The Flyer (8 page)

Helen swallowed when he turned his attention away from Doc and the bright blue of his eyes settled on her. She licked her suddenly dry lips.

Paul’s lips were soft and full. The memory of his kiss had invaded her dreams almost nightly. After hours of imagined bodies entwined, pulsing with expectant passion, she would wake yearning to feel his kiss again. And again.

She should be thankful for the nightly visits. They made her ever more determined to keep him at a distance when she was awake and fully aware of the danger he presented.

Still, his kisses almost made her reconsider…

Stop!

She hadn’t come to Australia to moon over some man. She had work to do. Charitable and worthy work. Dread took root in the pit of her stomach. She had so much to make up for. How could she possibly do it in only one lifetime?

“Are you all right, Helen?” Paul stood directly in front of her. How or when he’d moved there, she didn’t know, but he stood so close she could smell the heavy scent of soap and man.

“Quite,” she managed through her dry throat. “I’m quite fine, thank you. Are you ready?”

“Ready and waiting.”

His smile was infectious, and Helen found herself smiling in return—even if it was an unsteady smile that made the sides of her mouth tremble ever so slightly. Paul seemed to make the world right, somehow. Even if it wasn’t.

The street outside Doc’s office was far from empty, despite the early hour. A motorcar rumbled past and frightened several horses tied to a post in front of the shop next door. Across the street, a black truck with wooden slats wired to the bed held two automatic washing machines while two brawny men lowered a third machine to the dusty roadway. Their shouts blended with the creaking leather of saddles beneath those who preferred the more reliable and proven modes of transportation.

“My motorcar is just around the corner.”

Helen followed Paul around the side of the building. Parked in the shade of the building on the far side of the alley, Paul’s 1924 Rugby convertible waited. Beige with maroon-colored leather covering the two seats, it was a beautiful piece of modern machinery in a world where she believed nothing of such divine brilliance could exist. Her heart leapt into her throat, and her fingers itched to hold the steering wheel.

“Have you ever ridden in a motorcar before?” Paul asked while he pulled open the left side door for her.

She slid her hands over the buttery-soft leather and inhaled the rich aroma. “Many times. I’m from San Francisco. There are almost more cars than horses there, these days.”

“Oh, I can imagine. When we visit Perth, you’ll find the same.”

Paul set her medical bag in the boot before leaping over the right-side door and slipping behind the wheel. When he shifted the impressive vehicle into gear, he glanced in her direction and smiled. “If you’re a good girl, I might teach you how to drive her later.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what if I told you I already know how to drive?”

He mirrored her expression. “I’d be duly impressed.”

As they drove through Port Hedland’s wide streets, Helen tried to focus her attention on the day’s coming tasks. Paul would fly her into the bush, where she would treat the natives for any ailments or injuries they might have. Later, they would visit one or two of the outlying settlements and perhaps drop in on a rancher, if they had time. It was important that she meet the people she’d be treating, and it was better to meet them before they needed her unique services.

But it was hard to concentrate on anything except Paul, shifting through the gears and driving like a lunatic as he dodged wagons and pedestrians with expert precision. The wind caught in his sandy-blond, sun-streaked hair, blowing the long strands around his bronzed face.

She forced her eyes to his hands—anything to keep from staring at his amazing features—and the image of his hands on her body invaded her thoughts. He had nice hands. Strong hands. His fingers were callused and hard, but his grip on the wheel was gentle, as though he coaxed cooperation from the machine instead of demanding it.

She immediately forced the image away. She’d sworn off men, and their wicked, forked tongues, forever. Paul’s pretty face and inherently masculine presence be damned.

Finally, after several harrowing turns and more than one near heart attack, Paul brought the motorcar to a stop in front of a long, low house with a covered porch. The white planks of the exterior were bright, and she squinted. “Where are we?”

“My place,” Paul answered.

Helen tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. “I thought we were going to your plane.”

“The landing strip is in the back.” A frown marred the otherwise smooth lines of his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Of course not.” She shifted under his scrutiny. How was it he could tell when something bothered her? Was she that transparent? She forced a laugh. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“You looked … I don’t know … disturbed. Nervous?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Helen, you can tell me. Could it be you’re afraid to fly?”

Afraid to fly? Perhaps a little. More important than that, if he thought she was afraid, she could allow him to believe it. Couldn’t she? It wasn’t really a lie. It was certainly better than the alternative. She couldn’t tell him of the fright she’d experienced when he announced they were in front of his house. She couldn’t tell him she’d instantly assumed he’d brought her here for altogether different reasons. She couldn’t let herself believe that if she were alone with him, in his house, she’d fall for whatever charms he cast on her, and those reasons would culminate in sweaty, passionate…

No. She most definitely could not.

So she lied.

“That’s it,” she sputtered, opening the door and climbing out of the vehicle. “I’m just a little nervous about flying, that’s all.”

He frowned. Helen hurried from the Rugby, willing away the past and concentrating on her future. She wasn’t that girl anymore.

Paul’s house rested on the edge of the mining town’s eastern border. Set slightly apart from the other structures, the one-story building in which he lived looked more like a cabin. A huge difference from the Victorian home in which she’d been raised, with its sharply slanted rooflines and brightly painted gingerbread around the porch. No. Paul, despite his extravagant taste in automobiles and his extraordinary driving abilities, was a man of simple means.

A part of her wished he were extravagant. At least then she could compare him to Reginald and fight her increasing awareness of him. But he was different from anyone she’d ever known, everything she’d been raised with. Money and privilege seemed miles upon miles away from what Paul represented.

Unfortunately, that simple fact made her like him all the more.

Behind the house, the landing strip and his plane beckoned. Paul was in no hurry to reach either while he kept his gaze fastened on Helen. The drive had tousled her hair, and the strands turned in windswept angles around her jaw. She tucked them behind her ear with one hand while she reached into the boot of his motorcar with the other. Every muscle in his body tensed as the fabric of her strides pulled tight on the rounded curve of her thigh and hip. He swallowed. Hard.

Struggling only slightly, she finally hefted her medical bag, then closed the boot.

Blood rushed through his body like a brushfire, burning out of control in the heat of summer. Helen had the most kissable lips he’d ever seen, and when they formed that delightfully shy smile of hers, they took his breath away.

The drive through town had exhilarated her, judging from the high color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. And if she liked driving fast, he could only imagine what she’d think of flying. And it certainly wasn’t fear. Nothing compared to the roar of wind that came from soaring high above the earth. He couldn’t wait to share it with her.

Especially when he considered that she’d lied about what was bothering her. If she was nervous about flying with him, he was a kangaroo on holidays. There wasn’t a bone in her body that didn’t scream for excitement. She was like him. Every luscious, round inch of her.

But something had taken the sparkle out of her eyes when they’d pulled in front of his house. The light had turned dark—frightened—and even now, while she scanned the immediate area, taking everything in, that light hadn’t completely returned.

At last, she turned her attention reluctantly—or expectantly, he couldn’t tell—back on him. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she said with a shrug of her strong shoulders.

For now, he’d let her have her way. But soon he’d find out precisely what he’d said to make her seem so bloody fearful. So suddenly sad. “So you can drive, and you like fast cars, but you’ve never flown before.”

“No. I hear it’s the cat’s pajamas, so I’m sure it’ll be simply thrilling. I’m only this nervous,” she added, almost as an afterthought, while she made a pinching motion with two fingers in the empty space between them.

“The cat’s pajamas? I’d be interested in seeing an American cat, I think.” He pointed the way to the rear of his home.

“Now don’t you tease me for my colloquialisms, Mr. Shout-of-Piss.”

“Touché, love.”

The spark in her eyes flashed again, albeit briefly.

In the distance, someone called his name, and he turned. Dashing over the dusty road, her skirts dancing about her booted ankles, young Marla McIntyre raced in his direction. She wore a green bonnet, which almost matched the faded green of her dress, and probably had at some point. She’d been wearing the same dress for more than a year. He made a note to pick up a fresh bolt of material for her mother the next time he flew into Perth. He glanced at Helen, picturing her in the slender, calf-length dress she’d worn the last time he’d seen her. Perhaps he’d pick up new patterns for Mrs. McIntyre, as well. Something … more fashionable.

“Paul! Wait for me!” Marla cried, still several feet away. “You promised to take me flying. Do you remember?”

He cringed, glancing at the earth, then peering at the girl’s hopeful, excited face through squinted eyes. “I did promise, didn’t I?” he sighed.

“Aye. You said the very next time.”

He shook his head. “I know I did, and I’m a right sorry bastard for breaking my word, aren’t I? But I simply can’t today, love. I have to take Miss Helen up just now.”

Marla looked at Helen as though she’d only just noticed her standing at the front of the motorcar. She pulled a curious face and canted her head. “Who is Miss Helen?” In a whisper, she added, “Adelaide says she’s a fast one. What does that mean?”

Paul looked at Helen to see if she had heard the child’s comments. If she had, she made no outward sign. She had set her pack on the ground and was rummaging through it, checking her gear most likely.

Satisfied, he turned back to Marla. “Your sister’s tongue waggles too much. Don’t you pay her any mind. Helen is the new doctor in town, and I have to take her to see the blackfellas in the bush today. But I’ll be going up again tomorrow, and you’re coming with me.”

Marla’s shoulders slumped slightly, and she kicked the ground. “I suppose, if I have to wait, I have to wait.”

“Marla!” Mrs. McIntyre’s voice, harried and angry, carried over the street from the front door of the McIntyre’s modest house. “Marla Elaine McIntyre, you come back here this instant!”

The child turned and made a nasty face at her mother. Paul hid a grin and pulled Marla’s bonnet over her freckled forehead. “Don’t you be disrespecting your mother, now.”

“I don’t care. I’m not in trouble. I don’t know why she’s cracked.”

Whatever it was, they were about to find out. Mrs. McIntyre was marching across the street like the infantry on its way to war. When she came within reasonable earshot, Paul nodded in greeting. “There’s no need to be so upset, Mrs. McIntyre. I wouldn’t dream of taking Marla up without clearing things with you first. You know that.”

“I don’t care if you take her flying in that infernal machine of yours. But to expose my Marla to her …” The older woman tossed her head in Helen’s direction with a sneer on her normally friendly face. “Well, I simply can’t have that, can I? Marla, home with you. Right this minute.”

The air around the motorcar stiffened, if that were possible. Paul didn’t have to turn around to see the crestfallen expression in Helen’s eyes; he could feel it on his skin. Still, he glanced over his shoulder. Cold as ice, Helen stood rigid, staring in the distance as though she hadn’t heard the slight.

But she’d heard it, all right. There was no mistaking it. The set of her shoulders, the pain in her eyes—it all spoke of a barely checked fury.

He shifted back to Mrs. McIntyre and opened his mouth to speak. Marla’s mother cut him off with a stern look. “You should be ashamed of yourself, carrying on with such women. I thought you had more sense than to take up with a fast woman from the docks. What would your mother say?”

Righteous indignation had found a warm home inside Christina McIntyre. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth, finally, closed into a rigid line.

Well, two could play at this game. “I should think my mother would judge her by what she was on the inside, and not make hasty judgments about people she doesn’t know,” he replied. He pointed at the medical bag, then crossed his arms. “Do you know what that is?”