Her Sky Cowboy (19 page)

Feeding off her escalated passion, Tucker slid his hands down her back, cupped her backside, and pulled her closer, his own arousal enormously apparent.

Instinctively, Amelia sprang off her tiptoes and wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding her pelvis against his erection. She broke the torrid kiss, heady with want. The
demand on the tip of her tongue died as she noted the absurd. “You have grease on your face.”

“That’s because you have grease on your face.”

Mortified, she noted that her hands were also stained.
Crikey
. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Something erotic about you and mechanics. Bit of a mystery.”

Heat sizzled and zapped like a live wire. She intrigued a man who’d experienced numerous adventures. She’d never felt more special. Entranced, on fire, Amelia nipped his beautiful mouth. “Take me.”

“My cabin—”

“Here. Now.”

“Someone could walk in.”

“Lock the door.”

“Amelia—”

“You started this.”

“I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“Lock the door.” She kissed him with all the passion burning inside her, her legs still locked around his back as he engaged the dead bolt. “Show me something new. Something adventurous.”
Something I’ll never do again with another man
.

As if he were reading her last thought, Tucker’s actions grew more fervid, the kiss deeper, wilder. He finessed her to her feet, and next thing she knew he was tugging her flight pants to her ankles, turning her around, and bending her over a polished table.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a husky whisper—a little panicked, but mostly excited. The thrill of the unknown. The thrill of Tucker’s touch.

He leaned over, front pressed to her back, brow resting against the back of her head. “Too soon for this,” he said in a conflicted tone.

“No. I want this.” Whatever
this
was. She squirmed with anticipation. “Please.”

He shifted, and she moaned with wonderful, miserable yearning as he kissed the back of her neck, suckled her earlobe. Could a person go mad from unquenched lust?

He smoothed his palm over her exposed backside, then between her legs, feeling her slickness. “Do you trust me?”

Her heart pounded. “In this matter, yes.”

He smiled against her ear. “Sassy
and
sexy.” Then he slid into her from behind. Slowly. Inch by inch. All the while kissing her neck and shoulders, his hands gliding and caressing. “Relax.”

Difficult, that. The sensation thrilled even as her inexperience screamed. Her mind and body warred but a second. Shocking, yes, but she felt no discomfort, no guilt. With Tucker, everything felt right. Even this. He rocked against her, growing bolder with her lustful moans, increasing his rhythm as she begged for release.

Her stomach coiled; her body trembled, every muscle aching as she soared higher and higher until…she exploded and shattered, vaguely aware of Tucker’s sweet words of seduction as she floated down to earth.

His touch was gentle, his body tense, his manhood still rigid and pulsing as he slowly withdrew. Dazed, she whispered, “But you didn’t—”

“Not now.” He brushed a kiss over her cheek. “That was for you.”

Her heart pounded, a deafening thud in her ears. Even though she felt vulnerable now, half-naked and sated in a storage room, she was quite certain, to her absolute horror, that she’d just fallen in love.

Tucker put them to rights, somehow muting the awkward moment. Fully dressed, he pulled a bandanna from his pocket and gently wiped grease from her face. His eyes twinkled, and she wondered whether he was contemplating finding satisfaction with her later in his cabin. Instead he angled his head. “How would you like to go to Paris, Amelia?”

Body tingling in the sensual aftermath, pulse racing with emotions that scared her more than leaping from an aerostat without a parachute, for the first time in her life Amelia felt utterly feminine. Besotted.
How awful
. She quirked a dopey smile. “What girl wouldn’t want to see Paris?”

Every time Tuck turned around these days, someone threw a wrench in his plans. That someone being a pretty little thing with a tough-as-iron persona, keen mind, and guarded heart. Blasterbeef malfunctions. Jammed masts. The run-in with Dunkirk and ALE. Deflowering a virgin. The only thing that had gone off without a hitch these last few days was his meeting with Gaston, Duke of Anjou. Then again, Amelia hadn’t been present. Not that he believed she was bad luck, but damn, when in the mix, she put a chink in the cogs of life, the latest glitch occurring just moments before.

Even though he’d promised a tour of the sensual universe, Tuck hadn’t planned on taking Amelia in a damned storage room—from behind, no less—given her inexperience. The woman drove him to it. He had limited willpower when it came to her passion and curiosity. Her adventurous streak was infectious, affecting him almost as deeply as her internalized sadness.

She’d cried again last night in her sleep—mumbled, too. He was pretty sure her nightmares were associated with her pa. He’d sensed that same bone-deep sorrow when he’d walked in on her trying to fix Bess. Then again when she’d talked about being estranged from the Darcy clan. There seemed to be bad blood between her and her ma, and she’d taken on this jubilee quest behind her brothers’ backs. He knew nothing about Jules and Simon Darcy. Good men? Bad men? With her pa gone, was Amelia, for all intents and purposes, alone in the world?

Bonding with her physically had taken a unique toll, especially given her trust in sexual matters. Each touch, every kiss fueled a mounting possessiveness—a need to protect and preserve. Becoming emotionally involved with this woman was a mistake of almighty proportions. Tuck knew it. Felt it. Yet he couldn’t cut himself off from Amelia. Not yet. Reminded him too much of abandoning his sister. He’d had his fill of guilt and regret. Hence the invitation to Paris.

After discussing a plan, Tuck had whisked the flushed and disheveled woman out of the storage room and one deck up. He had to admit, with the lucrative absinthe delivery behind him, he was looking forward to their mutual ruse, his mind ticking off Parisian points of interest specific to Amelia. They were midway down the hall to his cabin when he saw one of his crew approaching. His always calm and in-control navigator nodded in greeting.

“Miss Darcy. Marshal.”

Even though his expression betrayed nothing, the intuitive Cheyenne knew.
Damn
. Tuck released Amelia’s elbow. “Head on in, honey. I need a word with StarMan.”

Spine straight, she clutched her bag of tools to her chest, smiled meekly at StarMan, and rushed into the cabin.

Neither man spoke until they were topside and alone at the stern. Tuck broke the silence. “Spit it out.”

The man Tuck had known and trusted for thirteen years looked to the toes of his boots, weighed his words, then met Tuck’s gaze. “Dallying with an innocent—”

“I’m not dallying.”

“So you’ve offered marriage?”

“You know that’s impossible.”

“You’ve compromised her honor.”

“What are you, my conscience?”

“If I have to be.”

Tuck looked up at the cloudless sky and breathed deeply. “I know you mean well.”

“I know you’re a good man.”

He met StarMan’s gaze. “If doin’ the right thing wouldn’t cause more harm than good, I’d do it. First of all, she ain’t willin’.”

“Did you ask?”

“No. She made it clear she didn’t want to be—how did she put it?—shackled to any man. And, not that it’s any of your business, but I made it clear I can’t offer forever. We have an agreement. You need to let this go.”

StarMan pursed his lips and raised a brow. “That an order?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded.

Tuck locked down the guilt niggling into his soul. He looked over his shoulder and caught sight of the rest of the crew performing various tasks. “I won’t be going with you when you dock the
Maverick
in the duke’s aero-hangar. I’m taking Amelia into Paris.”

“I thought you wanted to keep her hidden.”

“We’ll be hiding in plain sight.”

“Meaning?”

“You know that skytown we spotted north of here? Typically those pleasure meccas feature at least one transformation center. Be someone else for a night. Wardrobe, hair, a complete metamorphosis, fictitious ID.”

“You’re going to purchase an identity change for Miss Darcy?”

“And myself. One night only.” He leveled the no-nonsense man with a no-nonsense look. “The woman wants to see Paris. Got any better ideas?”

StarMan sighed. “I do not.”

“Then we’re done here. Miss Darcy and I will take the air dinghy. We’ll be back in the morning. You oversee the ship’s transfer to Gaston’s aero-hangar; then you and the men are free to seek your pleasure as discussed earlier. Just avoid your favorite haunts.”

Though an eccentric, the Duke of Anjou had won Tuck’s
approval upon first meeting. He’d not only paid Tuck the amount agreed upon but a bonus for speedy delivery. Gaston had a healthy dislike of corrupt officials and irrational prohibitions that interfered with his lifestyle. As a libertine and patron of the arts, the green-fairy liquor was the duke’s choice of cordials for private soirées. He was also a collector of fine modes of transport and kept two expert mechanics on staff. So when he’d suggested Tuck leave the
Maverick
in their care overnight, Tuck had agreed—with the stipulation that Axel oversee the proceedings. The blasterbeefs were off-limits. Other than that, why not take advantage of the duke’s generosity? A private country residence. Well guarded. Miles from Tuck’s usual Parisian port, should anyone be looking for him in the usual places. The
Maverick
needed tending, and his men needed a break before resuming their new quest to Italy.

“I’m thinking about staying behind with Axel,” StarMan said. “He’s anxious about strangers tinkering with the
Maverick
. What if he takes exception to their methods and gets into a tussle? Someone should stick around as mediator. Besides, I’ve seen Paris. Ain’t never seen a kangaroo. Aim to take the duke up on his invitation to walk that garden.”

Tuck raised a brow. “What about that pretty Oriental woman we saw tending to those exotic hedges on the front lawn? The one who couldn’t take her eyes off of you? Plan on taking her up on her invitation as well?”

“Got a problem with that?”

Unlike a lot of people, Tuck had never had a problem with folks of varied nationalities mixing. Smiling, he gripped StarMan’s shoulder. “Enjoy the kangaroo.”

“First you lose Miss Darcy. Now you’re demanding more money to continue the search?”

“Aye.”

Bingham glared at the Scottish pirate, his chest burning with rage. Incompetence. He was surrounded by knobs who
bumbled their assignments, and this one expected further compensation. He should’ve ignored the man’s request to meet him over the French coast, but it was safer than meeting on English soil. Wanting answers and results, Bingham had roused his personal navigator and engineer and taken to the air. The Scottish Shark of the Skies had rendezvoused via a stolen aerostat.

“Because of Miss Darcy,” Dunkirk said calmly, “my ship sustained severe damages. Costly damages.”

“Not my responsibility.”

“It is if ya be wanting me to act swiftly. I dinnae have the resources handy to replace the core thrust propulsion system. Ya do.” He glanced around the spacious and ornate gondola of Bingham’s pride and joy, shrugged. “Or ya can loan me your zeppelin to complete the mission, yeah?”

Bingham grunted. “As if I’d trust the likes of you with
Mars-a-tron
.”

“When it comes to going up against the Sky Cowboy and securing Miss Darcy’s treasure, the likes of me is the best you’ve got, Lord Bingham.”

The truth of that statement vexed him like the devil. Dunkirk’s aviation skills were legendary, as was his cunning. When the man had contacted him, informing him that he’d been the victim of foul play, then admitting he’d lost Amelia, Bingham had been stunned. Then, soon after, furious. He refused to be outwitted by that rebellious chit and a former air marshal, an American who, although accused of being a criminal, continued to exhibit disgustingly high morals. “You’re sure it was Tucker Gentry?”

Dunkirk clenched his jaw. “Aye.”

“And you’re certain Miss Darcy made no mention, gave no hint as to her specific destination whilst in your care.”

“I’d only just begun my…interrogation.”

Bingham drummed his fingers on the brass rim of his gyrocompass and considered his options. Dunkirk was still the best man for this specific assignment. “I’ll send an alert
to my league of trackers and informants. Gentry will have to dock at some point for supplies, fuel. His fame will be his downfall. Someone will recognize him and someone will report. When they do, you’ll have your direction. Meanwhile”—he rolled back his shoulders, harnessed his rage—“I’ll provide you with the means necessary to repair your ship.”

Dunkirk smiled, though the gesture lacked good humor. “Ye’re going to great trouble and expense in pursuit of a mystery treasure, yeah? I’ve been thinking—”

“Don’t tax yourself, Dunkirk.”

“And reading the papers—”

“You read?”

The fearsome-looking pirate crossed his arms over his broad chest. “The man who possesses a time machine would be a powerful man indeed.”

Now Bingham smiled, the full extent of his own menace burning in his gaze. “Powerful men crush those who hinder.”

Dunkirk had the balls to laugh in the face of ruthless nobility. “And reward those who help, yeah?”

“Bring me what I seek and we’ll talk.” Bingham turned his back on the man lest he lunge and wring his bloody neck.

Still chuckling, the pirate took his cue and left. “I’ll be in touch, matey.”

The insolence! Once he had what he wanted, Dunkirk would pay for his cheekiness. At least the informant he’d set upon Simon Darcy was much easier to control. Pitifully, beautifully easy. Bingham stared out the window of his superior zeppelin, eyed the distant, sporadic air traffic, and considered his glorious future. If perchance the younger of the twin Darcy brothers procured the invention that would secure Bingham’s dream, then he would know it. Miss Wilhelmina Goodenough would not bumble. She had too much to lose.