“Very good. Apparently something I said is getting through to you.”
Darcy wanted to toss back his sarcastic jibe, but that wouldn’t get her in the air, so she pasted on a smile that would make Beattie proud. “Everything you’ve said, Mr. Hunter, is getting through to me. In fact, I’m so concerned for your mission and helping our boys overseas that I want to offer my assistance. Mr. Simmons is perfectly capable of machining a part if need be. If that is not to your satisfaction, at least you’ll have the motor apart so your mechanic can repair it quickly. Considering how anxious you are to leave Pearlman, you should be pleased.”
He took a moment. “You aren’t going to leave me alone until you get your way, are you?”
Darcy curbed her triumph. “That’s right.”
“If Burrows tells me you made it worse, you’ll pay for the damages.”
She agreed with a nod. Papa would be furious.
“And how do I know you have the money?”
Simmons finally found his voice. “Her father’s the banker.”
“The banker, eh? All right, you have a deal. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Eight o’clock.” She stuck out a hand to shake on it.
Hunter hesitated before grasping ahold. When he did, it was with a firmness and warmth and duration that sent a shock through her. She tried to breathe. She considered letting go, but couldn’t. She’d stalled, gone into free fall, and the whole world narrowed to just the two of them. Gone were the streets of Pearlman. Gone the moon. Gone Simmons.
Then he smiled, the kind of smile he’d given Beattie, the warm one, the one that said she was beautiful, the one that sent every thought fleeing from her head.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
His smile curved back into a grin, but his hand still held hers.
“Uh, it’s late,” Simmons said.
“That it is.” Hunter finally let go, but as he did, his fingers brushed her palm.
Her hand tingled. “We have an early start.” What a mindless thing to say.
But he didn’t point out her lack of wit. He smiled softly. “So we do.”
Once again his gaze lingered, and she could not help but return the look. In the light of the half moon, she saw something besides the callous adventurer. He had shown consideration for her reputation. He’d acted honorably. He couldn’t be a complete reprobate.
But then, with a nod of the head, he went back inside and ruined every good thought.
Darcy touched the cold, wooden door. Half of her wanted to follow him. Half knew she should go home. Jack Hunter was no good. He was a drinking man.
She had no business even thinking about such a man.
Chapter Three
Jack sat at the dining table the next morning with a thunderous headache. Didn’t seem fair, considering he never touched alcohol. He took a gulp of coffee, hoping the strong brew would clear the pain. He, of all people, knew better than to go into a saloon, but it had seemed the right choice at the time.
He unfolded the newspaper and blinked repeatedly to focus his eyes. He could swear that was a photograph of his aeroplane spread across the front page with the one-inch headline: PLANE CRASH-LANDS.
Jack slammed the paper to the table. That illiterate, no-good newspaperman!
Four sets of eyes fixed on him.
Jack nodded at the other boarders. “Sorry.”
He had to get out of this town before the damage got worse. Curtiss hadn’t wanted the prototype scout plane to leave Long Island, but Jack and Burrows had insisted a distance test was required. Chicago and back, that was all. Two days, three at most. But Jack had not counted on disaster. An emergency landing and a missing mechanic added up to one major headache. “Dzien dobry. Good morning.” The stout Polish proprietress set a plate of runny eggs before him. Though his stomach turned, he managed a nod of thanks.
The other boarders—a salesman type, a meek professorial fellow, and two gray-haired gossiping hens—watched with interest, no doubt waiting for the introduction he didn’t intend to make. Boardinghouses attracted the misfits of society, those without the comfort of family, and Terchie’s was no exception.
Jack shielded himself with the offensive newspaper. He had an uneasy suspicion he’d agreed to something last night, but he couldn’t remember exactly what.
“Are you the pilot who crashed?” one of the ladies asked.
Jack grumbled an excuse, gathered his coffee and newspaper, and went to the porch. The open windows let in fresh air as well as the sounds of motorcar horns, people yelling and birds squawking. Better than gossiping hens.
He settled into the overstuffed chair farthest from the windows, and opened the paper to read what that newspaperman had written about him. It took only a moment to get the gist.