Page 17 of Air Affair

“No. Why?”

“Come back tomorrow morning at eight and have breakfast with me.”

He smiled. “With pleasure. Goodnight, Rory.”

“Goodnight, Hank.”

The cab door closed, and he drove off into the night, leaving her alone with her newly shattered future. There would be consequences for spurning Edward. She knew that. But that was a problem for later.

6

What am I doing with Rory Belmont? Hank grazed the straight razor along his jaw in the communal bathroom at the Roadside Inn where he always stayed when in D.C. Pritchard was still snoring away back in their room. He’d hardly slept a wink.

And yet, here Hank was, getting cleaned up for breakfast with Her Highness as if he had any hope of…of what? Did he think he was going to charm her into bed? Did he think he was going to woo her? Ridiculous. He shouldn’t get anywhere near her, but for some reason, she kept showing up, and he couldn’t bring himself to stay away. Something about seeing her shaken and vulnerable last night made it all the worse. Her veneer slipped, and he caught a glimpse of the woman beneath. The sight made him ache in ways he didn’t think possible.

And so, he kept flying toward her flame, knowing full well he would burn in the end.

Showered, shaved, and as ready as he could be, he donned his uniform jacket despite the heat. It was the most formal garment he had with him, and that hotel he dropped her off at last night looked all kinds of hoity-toity.

He just hoped that fiancé of hers stayed away. There was no telling what Hank would do if the senator made an appearance.

Why would a man ever want to cheat on Rory Belmont? It was clear enough what they were arguing about without hearing the words, given the way Edward had been looking at the singer. Even after a good night’s sleep, Hank was still simmering with outrage on her behalf.

He’d had to straighten out more than one of his sister, Kate’s, beaus when they didn’t treat her with the proper respect. He couldn’t punch a senator, but last night he’d been sorely tempted. No wonder she was sneaking into hangars in the middle of the night, seducing unsuspecting pilots if this was how her fiancé treated her. She deserved someone that worshiped the ground she walked on, someone who would never even think of straying.

Already sweating beneath his jacket, he caught a cab to the Hotel Monaco. In the darkness last night, he hadn’t fully appreciated its grandeur. This morning, as he walked up the red-carpeted steps, glimpsing the ornate columns, he wondered yet again what he’d gotten himself into.

A concierge intercepted him as he walked in. “Excuse me, sir. May I be of assistance?” The man seemed to be quite adept at blocking Hank’s progress while appearing polite and solicitous. Uniform or no, he stuck out like a sore thumb in this swanky joint.

“Yes, I’m meeting Miss Aurora Belmont for breakfast.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“I see. May I have your name?”

“Hank Hawley.”

“If you would wait right here,” the concierge said as he whisked off to parts unknown. Hank stood to the side and looked around at the understated opulence of the hotel lobby—all dark wood and hunter-green walls with matching drapes in neat, scalloped folds.

He got a few sideways glances from the well-dressed hotel patrons and ignored them. He had as much right to be here as anyone.

The concierge returned with Rory trailing after. “Hank, I’m so glad you came,” she enthused as the concierge looked abashed. “You mustn’t blame him for being cautious,” she said, gesturing toward the concierge. “I asked him to warn me if anyone came looking for me in case Edward decided he needed to cure my hysteria sooner rather than later.”

“Good. I didn’t care for how he treated you yesterday.” In fact, he’d gotten quite a bit of satisfaction imagining running the man through with a sword. Sadly, the days of sword duels were long gone, but a man could dream.

“Come. Sit. I’d rather not talk where everyone in the lobby can hear,” she said quietly, directing him to an elegant table at the hotel’s restaurant laid out with a wide assortment of baked goods. He pulled out her chair, then went around to his own.

As soon as they were seated, a waiter came by. “Would you prefer coffee or tea, sir?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Do you take anything with your coffee?”

Hank tried not to laugh, thinking of the sad coffee pots at the hangars with no cream or sugar. “No, thank you. Black is fine for me.”

As soon as the waiter was gone, Rory said, “I knew you’d be a coffee man.”

“Tea tastes like water. Dark and bitter suits me better.” He ate a raspberry scone in three bites.