“Two hundred,” she said, forcing images of Tucker’s naked body from her mind. “And within the first week. The deadline is five months away. Imagine how many people could join in the quest by then.”
“But how many of those people will actually locate a lost or legendary invention? Not many, I’d wager. Furthermore the risk of not making the cut is damned high. What constitutes ‘significant’? How does a buried abacus from 2600 B.C. stack up against legendary flexible glass lost under Roman emperor Caesar’s reign? Who determines the level of brilliance, the value to mankind?”
“The Jubilee Science Committee, I suppose.”
“Whoever they are.”
Amelia ignored the doubt welling in the back of her
mind and traded the newspaper for another edition. “Are you preparing me for failure?” she asked in a soft voice.
Tucker cupped the back of her neck, his thumb stroking as if to ease the tension thrumming through her body. Instead, sensual shivers stole down her spine. “Just pointing out,” he said reasonably, “that although the ornithopter might be judged significant and impressive, another invention could overshadow the magnitude of the discovery.”
The way Briscoe Darcy’s time machine overshadowed anything and everything invented by Papa. She shook off the somber thought. “I feel confident that between Jules, Simon, and myself, one of us will win that prize. I feel it in my bones.”
“What inventions are your brothers tracking?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say. But I’m sure they’re something spectacular.” She blinked at the headline midway down the front page of yesterday’s issue. “What the devil?”
Tucker moved in and together, in glorious, stimulating silence, they read.
EXCLUSIVE SCOOP—THE CLOCKWORK CANARY TO SING DARCY’S EXPLOITS!
The
Informer
’s star reporter has taken a sabbatical in order to chronicle the exploits of the Honorable Simon Darcy, London’s most controversial civil engineer (and relation of the infamous TIME VOYAGER), as he joins the Race for Royal Rejuvenation—now known as the Triple R Tourney! The Clockwork Canary will chronicle a firsthand account of Mr. Darcy’s adventures, to be published in serial form upon completion of the expedition. Prepare to be dazzled by tales of risqué romance, high drama, and nail-biting intrigue! Will Mr. Darcy dazzle and deliver like his notorious
cousin? Or, like his unfortunate father, will his dreams go up in smoke?
Amelia’s hands shook—the whole paper shook—as that last line burned through her blood like a lit fuse.
“Let go of the paper before you rip it to shreds, darlin’.” Tucker relieved her of the infernal
Informer
, then, after returning the newspaper to its proper place, steered Amelia toward the nearby exit. “Time to be on our way.”
She trembled with frustration and rage as Tucker escorted her outside onto the bustling sidewalk. “How could Simon…Why ever would he agree…The
Canary
, of all people!”
“Maybe he was offered a substantial amount of money. I know I was, and that was just for an interview. This is for serialization. Could amount to a windfall.”
“Surely Simon’s not that desperate.”
“If he’s anything like you, the money’s not for him but for the family. Here’s another angle: This high-profile exposé could garner favorable attention and return respect to the Darcy name. Sounds to me like your brother’s capitalizing on the situation. Stacking the odds in the family’s favor.”
She sighed. “Simon is rather enterprising.”
“See there. No cause to fret.” Changing subjects, he signaled an automocab whilst listing several popular restaurants. “You mentioned wanting to experience everything. Let’s start with French cuisine and take it from there. I swan, I could eat an entire cow.”
Amelia’s lip twitched, and her mood lifted. The mention of something as ordinary as food helped to put her bizarre circumstance in perspective. Since they’d skipped a midday meal and were well into the evening, nourishment was indeed in order. In addition to settling her swirling stomach, sustenance might help to clear her thoughts. Her brain was jammed with the sketches and notes of a Renaissance
genius, swimming with the story her father had repeatedly shared with her regarding their own innovative kin and his dimension-breaking launch from the Crystal Palace.
Although only once had he mentioned Briscoe’s cryptic note. A note he’d given to Papa on that historic day. A note Papa had hidden away, then later destroyed. Indeed, Amelia had no proof that that note had ever truly existed. But why would her father lie? His distress had been all too genuine after he’d told Amelia about the contents—a secret he’d kept for twenty-some years. She’d always supposed that he had been bursting to share the revelation with someone, and she’d always felt honored it was her. He’d entrusted her with the secret and now she was set to betray his trust. Although not wholly, she reminded herself, and for very good reason. When she’d learned about the jubilee race, she’d taken it as a sign. Briscoe had intended for her father to benefit from his discovery. And he would.
Whilst Tucker signaled yet again for transport—goodness, the traffic was oppressive—Amelia shook off the enormity of her quest and absorbed her surroundings. Whereas the library had been achingly quiet, the streets and sidewalks buzzed with activity. Illuminated dirigibles sparkled in the sky amidst the twinkling stars. Music floated from a nearby café, and the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked goods tempted and teased. Relaxing into the whimsy of Paris, Amelia leaned into Tucker, her pulse racing when he slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed. She smiled up into his intoxicating eyes. “Whereas you crave steak, Mr. Peckinposh, I crave Parisian pastries. What say you?”
“I say I know just the place.”
Tucker couldn’t pinpoint the moment he’d lost his heart to Miss Amelia Darcy. He’d fallen brains over boots somewhere between the library and the cruise along the Seine. Her inquisitive mind and independent nature would have been a deterrent for most men, but they stoked his desire something fierce. He got an iron-hard erection when she mused on da Vinci, mechanics, and anything having to do with aviation. Her loyalty to her family and falcon cinched his heart. He cursed the moment she’d almost flown her kitecycle into the
Maverick
and at the same time considered that moment a blessing. On the one hand, she’d complicated his life even more and twisted him up to the point of compromising his judgment. On the other…Amelia reminded him of everything good and pure, passionate and constructive.
After the tainted fiasco in his homeland and more than a year in exile, he’d grown damned cynical. He’d spent the majority of his days risking his life in the name of justice. Then, based on the word of a vengeful, powerful official, the system had failed him. His gut clenched and burned every time he thought about the goddamned betrayal. Years of honorable work overshadowed by one unfortunate affair. His reputation tainted, his livelihood ripped away, all because of a manipulative, twisted woman and her obsessive, twisted pa. If it weren’t for StarMan and the rest of his crew, Tuck would’ve swung.
Six feet under American soil or three thousand miles across the Atlantic?
The choice had been instant, if not simple. Long-term agenda: Wrangle back his freedom and reunite with his sister. Short-term: Provide a comfortable and profitable existence for the men who’d saved his life by risking prosecution. Until Tuck cleared his name (one way or another), StarMan, Eli, Doc, Axel, and Birdman were also banned from America—fugitives from the law, alienated from family and friends. Tuck was saddled with legal issues and moral obligations. Loving Amelia was bad all the way around for everyone concerned.
Unfortunately his brain was at war with the rest of his body.
“What troubles you, Mr. Peckinposh?”
They’d been playing this game all night, maintaining the Fantasy Factory ruse. Mr. and Mrs. Peckinposh. Tuck liked the thought of Amelia being his and his alone a little too much. “Bothers me that we’re calling it a night with so much left undone,” he lied.
“We dined in a luxurious restaurant and indulged in delicious pastries whilst floating along the Seine. I have never experienced such grand cuisine or glorious sights. What more could there be at this late hour?”
Throughout the evening, whether it was by comment or expression, Amelia’s innocence had hog-tied his senses and deepened his tender regard. He’d lost count of the times he’d tempered the urge to pull her into his arms for a kiss, settling on holding her hand or caressing her cheek or gently embracing her waist. “Music. Dancing. Theater. You haven’t experienced Paris in full until you’ve sampled—”
“Culture.” She shook her head. “I fear I wouldn’t know what to…how to…it’s not something I’ve been exposed to.”
“All the more reason to explore.” Selfishly, he wanted to hurry her back to their hotel and behind closed doors. He ached to hold and caress her, to seduce her with sweet words and a kiss that would deepen and take them to
another plane. But he was also sensitive to her almost desperate need to live life to the fullest.
What if there’s no tomorrow?
Not that he aimed to allow any harm to befall her, but he sure as hell didn’t want her leaving Paris with regrets. What if this was her one and only journey to France? “Thought you wanted to broaden your horizons, Flygirl.”
“I do.” She stopped and turned, looking up at him with her pretty painted face, the sparkles on her cheeks almost as tempting as smudges of grease. “I want to make the most of every moment. With you.”
His heart pounded, an exhilarating and excruciating slug-slow thud.
“I’ve never made love in Paris.”
Thud. Thud
. “Neither have I.” He’d bedded Chantel, but he’d done so with lust and friendly affection. Never love.
Amelia placed her hand on his chest, over his pounding heart, her mesmerizing blue eyes glittering with desire. “Then what are we waiting for, Mr. Peckinposh?”
“Hell if I know, Mrs. Peckinposh.”
Amelia had never stayed in a hotel, certainly not one as spectacular as Le Meurice. She’d seen the exterior when they’d swung by earlier to drop off their overnight bags. Impressive architecture, multiple stories. She knew it was grand, but she was not prepared for opulence. The interior was breathtaking. Indeed, she found it impossible not to gawk. Patterned marble floors, white marble columns accentuated with gilded leaves, elegant furnishings, vaulted ceilings. Frescoes. She gaped up at the chandeliers, dripping with crystal and gold, and let out a breathy whistle.
“Do you really think show people such as the Peckinposhes would stay in such an extravagant hotel?” she whispered.
“They would if they experienced a recent windfall.” Tucker leaned in, his warm breath tickling her ear. “And if this were their honeymoon.”
She jerked around, bumping his nose. “You told the hotel clerk we were newly wed?”
“Best way to fortify a lie is to stick close to the truth. Newly acquainted, newly lovers, newly wed.”
Sensible, she supposed, but troubling. They’d been posing as a married couple all day and she hadn’t been bothered one whit. She’d simply played along, enjoying the freedom the conventional union allowed. However, once they’d left the library, the ruse had grown more personal. An intimate dinner followed by the moonlight cruise along the Seine. Heated looks, discreet touches, stolen kisses.
Initially they’d adopted the identities of Mr. and Mrs. Peckinposh in order to move freely about Paris without incident. Yet as the evening progressed, Amelia’s ability to discern reality from fantasy faltered. She knew they were not, in truth, married. She knew, deep down, that Tucker was not madly in love. But he
did
desire her, and that desire, coupled with the romantic dinner and cruise and his constant tender and possessive caresses, wreaked havoc on logical thought. By the time they’d docked she’d been mad with want, gloriously seduced. Still, she’d managed to grasp hold of the faraway fact that she would be making
illicit
love. En route to the hotel, she wrestled the situation into perspective; it was all part of her intention to experience life to the fullest. Scandalous, no-strings-attached sex with her aeronautical hero. A thrill to cherish as she moved forward in life, alone, in pursuit of her lifelong dream.
Then Tucker mentioned the word
honeymoon
and her dream developed a wrinkle.
Suddenly, for the first time ever, Amelia envisioned herself as a bride. Not just any bride, but
his
bride. Tucker Gentry, her Sky Cowboy. Former air marshal, current outlaw. A renegade air courier with questionable ethics and a scandalous reputation with women. A man who’d made it clear he couldn’t offer marriage. Leave it to her to crave the unattainable.
Amelia’s cheeks flushed as Tucker escorted her past the smiling clerk and valet. Her pulse skipped and raced as they moved through the grand hotel—
hotel!
—and closer to their room. Their room! Yes, they’d spent the last couple of nights in Tucker’s cabin, but this felt different—both scandalous and romantic and like something out of a young maiden’s dream. Was this how a real bride felt? Her stomach fluttering with anticipation? Her heart skipping with joy? Her intimate parts tingling at the thought of seeing her husband naked? No longer an innocent, Amelia knew precisely what to expect. Indeed, she could scarcely wait to feel Tucker’s hands upon her bare skin, his mouth, his tongue, his…
Blast
.
She tried like the devil to tame her scandalous thoughts. When the gilded doors of the passenger lift opened, she focused on the regal decor of the sixth floor. Even the softly lit hallway was stunning. They walked in silence, and Amelia held her breath as Tucker slipped the key into the door (their door!). Once inside, he flicked a switch. Electricity! A soft amber glow illuminated the spacious room.
Elegant decadence.
A ridiculous giggle bubbled in her throat. Although her mother would be mortified that Amelia was anticipating a night of sin, she would certainly approve of the exquisite surroundings. Indeed, if Anne Darcy knew Tucker could afford such luxury, perhaps she would encourage a match with the American aviator. “Blooming hell.”