The Spitfire Girls(81)

‘That was quite a speech,’ she said, hoping to break the ice.

‘I could say the same,’ he replied, one eyebrow arched. ‘You’ve done well today.’

She touched her hair, her fingers absently smoothing strands that were already perfectly in place. ‘I don’t often admit to being wrong, but I think we not only started off on the wrong foot, we’ve stayed there.’

He smiled, and for the first time she saw how handsome he was; a dimple flared in his right cheek and humour shone from his bright blue eyes. It was quite a combination, such blond hair and golden skin, and eyes that matched the sky on a perfectly cloudless day.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered.

Lizzie opened her mouth to rebuff him, but quickly closed it. They didn’t have to butt heads all the time – for once she could follow his orders. They started to walk, and Lizzie was soon struggling to keep up. He didn’t even look like he was moving quickly, but his long, determined stride was almost impossible to keep pace with.

‘Where are we going?’ she demanded.

‘Dunlop, who the hell ever had the patience to be your flying instructor?’ he asked.

She stopped walking and gaped at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I could say the same to you,’ she shot back. ‘Who on earth could put up with your arrogance and single-minded bloody . . .’

‘Bloody?’ he chuckled. ‘I think you spent too much time with the Brits.’

‘Ugh!’ She threw her hands up in the air.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I was only wanting to offer you a drink.’

Sweetheart? How dare he! ‘I’m not your sweetheart,’ she snapped. ‘Some respect would be appreciated, and I’d actually have liked to stay on the right foot instead of landing on the wrong one all over again!’

He was smiling. The idiot was smiling at her like he found all this funny!

‘I’ve two minds not to have a drink with you at all,’ she fumed.

‘Fine, but I thought it was about time we cleared the air between us,’ he said. ‘Now you can either huff off back to your quarters, or we can sit down and open a bottle of good whiskey.’ He held out a hand to his office door. ‘It’s up to you, but I know I could use one, and I think you could, too.’

Reluctantly, Lizzie entered his office and looked around. She’d been in there many times, but usually she was storming in to demand answers about something. Today she was here as his guest, and it felt different somehow; or perhaps she’d finally glimpsed the real him.

‘Tell me,’ he said, pouring dark brown liquor into two short glasses. ‘Did the army provide those wings you pinned on today?’

She laughed and arched an eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s about time the army stepped up. There’s no good reason for you to be buying silver wings for those women.’

She raised a brow at him. ‘You think they shouldn’t have wings, then?’

He passed her a glass, holding on to it even though her fingers had curled around it already. ‘Don’t twist my words. Those women will be flying aircraft for the military, and they damn well deserve their wings and every accolade they get. I just don’t think your pocket should be the one in debt.’

Lizzie knew she’d picked an argument over nothing, but she was so used to constant arguments flaring up for no good reason. ‘I’m sorry.’

He smiled at her over his glass. ‘I’m not sure I heard you correctly?’

Lizzie took a slow sip of whiskey, trying desperately not to splutter. It was like liquid fire sluicing down her throat, and a cough burst from her.

‘Actually, your pain is enough – I won’t force you to repeat it,’ he said.

So she hadn’t fooled him, then. ‘I’m not exactly an experienced drinker of straight liquor, Captain Montgomery. I prefer cocktails and champagne.’

He looked amused as he sat and stretched out his long legs. ‘You do know you can call me Jackson, don’t you? Or Jack – whatever comes easiest.’

Lizzie had been so caught up in trying to prove him wrong and push his buttons, but now she couldn’t help studying him, wondering if perhaps she had never taken the time to see the real him. His blond hair was short at the sides and slightly longer on top, and his skin reflected the hours he spent outside, and his hands . . . She sighed. His hands were big and calloused, like those of a man used to real work. She averted her gaze and attempted another tiny sip of whisky. Those hands were strong and capable, and certainly didn’t look like they should be pushing papers in an office.

‘Jackson, then,’ she said.

‘Well, now that’s sorted, why don’t we have dinner and do some work on staying on the right foot, so to speak?’

She struggled not to choke on her drink again, more from being flustered this time. ‘And how many of my pilots have you asked for dinner already?’ she asked. ‘It’s an instant dismissal for dating an instructor!’

Jackson held up his glass and drained it, then made eye contact again. ‘First of all, I’m not your instructor, or theirs, and I haven’t asked anyone else for dinner,’ he said. ‘Christ, what is it with you, being so defensive all the time?’