“Get dressed.”
The preemptory command interrupted her inventory. “Huh?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“What is it?” she asked warily.
“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.” Turning her by the shoulders, he aimed her at the bedroom. “Get dressed.”
“All right, already.”
Julie complied with the order, more than a little disappointed that this surprise involved putting on clothes instead of peeling them off. When she trudged back into the living room in jeans and a tank top and hinted as much, however, he just laughed.
“Later,” he promised. “Let’s go.”
Once in the garage, he steered her to the Jag parked in its reserved slot. Two minutes later they were wheeling through the still-empty streets of downtown Oklahoma City.
Fifteen minutes after that, Alex turned into the approach to a small airport on the west side of town. The Dalton International symbol prominently displayed on the gate and the sleek executive jet visible through the open doors of one of the hangars suggested Alex was making good on his promise to show her DI’s aeronautical operations center.
Then she caught sight of a just-washed aircraft parked on the tarmac. Water droplets still glistened on its canary yellow fuselage accented with a wide, jet-blue stripe.
“It’s the Lane 602!”
“I had it flown in yesterday,” Alex told her. “Thought you might want to take it for a test drive before we finalize the buy.”
She was out of the Jag almost before it rolled to a stop, her avid gaze raking the Air Tractor from its single prop to its rear dispersal system. The present owner turned out to be an air-ag pilot operating out of Nebraska, who introduced himself as Jim O’Connor.
“Good to meet you, Dalton. And you, Ms. Bartlett.” His gaze conveyed curiosity and something close to sympathy. “So you’re partnered up with Dusty Jones, are you?”
“Two months now,” Julie confirmed.
She kept her voice pleasant but flashed an unmistakable warning. She could criticize and carp at her partner but no one else better do so in her hearing.
O’Connor got the message. “Ole Dusty’s one of the best ag pilots in the business,” he said hastily. “I’ve seen him damn near stand his Pawnee on its tail.”
Julie nodded her agreement, and O’Connor slapped a hand on the Air Tractor’s fuselage.
“So, you want me to check you out on this baby?”
“Let me review the specs and owner’s log first.”
Excitement licked at her as she poured through the 602’s vital statistics. Its Pratt & Whitney turboprop engine was a workhorse of the industry. The engine powered aircraft performing such diverse mission as transporting business passengers, dropping cargo in the Antarctic darkness at seventy-five degrees below zero, and performing fire suppression over blazing forests. The plane itself had a fuel capacity of more than two hundred gallons and its hopper could carry more than six hundred gallons of chemicals.
The dispersal system, she saw with a hastily suppressed thrill, could be easily modified along the lines Lisa Wu had suggested. With an intense exertion of willpower, Julie played down her excitement. No point letting O’Connor see how much she ached to get her hands on the throttle while there was still wiggle room in the sale negotiations.
Julie’s almost instant grasp of the 602’s capabilities impressed the hell out of Alex. With some notable gaps, the private investigator he’d hired to do a background check had provided a fairly detailed run-down on her background and flying experience. Still, she climbed into the cockpit after what felt to him like a very brief familiarization session.
He was used to the more sophisticated Gulfstream. It took longer to check out on highly instrumented twin-engine executive jets than single-seat air transports. Which is what he used to sop his pride until she taxied, lifted off, and made a few experimental passes.
Her first wing-over sent Alex’s heart jumping into his throat. She made the climbing/descending turn at such a steep ninety degree bank that he didn’t breathe easy again until she brought the 602 skimming back at thirty feet off the deck. Then she hopped over a stand of trees and pitched up in a hammerhead. The vertical maneuver was one of the first taught in flight schools. Pilots learned to pitch straight up, stomp on the rudder, and roll into a one-eighty to reverse course. Performing a hammerhead in a simulator or while he was at the controls himself was one thing. Watching Julie perform one at near stall speed squeezed his chest so tight Alex was sure he’d cracked a couple of ribs.
“Christ,” he muttered when she climbed out of the cockpit and strutted over to where he leaned against the Jag, sweating bullets. “You pull stunts like that every day?”
“Pretty much.” Her smile was smug. “It’s called flying, Dalton.”
She was good. She’d just demonstrated exactly how good. Yet when she and O’Connor put their heads together again, Alex couldn’t shake the contrary wish that she piloted big, honkin’ passenger jets with multiple back-up systems instead of what now seemed to him like little more than a fertilizer can with a prop.
The antsy feeling stayed with him while he gave Julie a tour of DI’s hangars and ops center, followed by lunch at his favorite barbecue joint. It was still with him when he had to return for a hastily-called 3 p.m. meeting with Blake and DI’s marketing director.
He stepped out of the elevators on the tenth floor and escorted her to the guest suite, sincerely regretting this change in plans.
“We’ll have to move ‘later’ back a few more hours,” he said at the door.
Her blank look made him grin and remind her of his promise when he rousted her out to see the plane early this morning instead of tumbling her back into bed.
“Oh, right. That later.” She heaved a heavy, theatrical sigh. “It’ll be tough, but I guess I can cool my jets awhile longer.”
His kiss promised to more than make up for the additional delay.
“You all set for tonight?”
Julie chewed on a corner of her lip while she conducted a swift internal debate. She’d decided to return her purchases and back out of Delilah’s big bash tonight. Paying so much for a gown went against her grain. On top of that, her inability to reach Dusty had started to gnaw at her.
On the other hand, the 602 had more than lived up to her expectations. With the additional plane and the improvements in spread ratio already being worked out by DI’s engineering team, Agro-Air should turn a healthy profit this coming season.
Oh, for Pete’s sake! Why was she overthinking all this? She’d never had trouble making a decision before. Had never been this wishy-washy about anything, much less a silly dress. What had gotten into her?
All she had to do was look into a pair of smiling blue eyes to know the answer. Alex Dalton. He’d gotten into her…heart, mind and body.
“Yes,” she answered, slamming the door on any further debate, “I’m set.”
“Good. The fund-raiser starts at six, but we don’t need to be there that early. And it’s just a few blocks from here, so how about I pick you up at six-thirty?”
“That works for me.”
She made good use of the interval.
Her first priority was to contact Dusty. She was itching to tell him about taking the 602 up for a test spin and how sweet the plane was to maneuver. When she got no answer, she tried Chuck again. The mechanic still hadn’t heard from his partner but evinced little concern about the lack of communication.
“Dusty’ll get ahold of us sooner or later.”
Better be sooner. Julie’s nerves were wound tight as it was.
They coiled even more the closer it got to six-thirty. She killed part of the time with a long soak in mango-scented bubbles. A half bottle of conditioner took the 602’s wind whip from her hair. Subsequent sessions with a blow dryer and curling iron made the thick mane almost manageable.
She fiddled with the jeweled comb, experimenting with different arrangement
s. She could pile the loose curls atop her head and anchor them with the comb. Or she could try for sleek and sophisticated by pulling her hair back in a smooth bun. In the end she decided to go with the boutique owner’s recommended style—a smooth sweep on one side that brushed her shoulder, the other side caught back at the temple.
Her hair out of the way, she stepped into the narrow sheath of a skirt. Even with a lining, the gold silk was so thin Julie gave fervent thanks for the boutique owner’s foresight in insisting Julie include a pair of seamless panties with her other purchases. No requirement for a bra, though. The bodice was cut to a deep V but fit tight and plumped her otherwise modest curves up nicely.
Very nicely, if Alex’s reaction when she opened the door a little while later was any indication.
“Wow!”
The muttered exclamation was low but fervent enough to put a Cinderella smile in Julie’s heart. The sight of her golden-haired prince in black tie and tux sparked an equally fervent response.
“Right back at you, Dalton.”
“Turn around, let me see the full effect.”
The four-inch stiletto heels made pirouetting on the plush carpeting a challenge but she pulled off a creditable turn without falling on her butt.
“The back view is great,” Alex announced. “Superlative. But the front… Oh, sweetheart.”
Julie couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed. If ever! She could feel a slow heat sneak into her cheeks now, though.
She knew darned well that at least part of the heat stemmed from the profound feminine satisfaction that came with Alex seeing her in something other than coveralls, jeans or her trusty black slacks.
But most of it, she admitted on a silly, fluttery sigh, was a direct result of that murmured “sweetheart.” The casual endearment didn’t necessarily mean anything. Men—and women—used it all the time in this part of the country. Still, it warmed her enough to steal Julia Roberts’s line from Pretty Woman.
“In case I forget to tell you later, I had a nice time tonight.”
“I won’t let you forget.” His eyes gleamed with hot promise. “And just so you know, ‘later’ ranks at the top of my agenda for tonight.”
Hers, too, although she didn’t get a chance to say so before his glance made another slow sweep.
“Sure you want to go mingle with rich and not-so-famous?”
“Are you kidding? After I went to all this trouble to… How did your mother put it? Get all gussied up?”
“Okay, but when the small talk has you wanting to scream with boredom, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Laughing, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “I won’t.”
Ten
Given Alex’s prediction of jaw-cracking boredom, Julie didn’t really expect to enjoy Delilah’s big bash. She’d never learned the art of small talk. Never practiced pasting on a polite smile to cover acute disinterest. Aside from Alex and Blake and their mother, she wouldn’t know a soul at the fund-raiser.
Satisfaction over Alex’s reaction to her spiffed-up persona and the sledgehammer effect of his tuxedoed persona on her senses had her so buoyed, however, that she almost floated into the limo he had waiting at the curb.
“I thought you said the party’s only a few blocks from here,” she commented as she wiggled her hip-hugging skirt into place.
“It is, but a princess should arrive in style. Besides, I doubt you could navigate the city streets in those shoes.”
“They’re not my usual style,” she admitted, stretching out a leg to admire the lethal heels. “Might prove useful if I have to fight off a mugger, though. I could put out his eye with one thrust.”
Thankfully, no muggers intercepted them when they exited the limo and entered the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. Alex cupped a hand under Julie’s elbow to escort her inside, where they were greeted by the museum’s three-story glass masterpiece by Dale Chihuly. According to Alex, the brilliantly colored tower comprised more than two thousand twisting, turning pieces.
“They had to ship them from the artist’s studio in sections.”
She craned her neck to take in the sculpture’s complexity and enormity. “How in the world did they ever put it together again?”
“Very carefully,” Alex deadpanned.
Delilah had reserved the museum’s rooftop terrace for her fund-raiser. The party was already in full swing when Alex and Julie stepped out of the elevator. Women glittering with jewels and men in hand-tailored tuxes sipped champagne and chattered against the backdrop of Oklahoma City’s skyline lit to brilliance by the early evening sun. A forest of gently whirling fans and cool misters tamed the July heat, thank goodness, while an army of servers drifted through the crowd with trays of canapés and crystal champagne flutes.
A linen-draped table strategically placed close to the elevator displayed the “donations” Delilah had strong-armed for the silent auction. Julie almost choked when she spotted the starting bids for some of the items. Fifteen grand for two weeks at a private villa in the south of France? Twenty for a photographic safari in Kenya, led by one of National Geographic’s foremost wildlife photographers? Neither of which included airfare, she noted, although the CEO of a major international airline had donated a pair of first-class tickets to any destination in the world for the bargain basement price of eighteen thou. But it was the gold pendant nested on black velvet that riveted her attention.
“Look! It’s Viracocha, the Incan sun god.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Alex said with a smile.
“The Inca believe Viracocha rose from Lake Titicaca in the time of darkness to create the sun, the moon and the stars.”
The pendant was at least three inches high and had to be crafted of solid gold. It depicted an incredibly elaborate god who wore the sun for a crown, clutched thunderbolts in his hands, and wept tears representing the life-giving rain that fed crops at high, dry altitudes.
“I saw a piece just like this in Chile,” Julie exclaimed, mesmerized by the magnificent piece. “This is an amazing replica.”
Or so she thought until she noted the starting bid.
“Whoa! This can’t be a reproduction. Not at this price. What’d your mother do, Alex? Commission someone to heist the original from the Santiago Museum?”
A not-quite-amused voice drifted from behind them.
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my time. Not without some justification, I’ll admit. I don’t count robbing museums of priceless works of art among my many sins, however.”
Julie sucked air. A low, hissing lungful. But when she looked to Alex for help, the wicked amusement on his face didn’t offer an out. Resigned to her fate, she turned to face her nemesis.
A single glance told her Delilah had pulled out all the stops tonight. Diamonds dripped from her ears, her throat, her wrists and sparkled on at least three of her fingers. Her jet black hair was swept up in style a that added inches to her already impressive presence. Her still slender body was encased in an off-the-shoulder gown of shimmering jet that probably cost more than the Viracocha pendant.
“Sorry,” Julie said. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of stealing.”
“Oh?” The older woman arched an aristocratic brow. “Sure sounded like it to me.”
Julie deflected the barb the only way she could. “You throw one heck of a party, Delilah. This is a truly a magical setting. And you look fantastic,” she added with genuine sincerity.
Delilah proved no more immune to flattery than any other woman. Her expression softening, she preened a bit before returning the compliment with only a hint of reluctance.
“So do you. Where did you get that dress?”
Cued by that auspicious opening, Julie segued into her assigned task. “At Helen Jasper’s boutique. She stocks really gorgeous stuff. You should check out her shop.”
“I will,” Delilah promised as she linked her arm through that of her son’s guest. “Let me introduce you to some o
f the other people here.”
Much to Julie’s surprise, she thoroughly enjoyed herself for the next hour. She’d figured she wouldn’t have anyone to converse with except Alex and his brother and had worried about holding her own in the rarified atmosphere of mega-millionaires. Contrary to her expectations, she found plenty to talk about with a good number of men whose roots still went deep into Oklahoma’s red dirt.
The women not so much. Most of the females she was introduced to didn’t profess the slightest interest in crop yields or the futures market, although she suspected those markets funded their rubies and emeralds. Their conversations tended more toward kids, schools and charity work. And clothes, which gave Julie plenty of opportunity to slip in the promised references to Helen Jasper’s shop.
Naturally, the Daltons’ recent acquisition of a new family member formed a topic of avid interest. Most of the women couched their questions in polite terms, asking how little Molly was adjusting or whether she’d started to crawl yet. One or two dropped more pointed comments obviously designed to confirm the baby’s parentage.
Alex answered the questions he chose to and dodged the others with practiced ease. Julie couldn’t dodge the speculative looks, though. More than one set of assessing, mascara’ed eyes turned her way.
One pair was particularly penetrating. Thick black lashes framed the startlingly bright turquoise eyes. Had to be tinted contacts, Julie decided, as the owner sauntered in their direction.
“Hello, Alex.”
The voice was low and sultry. The body that produced it had been poured into a strapless aqua sleeve.
“Hello, Barbara. Have you met Julie Bartlett?”
“Not yet.”
“Julie, this is Barbara Hale. She’s an attorney with Power, Davis and Cox.”
The hand the attorney extended was tipped with blood-red nails, but its grip was strong and brisk.
The Paternity Proposition Page 11