The Aviator Read Free

slant in its glass, his stomach didn’t roll into his ribcage or drop into his gut.
    The storm had passed, but the ghost of its waves still seemed to rock the Officer’s Lounge, swaying with Gilda as she broke into another patriotic chorus of Go with Thee, Bonnie Lad , accompanied by the enthusiastic strings of a young ensign’s violin. They moved together, the gaunt musician jerking his chin with the wild sawing of the bow, leaning toward her as she straightened her shoulders and threw her head back, overtaken by the ascent from C minor to A flat.
    This was classic Gilda. Enter wearing no bustle, no satin or sequins, no modest hats with pretty veils, fur trimmed cloaks or silk fans, and still manage to capture every heart in the room. It was her charm, her damnable confidence which allowed her to turn a tailored jacket, a slim skirt, and polished black leather boots into a challenge for independence, a modern woman in hero’s garb, flaunting her disdain for the old world by abandoning all of its elegance.
    She had become quite a figure in that regard, accepting no chaperones, no guardians or matchmaking great aunts, no nods to polite society or the accepted practices of the gentler sex. When the mood struck, she drank like a man, swore like one, bedded whom she chose and didn’t give a damn what ruination came of it. She was shunned for this, of course, but only in the confines of the capital city, a maze of titles and palaces she hadn’t seen in at least a decade. Even there, public condemnation had somehow turned into private adoration, making her much more the celebrity than her well-natured cousins. The Mad Lady Sinclair, they called her.
    And they didn’t know the half of it.
    He finished off his scotch, wincing at its burn. Perhaps he knew too much, but that didn’t stop him from staring. He couldn’t look away from her. No one could. She sang from the heart, her voice rich and strong and unapologetic, hitting and extending every note, with the smallest waver forming just before a breath, a hint of vulnerability that held every man in the room transfixed, unable to breathe unless she did.
    Her hair defied its pins, unruly blonde curls forming a petulant crown, her cheeks pink with song and champagne, her eyes bright and blue… a willful Pandora with her hand poised on man’s undoing.
    But there was something else now, something different. A bruise just above her right eyebrow, a mark he’d earlier mistaken for shadows. Her shoulders too, some stiffness in the way she held them, perhaps.
    So, not without a scratch after all.
    He should have taken immense satisfaction in that. God knew, he wanted to. But he found himself concerned about the possibility of bruises he couldn’t see, damage he didn’t know about, and then despising himself for his own weakness. He was not her caretaker, after all. Not anymore.
    Gilda finished her last note, letting the lyric thread gracefully in the air before she smiled, brought down to Earth by riotous whistling and crackling applause. Stone faced War Cabinet Officials, who had not smiled once during the prolonged negotiations of the past few days, were now grinning ear to ear like schoolboys.
    They would give her anything she wanted, anything they could. Fortunately, the agreements he was after were already signed. She was too late, though she didn’t know it yet, and none of the men here were at liberty to tell her.
    This too, he should take great satisfaction in. Signaling the attendant, he ordered another scotch. It was a night for celebrations, after all.

    Gilda dropped onto the stiff metal bench and blew the curls from her eyes, still smiling as she met approving masculine nods from around the room. They were a strapping bunch, these all-important war chiefs, a group of good, strong men, by the look of it. One of them took her place by the violinist and broke into a bawdy song, with verses dedicated to raging seas and unpredictable women, in lively turns.
    “You have