Flying High

by Barbara Dunlop

  “You are not getting sweats.”

  “Deal is, I’ll wear whatever you want, whenever you want.”

  “Finally,” she said. “You’re coming to your senses.”

  “In return.” Striker paused for full effect, waggling his eyebrows and trying to look as lecherous as possible. “I get to pick an outfit for you.”

  There was a split second silence while his words penetrated. “No.”

  Short, sharp, definite.

  Striker shrugged. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  She lowered her voice, glancing at the salesman across the store. “You can’t make deals. You’re on my payroll.”

  “Not if I quit.”

  She stared at him, looking genuinely worried. “You wouldn’t.”

  This was way too much fun. “One outfit. My choice. You wear it.”

  She bit her lower lip, and he knew he had her.

  “Don’t worry.” He patted her shoulder. “I won’t make you wear it in public.” Then he moved his mouth closer to her ear. “You can wear it just for me.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  He let his gaze drop down to run the length of her figure. “You do wax?”

  She sputtered something indecipherable and he wondered if he’d pushed her too far.

  Then he decided he might as well go for broke. “You’ll look drop-dead gorgeous in high-cut red and black satin.”

  Her voice turned to a hiss. “I’m not about to—”

  “No more skin than a bathing suit,” he promised, offering a Boy Scout salute.

  The salesman returned with the slacks, placing them in Erin’s arms.

  She glanced down at the slacks, then she squared her shoulders. “I think we’ll need a Bjorn sweater to go with them.”

  “Of course,” said the salesman.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” said Striker on a note of triumph.

  AFTER ALONG and hopelessly frustrating day of shopping with Striker the classless wonder, Erin welcomed the peace and quiet of her bedroom. She opened the balcony door, sighing in relief as the Pacific breeze buffeted the gauzy white curtains, whirling fresh ocean air through the room. Then she flipped open her cell phone and dialed Patrick’s office number.

  There was a three-hour time zone difference, making it seven in the evening New York time. But she knew he’d still be there.

  She could hear Striker in his bedroom next door, unpacking the clothes they’d bought earlier. She couldn’t believe any human being could have such singularly bad taste.

  She also couldn’t believe Striker had thought she was planning to marry Allan for his money. That was nothing short of insulting.

  And then he came up with that stupid clothing deal. Like she’d, in a million years, ever wear something sexy for him.

  She’d refused to even enter the lingerie store, terrified of what feather and starched-lace concoction he might insist she try on then and there. Instead, she’d headed across the street to a café to drink a well-earned cup of coffee.

  She’d assured herself there was little risk in letting him pick something on his own, since she was going to postpone wearing it until she found a way out of the deal anyway.

  Still, a glance at the discretely wrapped gray package at the foot of her bed sent a distinct shiver of unease through her body. And the thought of parading in front of him wearing next to nothing washed her body in heat.

  While the tone of Patrick’s telephone echoed in her ear, she opened the glass door wider, shaking off the unnerving sensation.

  She wasn’t attracted to Striker. Not one little bit.

  So, okay, he did have a certain high-testosterone edge that might interest a lot of women.

  But not Erin. She couldn’t get past his bad taste and his horrible jokes.

  What did the necktie say to the hat?

  You go on a head. I’ll hang around for a while.

  Erin shuddered.

  She shoved the gray bag under the bed.

  The mere thought of modeling lingerie for him made her skin prickle—and not in a good way. She needed more air. Cradling the phone on her shoulder, she wiggled her way out of the short sleeved sweater she’d worn shopping.

  The telephone clicked. “Aster here.”

  She turned so the wind could caress her back. Ah. That was better. “It’s Erin.”

  “Hey, Erin,” said Patrick. “How was the reception? You ready to sign him up?”

  She lifted her hair, letting the wind cool her neck. “Well…The good news is, we’re on the island.”

  “Of course you’re on the island.”

  “It wasn’t as easy as it sounds.”

  Patrick paused. “There’s bad news?”

  “We missed the art reception.”

  “Damn.”

  “I know.”

  “That was your perfect chance.”

  “Plane was late.” She let go of her hair, unzipping her skirt, kicking off her sandals.

  Striker banged something in the room next door and Erin had a vision of his brash, uncoordinated movements. They were going to have to work on his walk as well. Bull in a china shop had nothing on him.

  “So, what’s plan B?” asked Patrick, sounding a little tense.

  “We’ve made contact with a…friend of Allan’s.” Friend was definitely a stretch.

  “That’s great.” Patrick’s tone perked up. “Will you see Baldwin soon? Not to rush you, Erin, but Charles is making noises about trying again.”

  She paused midshimmy, her tight skirt halfway down her legs. “What do you mean trying again? Charles knows I’m on it now, right?”

  “Well…not exactly.”

  “What?”

  “I thought it would be better if we surprised upper management with a signed, sealed and delivered contract.”

  Erin stilled. “Tell me that was a joke.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Erin.”

  “Patrick.”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Patrick!”

  There was a click on the line.

  Erin kicked off her skirt and flopped backwards onto the bed. Closing her eyes, she lay her forearm across them. Patrick was risking both of their jobs on this?

  She was out here on a high-dollar, high-risk buying trip without the approval of the board?

  She had better come home with that contract.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Erin?” It was Julie’s voice.

  “Come on in,” Erin called, wondering if she should share the turn of events with Julie. Maybe not. Julie’s job was hardly at risk. She was little more than an innocent bystander.

  The door rustled opened. Erin moved her arm, opened her eyes and turned toward the silence.

  Striker stood next to Julie, staring wide-eyed at Erin while Julie smirked.

  Adrenaline hit Erin’s bloodstream and she let out a little shriek, jumping up from the bed and reflexively folding her arms over her chest. As soon as she was on her feet, she realized she’d made the problem even worse.

  They now had an even better view of her scantily clad body, and it was obvious neither of them were about to turn away and save her dignity.

  Of course, Julie had seen her in her underwear many times. But Striker could at least close his eyes, instead of staring openly. The man wasn’t just low class, he was no class.

  She glanced frantically around the room for something to cover herself. Spotting a fuzzy white robe on the bathroom door, she sprinted for it and stuffed her arms in the sleeves, yanking the belt tight around her waist.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, shooting them both a disgusted look.

  “You’ve already done plenty to perk up my day,” Striker drawled. “Thanks.”

  For a second she thought he was going to actually wink at her.

  She groped for the gray lingerie store package and tossed it at him. “We’re done now.”

  He tossed it right back on the bed. “I d
on’t think so. Though, this does confirm that I made the right choice.”

  Erin glanced at the gray package with rising trepidation.

  Julie chuckled. “Lookin’ good, Erin. The butt master is paying off big time.”

  Erin felt her face heat, realizing that while she’d run for the robe, Striker had had an unobstructed view of the panty-clad butt under discussion.

  She told herself he was nothing but a low-class charter pilot. Why should she care one little bit about the opinion of a man who liked avocado-green dinner jackets?

  Even if he did stare at her as though she were lunch. Even if the heat in his gaze made her feel like she was lunch.

  His opinion was nothing. He was nothing.

  Besides, Julie was right. Erin’s butt was doing just fine, thank you very much. And her purple high-cut panties and matching bra were nothing to be ashamed of either.

  She squared her shoulders and re-tightened the sash on her robe, through being embarrassed by the likes of Striker. “Tell me what you want.”

  “We’re here to strategize,” said Julie, heading into the room and taking a seat on the bed. She planted her elbows behind her, leaning back.

  Striker followed but, thankfully, took one of the armchairs near the balcony door. He slouched down, spreading his legs, making himself right at home.

  “Striker showed me those great clothes,” said Julie, nodding to the chinos and Bjorn sweater Striker had changed into. “He looks like a million bucks. I think we’re pretty much ready to rock and roll.”

  Erin sat down in the other armchair, ignoring Striker’s casual pose while she pulled the ends of the white robe primly over her knees. They were nowhere near ready to rock and roll.

  “We still have a lot of work to do,” she said, shooting Striker a sidelong look. “He’s not nearly ready.”

  Striker met her gaze. “What’s more to learn? You planning to teach me how to talk with an English accent or somethin’?”

  “I want to teach you not to be crude and sarcastic and not to walk like a professional wrestler. For example.”

  “You’ve watched a lot of professional wrestling have you?”

  “None.”

  “Well I have.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “They don’t walk anything like me.”

  Erin gestured at him with one hand, holding the robe secure at her knees with the other. “You strut. You saunter. You walk into a room like you’re about to plant a flag.”

  “I think that’s kind of sexy,” said Julie.

  Erin shot her a you’re not helping glare. “I somehow doubt Allan Baldwin is going to respond to Striker being sexy.”

  “You think I’m sexy?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You hinted.”

  “That wasn’t a hint. Can we focus on our strategy?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Striker. “How about I call him up, tell him I’m on the island with a couple of friends and that we’d like to drop by?”

  “Bad idea,” said Erin.

  “Why? It’s simple. It’s realistic. It’s almost the truth.”

  “He’ll think you’re after something.”

  Striker shifted in the chair. “Getting away for a moment from the fact that I am after something, why would he think that?”

  “Come on. He strikes it rich. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, you show up on his doorstep. He’ll definitely be suspicious. And if he’s suspicious of you, he’s suspicious of us.”

  Striker shook his head. “Allan’s not the suspicious kind.”

  “You know this from…high school?”

  Striker didn’t answer.

  “We have to make him believe you have nothing to gain from renewing your acquaintance. We have to make him believe you’re successful, that you have money.”

  “Why would he assume I wasn’t?” asked Striker.

  “No offense, Striker, but I can tell you don’t have money just by looking at you.”

  His eyebrows went up. “You can?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just by my looks?”

  She eyed his new outfit. Okay, so he looked pretty credible in those clothes. As long as he kept his mouth shut. But that was all her doing.

  “It’s not just your clothes we have to worry about,” she said. “It’s your hair. The way you sit, the way you talk. Everything about you gives you away.”

  Striker gave her a long, unfathomable look. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “You’re saying Allan will take one look at me and think I’m after his money.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No offense, Erin, but you’re the one after his money.”

  “I’m trying to make a business deal.”

  Striker looked skeptical.

  “Abusiness deal that will be beneficial to both of us.”

  “Think Allan will believe that?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I still think I should just call him up.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You have to fix me first?”

  “That’s right.”

  Striker leaned back and spread his arms wide. “Okay, babe. In that case, I’m all yours. Bend me, mold me, shape me.” He paused, letting his gaze caress her for a second. “But I have to say, I think it’ll work better if you take off the robe.”

  Julie laughed.

  Erin tightened her sash.

  4

  MR. STEPHEN REEVES-DUCARTER, representative of Reeves-DuCarter International, would never have stared openly at a woman caught in her underwear. But floatplane pilot and all-around tacky guy Striker sure would. Who could have guessed that being low class would be this much fun?

  As he watched Erin on the other side of the kitchen, he played with fond memories of her purple underwear from last night. She might be sharp-tongued and judgmental, but her body was hell on wheels.

  Whatever a butt master was, Striker was all for them.

  “I’ll try to get you an appointment for ten,” she said, picking up the telephone, all business. She’d been that way all morning.

  They’d finished breakfast dishes a few minutes ago, and Julie had immediately headed for the beach.

  “I don’t need somebody named Philippe cutting my hair,” said Striker. “I just buzz it once in a while, then let it grow out until it gets in the way.”

  He was lying through his teeth. He’d never had a buzz cut in his life. His mother had been dragging him to upscale clothing stores and hair salons since he was five years old, extolling the virtues of making a good impression.

  Erin gave an exaggerated little shudder as she dialed the number. “We are not buzzing anybody’s hair.”

  For a split second there, she actually reminded him of his mother.

  “Hi,” Erin said into the receiver. “I’d like to book an appointment for a haircut.” She paused. “This morning, if possible.”

  “You don’t?”

  She glanced at Striker, her teeth scraping over her bottom lip. “Thursday? But…”

  “Right. I understand. Thank you.”

  She hung up the phone.

  “We buzz?” asked Striker, sitting up straight, picturing his mother’s face when she saw him, knowing it would be worth it for the look on Erin’s in the meantime.

  “No. We do not buzz. Take off your sweater.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Striker jumped up and reached over his head to grab the back of the sweater. “I figure it’s a million to one shot you’re going to get it on with me on the kitchen table. But, I’m gonna take it.” He stripped the sweater off over his head.

  “I am not going to get it on with you on the kitchen table.”

  “See, I figured that.”

  “I’m going to cut your hair myself.”

  “You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

  She moved to the sink and turned on the water, running her fingertips beneath it. “It’s not like I can
make it any worse.”

  “Thanks a ton.” His hair wasn’t that bad. Sure, it had been a few weeks since he’d had a trim, but longer styles were making a comeback.

  “I worked my way through college as a hairdresser,” she said, shaking the excess droplets off her hands. “Come over here and soak your head while I find some scissors.”

  Worked her way through college as a hairdresser? Striker felt a sudden unexpected twinge of guilt. He’d gone through college on the trust fund plan.

  Fortunately, the guilt didn’t last long. Erin was too tough to need anyone’s pity. Besides, the unnecessary emotion was quickly superceded by the thought of her hands caressing his scalp.

  Ever since he’d seen her in her underwear, he’d found his thoughts wandering into increasingly dangerous territory.

  “A nice woman would wash it for me,” he said.

  “I’m not that nice.”

  Striker grinned. She was cute when she was defiant. It made him want to kiss her.

  Of course, kissing her was out of the question—not that he wouldn’t love to see what she’d say after he planted a wide wet one on those pouty lips.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Nope. He really couldn’t. That would be going way too far.

  But he could keep her arguing. That was fun, too.

  “How am I going to start thinking like a rich man if you give me a bargain basement haircut? I’m afraid I’m going to need full service.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Seriously.” He tapped a finger against his chin and pretended to contemplate. “I think this is like method acting. I have to immerse myself in richness for a few hours, get a feel for the wealthy lifestyle. You bring any shampoo?”

  Her gorgeous coffee eyes flashed at him. “I am not washing your hair.”

  Striker leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “Then you’re not cutting my hair.”

  Erin shut off the taps. “Don’t get obstinate on me. You can’t go to meet Allan looking like a refugee from Haight-Ashbury.”

  “Me obstinate? Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s think this through a minute. I’m letting you dress me. I’m letting you change my walk, my talk and my personal hygiene. I’m even letting you at my hair. And all I’m asking in return is for one little wash? Who’s the obstinate one here?”

  Erin opened her mouth.