Flying High

by Barbara Dunlop

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I have things to do.” Not that he needed a reason.

  “I’m sure they’ll wait.”

  “You don’t even know what they are.”

  The warmth of her palm made its way through his T-shirt sleeve, playing havoc with his resolve as she leaned a little closer, her voice dropping. “I don’t think you understand. This is really important to us.”

  There she was, up close and personal, using every trick in the book, making him want things he couldn’t have, changing the chemistry of his blood.

  “I thought you said you never used your looks for anything?”

  She blinked, drawing back. “Who’s using looks? I’m trying to reason with you.”

  Like hell. “You’re flirting.” And it was seriously working.

  “I’m schmoozing. There’s a difference.”

  “You’re touching me.”

  “I’m touching your shoulder. If I was flirting, I’d touch your chest, or maybe your neck or maybe your hair.”

  She might as well have touched him in all those places. Her words sent a straight shot to his groin.

  “I’m making a business proposition,” she said.

  “And I’m saying no.”

  “Then I’m offering you more money.”

  “I’m still saying no.”

  “Then I’m appealing to your better nature.”

  “I don’t have a better nature.”

  “We have a spare bedroom in our beach house. Right on the water. View of the sunset.”

  Striker’s mind didn’t make it past “bedroom” and “our beach house.” He’d always been a sucker for promises women couldn’t keep. No wonder he was forever taking them on joyrides.

  “Fine. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

  “Forty-eight,” she said.

  “No way.”

  ERIN COULDN’T believe she’d resorting to schmoozing before they’d even made it to the island. Sure, they needed Striker’s help—desperately now that they’d missed the art reception. But she’d practically fawned over the man’s shoulder.

  And she hadn’t even realized she was capable of that please-sleep-with-me tone of voice. Patrick dangled a promotion in front of her eyes and she instantly turned into a shameless flirt.

  It was undignified. And she wasn’t going to do it again. Not that she’d have to. Now that she had Striker on board, things would run a lot more smoothly.

  As soon as the taxi came to a stop, Julie jumped out of the front seat. “Will you look at that ocean?”

  The setting sun had turned the entire world pink, and white-water crescents reflected on the waves as they roared on shore fifty feet away.

  Julie kicked off her shoes and sprinted onto the sand.

  Without a word, Striker began lifting the suitcases out of the trunk. He’d stayed peevishly silent for most of the taxi trip, and Erin knew he was annoyed. But he was the one who’d agreed to help them. Nobody had held a gun to his head.

  They’d stopped at the Mendenhal Resort’s office on the way through the gates to register and pick up the key. Now Erin unlocked the door and stepped back to let Striker carry the load of suitcases inside.

  “Where do you want the gigolo?” he asked, setting down the suitcases and gazing to where the rough hewn, wood-railinged staircase ran the length of one wall, up to a second floor balcony. Three doors opened off the balcony into rooms at the back of the house.

  “You are not a gigolo,” Erin insisted, even as the word conjured up a totally unwelcome image of the big, rangy Striker.

  She shook it off. He was nowhere near her type. And he was only here to introduce them to Allan. There were no other duties involved.

  Striker carried in the second set of suitcases. “You’re paying the rent and buying me clothes.”

  “There’s a perfectly good reason for that.”

  “Yeah. I’m a kept man.”

  “Get over it.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Okay,” he said. “What would you call me?”

  “You’re a consultant,” she said.

  Striker gave her a mocking grin. “That sounds so much more dignified.”

  “Doesn’t it though?”

  “Okay. Well, just to make sure your consultant understands the plan of attack…which one of you is trying to land Allan?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Well, I’m the project lead. Julie’s here for technical advice.”

  At least that was the excuse Patrick had come up with for sending Julie on the trip. Truth was, there weren’t any diamonds for Julie to look at. And even if there were, it wasn’t necessary. High Ice Diamonds reputation for quality was well established.

  Striker’s eyebrows went up. “Technical advice.”

  “That’s right.” Erin glanced around the high-ceilinged living room of the West Coast log house. “Not that I’m going to need it.”

  It was a beautiful building and a beautiful setting, right on the beach in the classy little town of Pelican Cove. There were skylights in the two-story living room ceiling and a massive stone fireplace against one wall. If a woman was going to kiss her principles good bye, this was as good a place to do it as any.

  Striker leaned against one of the log walls, crossing his arms on his chest and resting one ankle over the other as he contemplated her. “I have to say, you’re pretty open about your plans.”

  Erin blinked at him. “You did ask. And you are on the payroll now. We’re not going to tell Allan everything right away, of course. That’s why we hired you.”

  “Of course,” said Striker. “Him knowing what’s going on, that might put a cramp in your style.”

  “It wouldn’t make things any easier. That’s for sure.” She picked up one of the suitcases. Might as well get settled. The sooner they got started on Striker, the sooner they could arrange a meeting with Allan.

  Striker took two long strides toward her. “Wouldn’t want you to get calluses.” He reached for the suitcase, lifting it easily with a broad, strong hand.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Detracts from the diamonds,” he said, picking up a second suitcase and heading for the wide staircase.

  Erin stared at his back for a minute. She was going to buy the diamonds, not wear the diamonds.

  “Or maybe you’d prefer a few emeralds,” he called over his shoulder.

  Erin started up the stairs. “Quite frankly, I’d like to get my hands on both.”

  “A truly mercenary woman.”

  “I’m a professional.”

  “I don’t doubt that in the least.” There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice.

  Maybe it was a mistake to bring a man like Striker in on this, no matter how valuable he’d be in meeting Allan. “Does it bother you that I’m after his diamonds?”

  “It’s not like you’re the first to try.”

  “Really?” Erin reached the top of the stair and drew alongside him in the twilight hallway.

  That surprised her. Had other gem buyers come to Blue Earth Island to approach Allan? Had Striker flown them over? Maybe there was more to this than an old high school acquaintance.

  If he had flown the other buyers in, maybe he had some valuable information about them. Maybe she could get him to spill it. Not that she was going to schmooze with him again. But there had to be a professional way to ask.

  “Of course you’re not the first,” said Striker.

  The three upstairs bedrooms had en suite plumbing and queen-sized beds. The middle one was slightly smaller, and the two on either end had balconies.

  “I’ll take the middle,” he said. “Since I’m the help.”

  He headed to the far end of the hall with Erin’s suitcases.

  She stood in the doorway while he dropped the cases on the bed, trying to come up with a way to broach the subject of the people on h
is previous flights.

  “Striker?”

  He turned to look at her. “Yeah?”

  The stark assessment in his ocean blue eyes made her stumble. Focus, she told herself. Ask him. What were the other buyers’ approaches? How did Allan react? What mistakes had they made?

  No. Those were too blunt.

  “Spit it out,” he drawled, cocking his head to one side.

  “I was just…” She tried to formulate subtler questions.

  He took a step closer, his deep voice thrumming in the silent house. “Whatever it is, you’re going to ask eventually. Why wait?” He shrugged one of his shoulders forward and his tone turned teasing. “Unless you want to touch me again first. You know, schmooze me.”

  “No.” She shrank back. “I don’t want to touch you.”

  His eyes sparkled at her sharp reaction and a dimple appeared in one of his cheeks. She suddenly realized that beneath the dust and dirt, he was a incredibly attractive man. Not that she cared. Not that his looks were relevant.

  “You want to flirt with me again, Erin?”

  Her name on his lips gave her a little shiver, but she shook it away.

  “I never flirted with you the first time.”

  “That’s your story, and you’re stickin’ to it?”

  She took a deep breath. “You mentioned there were…other people who tried to get Allan to sign a contract. Do you know how they—”

  “A contract?” The dimple disappeared.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “What would you call it?”

  He shook his head and let out hollow chuckle. “Whatever.”

  “What?” What had she done now?

  “Maybe it’s none of my business. After all, I did agree to help. But don’t you think calling it a contract is a little mercenary?”

  Mercenary? “It is a contract. A diamond contract.”

  Striker snorted and shook his head. “And here I thought I’d heard it all.”

  “Hey, it’s done like this all the time. There’s nothing illegal or immoral about schmoozing.”

  “Ahh,” said Striker. “Schmoozing again. We both know how much you like schmoozing.”

  His tone irked, but she refused to let herself rise to the bait.

  “Schmoozing is only the window dressing,” she said. “And it’s not like we’ll keep him in the dark until the last minute.” She was vaguely aware that her defensiveness made her sound guilty, so she put some more strength into her tone. “He’ll have a chance to consider the whole deal on its merits.”

  Striker’s blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t find this all just a little too…calculating?”

  “I consider it a prudent, professional approach.” Or at least Patrick did, and since Patrick was her boss, and since she desperately wanted that promotion, this was the approach she was taking.

  Striker rolled his eyes.

  “What? How would you suggest I go about it?” If Striker had a better idea, she was all ears.

  He moved a little closer, increasing the impact of his stare. “What about ditching all the clandestine plotting? Meeting someone legitimately? Letting them get to know you? Maybe falling in love?”

  Erin felt as if the floor had shifted beneath her. She gave her head a little shake. “In love?”

  “Yeah. You know. The old-fashioned way.”

  His words made no sense. “You’re suggesting I try to get clients to fall in love with me before signing a contract?”

  “Clients? No offense, Erin, but calling them clients makes you sound like a hooker.”

  Erin opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried again and managed a squeak. “A what?”

  “You’re marrying a man for his money.”

  “I’m not marrying anybody.”

  “Excuse me. My mistake. You’re signing a ‘diamond contract.’”

  Erin stopped.

  She squinted.

  She sifted through the conversation.

  “Uh, Striker?”

  “What?”

  “What is it you think I’m doing here?”

  He raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “Trying to get Allan Baldwin to marry you.”

  Erin let her chin drop down to her chest. She covered her eyes with her palm and shook her head. “Oh, boy.”

  “What?” Striker sounded puzzled.

  She peeked up at him. “I’m trying to get Allan to sell me diamonds, not give me diamonds.”

  Striker’s brow creased. “Sell them to you how?”

  An astounded smile tried to force its way from between her lips. “I’m a wholesale buyer for Elle Jewelers. You may have heard that Allan Baldwin owns a diamond mine.”

  Striker blinked once. “You’re a diamond buyer?”

  She nodded.

  He blinked again. “Oh, well…In that case…I guess my estimation of your character just went up a notch.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “So, what exactly is one notch up from a hooker?”

  3

  AT ASHER’S ON MAIN STREET, in downtown Pelican Cove, Striker watched Erin’s dubious expression as he shrugged into an olive-green, double-breasted jacket above a pair of navy slacks. Awash in embossed gold buttons, with lapels out of the seventies, the jacket was tight across the shoulders and loose in the body.

  It served her right.

  Even if she wasn’t trying to land a rich husband, she was still planning to pull one over on Allan. Striker figured he owed it to his friend to at least make her work for the introduction. Besides, it was a kick to feed into her prejudices by playing the uncouth bohemian.

  She wanted him so badly? Well, now she had him. And he was going to enjoy every second playing Eliza Doolittle to her Henry Higgins.

  He struck a pose in front of the three-sided, full-length mirror, hoping he wasn’t overacting. “Now this is what I call an outfit.”

  The salesman stared, his jaw dropping open in abject horror while Erin let out an ill-disguised gasp. Striker could see the panic building on her face.

  She was going to kill him if she ever found out he was yanking her chain.

  “Would the gentleman like to try the Hillsboro, as well?” the salesman asked diplomatically, holding up a charcoal suit. “Just as a comparison.”

  “Does it come in brown?” asked Striker.

  The man’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m…afraid not, sir.”

  “The gray is nice,” said Erin, regaining her composure. “You should really try it on.”

  Striker made a show of frowning. Truth was, Hillsboro was one of his favorite designers. Though his mother always made a fuss if he bought suits off the rack.

  “The burgundy tie would go well,” said the salesman.

  Striker accepted the clothes. “You sure you don’t like this one?” He posed in front of the mirror one more time.

  “Not quite right,” said the salesman.

  “Definitely no,” said Erin.

  “Okay,” said Striker, closing the changing room door behind him and smirking into the mirror inside. This was the ugliest jacket he’d ever seen.

  He stripped off the suit and changed into the Hillsboro, which fit just fine. He absently tied the burgundy striped tie while slipping into a pair of loafers the salesman had provided.

  He supposed it was time to let Erin off the hook on the clothing front. But he couldn’t wait to present her with his medieval table manners, and he had plans to work his way through his entire repertoire of tasteless jokes.

  He stepped out of the changing room and spread his arms wide, executing a turn.

  She stepped forward and a wide grin broke out on her lips. “That’s it!”

  Striker ignored her grin, and the resultant warm glow working its way up his legs, leaving a tingling yearning in the pit of his stomach. He was cursed with a Pavlovian response to beautiful women. But there was no time like the present to beat it.

&n
bsp; “You sure?” he asked her, pretending to hesitate over the suit. “I think it would look better in brown.”

  The salesman brushed the shoulder and straightened the back of the jacket. “Very good, sir.”

  Striker wiggled his shoulders, holding out for just a few seconds longer. “It feels a little—”

  “Not at all,” said the salesman.

  “We’ll take it,” said Erin.

  Striker turned and grinned at her. “How do you get four suits for a dollar?”

  Both Erin and the salesman looked at him blankly.

  “Buy a deck of cards.”

  Erin blinked in astonishment.

  “Very good, sir,” said the salesman.

  Striker chortled obnoxiously at his own humor. “I’m going to need some blue jeans, too.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t carry blue jeans,” said the salesman.

  “We’ll definitely take the suit,” said Erin. “And an extra shirt, the shoes and the paisley tie.”

  “Where can we get blue jeans?” asked Striker.

  “I believe the Garment Barn on Second Avenue carries western wear.”

  “What about some pleated chinos?” asked Erin.

  “Perfect for daywear,” said the salesman.

  “Do you have a pair in green?” asked Erin.

  As the salesman crossed the store, Striker turned to Erin. “I’d rather have sweats than chinos.”

  “Trust me. I’m the image expert.”

  “What’s wrong with sweats? They’ll make me look like a jock.”

  “They’ll make you look like a couch potato.”

  Striker leaned in a little closer. “I have abs of steel.” He pulled the dress shirt out of his slacks, revealing his bare stomach. “Want to feel?”

  Erin’s eyes widened in shock. “Will you stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop acting like…like…”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, leaving the tails of his shirt hanging out, trying valiantly not to laugh at her mortified expression.

  “Not if it involves me feeling your abs, you won’t.”

  “You want to feel my abs?”

  “No!”

  “I’ll let you think about that one. Offer’s open.” He pulled the tails of his shirt apart, giving her a come-hither look.

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Your loss. Okay, let’s talk deal over clothes.”