right at once, a triumphant expression of concentration on his face rather than the sneer he ought to be wearing for the role. Stasi couldn't help but smile back.

Now a jerk away, a hard pull back that twisted her entirely around, spinning her off her feet and across the floor as if she'd been pushed, as if he'd pushed her down. Eight beats for his stalk, rolling over on the last two, feeling her blood heating as he reached down for her hand and pulled on it, lunging up as if yanked rather than drawn.

And then the side steps again, body to body, round in a circle, legs moving, pelvises pressed together, her hand against his bare shoulder. The dance called for passion, but there was no need to pretend to any of it. It called for lust, and all she had to do was let it show.

Stop. Turn as though pulling away, and then kick.

He caught her ankle, ankle and wrist, and she let her other knee go weak, letting him pull her off her feet, inverted with skirt flying up, spun in a wide circle by one hand and one foot, the apartment rotating around its center, one garter snapping loose from the top of her stocking.

The spin was easy. Getting out of it was hard, slowing a little and letting go so that she rolled across the floor, ending on her back with her skirt around her waist.

Eight beats of the stalk, passing around her like a cat circling, and then he reached for her ankle, a straight up kick with the left leg. She missed and hit him in the hip instead of kicking into his hand. "Sorry."

"S'ok." Letting go, turning away, end of the first movement.

Eight beats to pick herself up, shaking her head theatrically as if dazed, while he stood with his back to her as though smoking a cigarette. Oh yes. Lust. The music heated like her blood, the steps of the dance not constraining passion, but allowing it. After all, it was only dancing.

And then she stalked, coming around him, one hand rising as though to slap him. A slap, a block, and down to her knees, eight beats of rising up his body, arms stretched, her entire body following, her face against groin and belly and then chest. Arms around his neck and the long steps to the right, matched steps again, wicked parody of a waltz. But they never did this in Vienna.

This time he jerked away, turning around fully, and she pulled him back, seeing the naked hunger in his eyes, real, surely real not faked. And the second lift, the one they'd not done before, her legs around his waist, one hand on her back and the other beneath her bottom, skirts hiked up. His hand on the soft flesh between the top of her stockings and the loose silk combinations, fingers curving almost into the cleft. And spin, four beats and then another four, around and around….

He stumbled backwards, colliding with the edge of the bed at the back of his knees and sat down heavily, and she hung on so she wouldn't fall backwards, landing in his lap, legs around him, her warm center pressed against his belt buckle.

Laughing.

"Sorry," he said, sounding a little breathless. "I ran into it. There won't be anything to run into when we do this for real."

"It's all right," she said. The music kept going. It didn't stop just because they did. It didn't stop just because they were sitting like that, with oh God that pressure exactly where she wanted it, with his arms around her and that expression on his face and….

She knew exactly the moment he decided to kiss her. It was exactly the same moment that she decided to kiss him.

Hunger and desire and so, so right, light and dark at once, like fire and the shadow of fire dancing together over the coals. Hard and insistent and every bit as merciless as the characters they played, ripe with everything pent up and unsaid. Her arms were tight around him, one hand tangling in his hair at the back of his neck as though to make certain he'd never escape. His hand on her backside tightened, exploring beneath the edge of the combinations. Just a little closer, just a little tighter….

And he pulled his head away, jerking back as if it were on the eight beat, eyes wide and too bright. "I can't." He looked away, evading her. "This can't go anywhere."

Back from the brink, from the white heat. Stasi took a long, shuddering breath, untwined her fingers in his hair to a caress, turning his face to hers. "Does it have to? Can't you just kiss me because you want to?"

She saw the idea play across him, his eyes searching her face, and she wondered what he saw there. What did she say with the tips of her fingers against his face, with the way she opened her other hand against his shoulder? She saw the assent, saw something else flicker through his gaze, some weird and tender hope.

"Why not?" she asked, and drew him to her again. "Just kiss me."

Warm and tender and thorough, meeting as though this were the final moments of the dance, the needle sliding across the record to the center, then picking itself up as it touched paper. It lifted and then replaced itself on the outermost edge, the soft scratch of the diamond tip until the music began again.

His lips against her closed eyelids, tilting her face up. The feel of his bare shoulder, sliding her hand beneath the soft cloth of the undershirt, the shape of his shoulder blades, the smell of warm flesh. So close. So tight. Heat welling inside, pressed against his waist, sweet pressure against the metal belt buckle that was almost pain. She ducked her head and kissed his shoulder, wanting the taste of him.

His hand on her neck, the back of his hand, trailing from back to front, and she turned her head into it, his knuckles brushing her lips, and she kissed his fingers. Exploring, tilting her head up to meet mouth to mouth again….

Someone was knocking on the door. Knocking on the door.

"Mitch? Hey Mitch, open up!" It was Lewis. Another knock. "It's an emergency."

He pulled back, sense returning. Sense. Breath. She tried to catch hers as he scooted out from under her, leaving her sitting on the bed, legs akimbo, one stocking unhooked from her garter belt. "Lewis?"

"Sorry, but it's important," he said from outside the door. "Hey, Mitch?"

She saw him square his shoulders, unlatch the door. "What's wrong?"

The door swung open. "There's been another plane crash," Lewis said. "Colonel Sampson's on the phone for you. A passenger plane's gone down en route from Denver to Phoenix. Six people on board besides the crew, including two little kids. Come on. We've got to get out there." His expression changed, suddenly taking in the mussed bed, Mitch in his undershirt, Stasi with one stocking unhooked. He looked like he was trying to decide if apologizing would make it worse.

Mitch nodded. "Coming." He turned and grabbed his shirt off the radio, looking around for heavy coat and gloves and hat and scarf.

Lewis beat a hasty retreat, pulling the door shut behind him, surely to avoid letting out the heat.

"Your gloves are on the wash stand," Stasi said. "And please try not to freeze." She sat up, stretching the elastic down to fasten the garter on the inside of her thigh.

"Stasi." She looked up and he was standing in the middle of the room holding his hat and old leather jacket. "I…"

"Go on," she said. "It's an emergency."

Somewhere out in the night a plane was down with two pilots and four adult passengers, with two little kids who no doubt expected to spend Christmas in Phoenix. Maybe they were still alive, in the mountains, in the winter, in the dark. Whatever there was to say would keep. Surely.

"Ok," he said, and shrugged his jacket on and followed Lewis.

"Be safe," she said to empty air.

L
ewis was sure his face was still scarlet even after the drive to the field. It wasn't as though he had a choice, it was genuinely an emergency, but he couldn't think of much worse than being interrupted at just that point, cabaret music sultry in the background, the heat in the room almost palpable. Stasi with her garter unhooked, stocking sagging over creamy thigh…. He dragged his mind away from that image, suspecting he was blushing again.

"The weather's looking awkward," Mitch said. He was bundled in his heaviest gear, the jacket still open over flannel shirt and sweater. "Flurries now, but Salt Lake says there's a storm on its way. Maybe two of them. High winds on the ground and at altitude, plus snow. It'll be here before daybreak."

"Great." Lewis looked at the Frontiersman, and then at Alma as she ducked out of the office. "Where are we with the electrical system? Did you find the problem?"

She shook her head. "I'm not satisfied. There shouldn't be anything wrong, but this time half the fuses popped when I tried to start her up. I replaced them, and it started fine, but…."

Lewis grimaced. No, he didn't really want to take chances, not in the mountains with bad weather moving in.

"I think we should take the Terrier," Mitch said. "She's going to be more stable in these winds anyway, and three engines are better than one."

Alma nodded. "I agree. I'll keep working on the Dude while you're gone. There's got to be some dumb short somewhere that I just haven't found."