Flying High

by Barbara Dunlop

  Then she closed it again. She cocked her head sideways and her eyes narrowed.

  Striker waited.

  After an obvious mental battle, she sighed. “Fine. I’ll get my shampoo.”

  As she walked out the door, he nearly staggered back in surprise.

  He’d won? Hot damn.

  A few minutes later, Erin came back into the kitchen with a bottle of fruit extract shampoo and a small pair of scissors.

  Striker pulled a chair up to the sink and slouched down, wondering if she would try to get revenge on his scalp. He braced himself.

  She turned on the taps and readjusted the water temperature.

  “Lean back,” she instructed, her palm cradling his head, guiding him over the edge of the sink.

  She used the spray nozzle to soak his hair. Then she applied the shampoo and worked the lather in with her fingertips.

  To his surprise, her hands were gentle, oddly comforting. After a few minutes, he relaxed his guard, closing his eyes. It seemed harmless enough to enjoy her touch. Heck, it was probably the only chance he’d ever get.

  The smell of lime filled the air around him.

  “So you were a hairdresser?”

  “I was.”

  “Was it fun?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “What did you like about it?”

  “Meeting people. Getting to know them.”

  He opened his eyes and waggled his eyebrows. “Got to know them well did you?”

  She smirked. “Hairdressers and bartenders. You’d be amazed.”

  “People confessed things to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yeah? Anything good?”

  She concentrated on his temples, drawing little circles at his hairline. “Sex, scandal, stock market tips. You know. The usual.”

  “Tell me the sex part.”

  “Sorry. Sworn to secrecy. It’s in the code.”

  “Come on. You’re retired.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You can change the names to protect the innocent.”

  She paused.

  “They’ll never know,” he said.

  “Well, okay.” She grinned. “You want the really racy stuff?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re bad.”

  “I know it.”

  “In my junior year, there was this one woman. I’ll call her Thelma.”

  “Thelma.”

  “Right. Thelma carried on a rip-roaring affair with the pool boy. I got intimate details for months.”

  “Intimate ones?” asked Striker.

  “You bet. He was a very good-looking pool boy.” Erin’s voice hummed softly in his brain. “But it all ended one day when she told me she had to change her hair color. Her husband had refused to let her keep it red.”

  He opened his eyes again. “You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

  Erin shook her head. “It’s all true. Well, except for her name. Her husband blamed the affair on her red hair. Told her it had to be either brown or black from then on.”

  Erin’s voice was soft and musical when she wasn’t sparring with him. “I think it was my fault they got divorced.”

  “How so?”

  Her hands migrated to the top of his head. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and Striker’s body started to react to the sensuality of her touch. “A few months later, we snuck in some auburn highlights.”

  “You shameless hairdresser.”

  She nodded “Right after that, she had another affair. I always thought her husband was nuts, but maybe he was right.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sure it was the highlights.”

  Her magic fingers moved to the back of his head, down to the base of his skull, pressing, rubbing, massaging. He never wanted this to end. “You never know.”

  “Ever think of dying your hair red?” he asked.

  “Any interest in a cold rinse?”

  Striker chuckled. “You’ve got a mean streak there, woman.”

  “That’s what happens when you try to flirt with me.”

  “I wasn’t flirting. I was schmoozing.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, I’m not touching a single body part. You on the other hand—”

  “Wash is over.” She cranked on the taps.

  “You’re heartless.”

  “That’s right. So don’t mess with me.” She quickly rinsed his hair, then toweled it off and draped the towel around his shoulders, picking up her scissors.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Trust me.” She moved up close. “I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “Please don’t say the word ‘fixed’ while you’re approaching me with sharp instruments.”

  She obviously fought a grin. “That is another perfect example of the kind of joke you shouldn’t make around Allan.”

  “You liked it.”

  “I had a weak moment.” She combed her fingers through his hair and his body instantly contracted.

  Each time she touched him, his skin grew more sensitive. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on something else.

  “What did the rug say to the floor?” he asked.

  She sighed as her scissors cut across the first lock of hair. “Please don’t. I’m holding something sharp.”

  “No. That’s not it.”

  “Striker…”

  “It said, don’t move. I’ve got you covered.”

  She groaned.

  Striker wanted to groan, too. The stupid jokes weren’t distracting him. But her breasts sure were.

  They jiggled gently in his peripheral vision. Her knees just barely brushed his rib cage. And her breath whooshed softly against his skin.

  His scalp tingled with heat where her fingertips brushed it, systematically lifting sections of his hair. The snip, snip of the scissors echoed in his ear, while her sweet breath tantalized him.

  For better or worse, she was turning him on.

  Seriously.

  He reminded himself that she was more tart than sweet and, if not for this crazy meeting-Allan mission, she was hardly likely to give him the time of day.

  But when she leaned over to blow the fine cut hairs from the back of his neck, he felt a shot of raw arousal burn down to his toes.

  This was bad.

  He shifted.

  “Stay still or you’ll have a bald spot,” she warned.

  He stopped moving and gripped the arms of the chair, trying to think about something, anything besides the erotic enigma of Erin.

  He fought an urge to reach out and touch her, to draw her into his arms and feel her body mold against his own. He imagined himself whispering something sexy and sweet in her ear. And then he imagined she’d kiss him.

  It could work. She was a woman, after all. From L.A. to Singapore, women loved it when a guy got poetic. Maybe she really would kiss him. Couldn’t hurt to try.

  Striker pulled himself up short. What was he thinking? He was supposed to be a crude, uncouth bohemian. Seductive poetry would hardly be keeping in character.

  Erin moved to his front, running her fingertips through his hairline. He closed his eyes again, tightening his grip on the chair, fighting his growing urge to reach for her.

  She stepped closer, shifting one leg between his spread knees.

  He popped his eyes open.

  Was she crazy?

  Did she have no idea what she was doing to him?

  She was a gorgeous woman, touching him intimately, breathing on his skin, her breasts only inches from his face. Unless she was hopelessly naive, she had to know how any man would react. Heck, if he really was the bohemian she thought him, he’d…

  Striker paused.

  Why not?

  It would definitely be keeping in character. And it wasn’t like her opinion of him could sink a whole lot lower.

  Maybe if he got it over with, he’d stop wondering what her lips tasted like. Then he could focus his mi
nd on other things. Like going back to Seattle tomorrow. And how he was going to deal with his father.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized kissing Erin was an excellent idea.

  He’d kiss her, and know for sure what it was like.

  She’d probably slap him.

  Then he’d swear never to do it again.

  End of story.

  He squared his shoulders, telling himself to think like an uncouth bohemian.

  As soon as she stopped cutting, he reached out and settled his palms on the back of her thighs. No, that was too polite. He slid them firmly up to her rear end, jerking her forward, pulling her down into his lap.

  She gasped. “What the—”

  “I let you give me the cut,” he drawled. “Now it’s time to give me a buzz.”

  ERIN was buzzing.

  Seriously, sexually buzzing.

  She guessed this must be what happened when you gave in and flirted with a man. Another good reason to nip the flirting habit in the bud.

  Running her fingers through Striker’s hair had been bad enough. And she’d had a plausible excuse for that. But now his hands were clamped around her hips and his hot, hard thigh was pressing against her rear.

  His bare chest was broad, his pecs, biceps and shoulders solid as steel. He’d shaved this morning, giving him an aristocratic look that was definitely at odds with his personality.

  His eyes were sky blue and a small white scar slashed through the corner of one dark eyebrow.

  Before she could stop herself, she reached out and touched it.

  “Bar fight,” he said roughly.

  She nodded, reminding herself of who he was. But her body didn’t seem to care. His husky voice vibrated right through her skin. And the electricity from his heat worked its way along the length of her finger.

  He cupped her chin. His touch wasn’t particularly gentle. It was confident and purposeful.

  She caught her breath, staring into his blue eyes, knowing she should hate this. Knowing she should strenuously object to it. But the turquoise streaks radiating out from the pupils, reflecting the sunlight, hinted at a mystery that fascinated her. And the word no got stuck in her throat.

  One strong hand slid indolently up the side of her rib cage, thumb barely skimming the edge of her breast as he tipped his head sideways.

  Sharp desire pierced her chest. She wished he’d haul her forward and kiss her already. Just get it over with before she came to her senses and told him to back off.

  Kiss me.

  His hand tightened around her rib cage, pulling her toward him. She stopped breathing as inches turned to centimeters, then centimeters turned to millimeters. His lips touched hers and a million fireworks exploded behind her eyes.

  A mass of emotion swelled in her chest and she gripped his shoulders, trying to keep the world from tipping on its axis.

  His lips hardened. His mouth opened. His arms wrapped fully around her, sliding her body up tight against his bare chest, crushing her breasts, pressing his thigh firmly between her legs.

  She opened her mouth, inviting him in, and his tongue tangled with hers. Sensation crested in her body. She wanted nothing more than to get closer and closer.

  The amazing kiss went on and on, until he suddenly sucked in a breath and backed off a few millimeters. He reached up and grasped her wrist, gently prying it from his shoulder.

  “Ouch,” he whispered against her lips.

  She opened her eyes.

  Her hand still held the small scissors and there was a red gash in Striker’s shoulder, blood trickling down his arm.

  She sprang back. “Oh, no. Oh, no! I’m so sorry!”

  He let go of her wrist, flexing his shoulder. “Not a problem.”

  She scooted to the counter and grabbed a box of tissue. “I stabbed you.”

  “I know. I ignored it for as long as I could.”

  She blinked as she handed him the tissues.

  He’d ignored it? He’d had a pair of scissors sticking into his shoulder, but he’d kept on kissing her?

  He plucked a couple of tissues from the box and held them against the wound.

  Erin shook herself out of her amazement. She gestured to his shoulder. “We need to get you something for that.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Good thing I took my sweater off.”

  She frowned. Did he really think she only cared about the sweater? Had she seemed that single-minded?

  He shook his head and gave her a small grin. “Erin. That was a joke.”

  “You need stitches?”

  “Hardly. The bleeding’ll stop in a minute. How does my hair look?”

  Erin felt terrible. “Want me to go get you a mirror?”

  “I can walk.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  He stood up. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a little cut.”

  “But—”

  Striker cupped her cheek with his palm and gazed deeply into her eyes. “It’s barely more than a scratch. And, trust me, it was worth it.”

  Erin felt her knees go weak.

  That was probably the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to her. And it was Striker who’d said it.

  The front door slammed.

  Striker’s hand fell away.

  Julie breezed into the kitchen wearing a white beach cover-up, her hair in a small, wispy ponytail on the top of her head. Her tan was already starting to darken.

  “Not that I’d mind spending the rest of my life here,” she said, swinging open the refrigerator door and grabbing a bottle of water. “But have you guys called Allan Baldwin yet?”

  She stopped, mid-drink, and stared at Striker. “Nice hair. What’s she going to do to you next?”

  Striker sputtered out a short laugh. “Quite frankly, I can’t wait to find out.”

  Feeling completely self-conscious, Erin quickly crossed the room and focused on the phone book. “Calling Allan is a good idea.”

  She’d been distracted there for a minute. But there was no point in putting off the call. If Charles was on the prowl for Allan’s contract, they didn’t have any time to waste.

  Striker sauntered over to the counter, stopping next to Erin, an enigmatic grin on his face. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Her embarrassment diminished and annoyance took its place. He must be so proud of himself.

  He’d acted like a caveman and she’d responded with enthusiasm. There’d be no living with his ego now.

  She took a surreptitious step away from him as she read out the phone number.

  Striker dialed.

  “Allan Baldwin, please,” he said into the receiver.

  Erin backed into the counter on the other side of the room, gripping the cool Arborite lip. She was nervous about Allan’s reaction, she told herself. The coiled tension in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with Striker’s kiss.

  Hoo, boy. She’d kissed Striker.

  “Striker Reeves calling,” he said.

  While he spoke, she focused on his lips, swallowing against a dry throat as her memory kicked in. Okay, chill, it was nothing to get excited about. It hadn’t been a long kiss or anything.

  Or had it? Truth was, she couldn’t quite remember.

  “Hey, Allan. How’s it going?”

  But it was a powerful kiss. There was no denying it was a rock-you-to-your-toes kiss.

  And, if she’d sensed that, Striker must have sensed it, too.

  She nearly groaned out loud.

  “You’re right,” said Striker. “It has.”

  She hoped he didn’t get any crazy ideas. Like thinking she might want to do it again.

  She didn’t.

  “I’m here on Blue Earth Island.”

  He was hardly her type.

  “With a couple of friends.” He smiled at Erin, and her heart rate tripled.

  She assured herself it meant nothing.

  “We were thinking abo
ut stopping by later tonight. If you’re going to be around.”

  Erin stilled.

  “Yeah? That’d be great.”

  She held her breath.

  “Seven sounds good. See you then.” Striker hung up the phone.

  “He said yes?” asked Julie.

  “He invited us for dinner,” said Striker.

  Erin felt a stone drop into the middle of her stomach. Forget Striker kissing. Striker with a seafood fork and the wrong wineglass? Maybe tucking his napkin into his collar and taking toothpicks out of his breast pocket?

  “You sure you know how to do that?” she asked.

  Striker rolled his eyes. “No problem. I’ve been chowing down my entire life.”

  Chowing down?

  Erin straightened away from the counter, no time to dwell on her silly physical response. “I think it’s time for drastic action.”

  5

  BY DRASTIC ACTION, Striker had discovered that Erin meant more etiquette lessons. She’d spent the afternoon introducing him to every utensil known to mankind, and some he was pretty sure she’d made up. He’d spent the afternoon pretending to pay attention.

  The reality was, all he’d been able to think about was the kiss. Their kiss.

  Now, dressed in his new suit, and feeling pretty darned self-satisfied, he smiled to himself as he watched her walk with Julie down the pot-lit pathway toward Allan’s front door.

  He’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back.

  She hadn’t slapped him down. Not by a long shot.

  He knew he should feel guilty for misleading her about his identity, but he was too busy savoring the fact that she’d kissed him back. Even though she didn’t know he was rich, even though she’d never seen his jet, even though she acted like she didn’t really like him all that much.

  For a sharp-tongued, sassy, confrontational woman, she sure was fun when she let her hair down.

  And she was incredible to look at.

  Especially from this angle.

  Julie had dressed in basic black again. But Erin wore a dusty-rose silk dress with a low, scooped neckline and a matching scarf draped loosely around her neck. The fabric rippled sensuously against her body. Her bare shoulders were smooth as silk, her graceful arms sleek and sexy, and her glossy, windblown hair caressed the exposed skin on her back.

  Striker could see a thousand places he’d like to kiss her.

  He flexed his shoulder. Well, once he disarmed her. He wondered if she’d let him anywhere near her in the foreseeable future.