Flying High

by Barbara Dunlop

  A freshening wind moved in off the Pacific, sloshing rhythmic waves against the barnacle pillars of the Seattle floatplane dock. He moved the engine cowling out of the way and crouched beneath the plane to break the oil drain-plug loose with a wrench.

  “Excuse me?” a female voice came from the other side of the plane.

  Fingertips working the stiff plug, Striker glanced in the direction of the voice.

  He could see legs, gorgeous legs, strappy little high-heeled sandals and the hem of a short skirt.

  Under normal circumstances, he’d be more than interested in those legs and that voice, not to mention the second pair of legs hovering just behind the first. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

  He gave the drain-plug a final crank and it dropped into his hands. He quickly pulled back as the oil whooshed out, splattering into the pan below.

  He straightened, coming around the propeller, wiping his hands on a rag.

  The women’s bodies and faces definitely did justice to their legs. The closest one reminded him of a lady he’d met in Australia. She had shoulder-length, sandy-blond hair, mysterious brown eyes and a hint of freckles beneath her carefully applied makeup.

  She was wearing a stiff white skirt with a zipper up the front. Her gauzy mauve blouse told him she had both confidence and style. She was pretty and pouty—the kind of woman whom life had probably dealt few blows. Though at the moment, she was obviously frustrated.

  The other woman looked amused. Striker liked that.

  Her short, wispy, sunshine-blond hair lifted in the breeze. Her eyes were blue, and her makeup dark and sultry over a copper tan.

  Striker turned his attention back to the pouty one. Challenging as she looked, he didn’t have the time nor the inclination to try to coax her out of her mood.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asked her.

  She trapped her windblown hair and pushed it back over her shoulders. “The office was locked.”

  “The office?”

  She tilted her head toward the small Beluga Charters building at the top of the wooden ramp. “We had a plane booked for five o’clock.”

  “It’s six-thirty,” said Striker.

  “Are you our pilot?”

  “I’m a pilot. But not yours.”

  Her hand went to her hip and she locked one leg.

  Oh, yeah. This was definitely one woman who always got exactly what she wanted.

  “Our flight from New York was delayed,” she said. “But we still have to get to Blue Earth Island.”

  “You should probably call Beluga in the morning,” Striker suggested.

  “We need to get there tonight.”

  “Can’t help you.” He had parts to strip, airplanes to build and frustration to work out of his system. Gorgeous as she was, this woman did not look like the type to offer a no-strings-attached frustration outlet.

  Not that sex would help solve his problem.

  “Why not?” she asked. “You’re here. Our real pilot left. We did call and leave a message on the machine as soon as we hit Sea Tac. I can’t imagine anyone would object if you took care of the customers.”

  Striker had to admire her tenacity and straight-ahead logic. Didn’t change his mind. But he had to admire it.

  “You’re not my customers,” he pointed out as the engine oil continued to splatter noisily into the pan behind him.

  She moved a little closer.

  Oh, great, here it came.

  Female coercion on his six.

  “I’m sure you’d get brownie points from your boss for helping out,” she said. “Above and beyond the call of duty and all that.”

  “You’ve obviously never met my boss,” Striker drawled. Flying beautiful women around for Beluga Charters or anyone else would definitely not earn brownie points with Jackson Reeves-DuCarter this week.

  “It wasn’t our fault we were late,” she said.

  “Never suggested it was. But I don’t work for Beluga Charters.”

  The metallic echo of the oil drip behind him trickled to nothing.

  “Who do you work for?” she asked.

  “Today? Myself.”

  “Great. We’ll pay you to fly us to Blue Earth Island. Cash.”

  Striker jerked his thumb back toward the engine. “I’m changing the oil.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I’m not flying anybody anywhere.”

  She captured his gaze with liquid brown eyes and a long, slow blink. “How much?” she asked softly, getting under his skin for a split second.

  Striker stuffed the oily rag into the back pocket of his jeans. “More than you’ve got.”

  “Try me.”

  “Listen, you’re a beautiful woman—”

  Her brown eyes darkened. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m sure you’re used to guys falling all over—”

  “I’m not used to anything. My plans fell through. I need to charter a plane. And I’m willing to pay you whatever it takes to get me to Blue Earth Island by seven.”

  “I’m not for sale, and I have at least an hour’s worth of work left on my engine.”

  She took a breath, which pressed her pert breasts against the thin blouse.

  Yeah.

  She never used her looks for anything.

  Right.

  “How soon can you get us to the island?”

  “I’m not getting you to the island.”

  “If you were. How soon?”

  Striker knew he shouldn’t answer that question. He knew he was being manipulated by someone who’d had practice. But her eyes were warm. Her lips were soft. She was stunningly beautiful. And, despite her protests, that did count. “An hour and a half.”

  “That’s too long.”

  “Good thing I’m not taking you.”

  She pursed her pouty lips, glancing around the deserted dock. “Is there somewhere we can change?”

  That threw Striker. “What for?”

  “If you’re not getting us to the island until eight, we need to dress for the reception before we go.”

  Striker had had enough. He didn’t have time for a difficult woman, and he sure wasn’t explaining his position one more time.

  “The hell with this,” he muttered, swiping his sweaty hair from his forehead with the back of his hand. He held the drain-plug up to the light to check the gasket.

  “Well, the hell with this,” the woman echoed under her breath.

  The gasket looked fine, so Striker crouched back under the engine and wiped the oil drain with his rag.

  She crouched down and unzipped her large suitcase.

  Curious, despite his resolve, he watched her out of the corner of his eyes.

  To his amazement, she pulled out a black dress and yanked it over her head. Then she proceeded to writhe her way out of the blouse beneath. A man would have to be made of stone not to get interested.

  “You got a mirror in your purse?” she asked her friend.

  “Sure do.” The friend followed suit, opening her suitcase and pulling out her own black dress.

  Striker glanced around the dock, checking to make sure he was their only audience. “Uh, ladies…”

  “Erin O’Connell,” said the pouty one. “And this is Julie Green.”

  “Striker Reeves,” said Striker out of ingrained habit.

  Erin whipped a lacy white bra out from under the dress, settling the clingy fabric against her mouthwatering curves. Then she shimmied out of the skirt beneath. “We’ll give you a thousand dollars to fly us to Blue Earth Island.”

  Striker shook his head in self-disgust. He was so easy.

  2

  ERIN GLANCED AT her watch and then squinted at the chain of islands in the distance. “Can’t you fly a little faster?”

  “This is a floatplane, not a fighter jet,” said the man named Striker.

  The little plane bumped again in the turbulence, bringing her up hard against the shoulder harness i
n the right front seat. The stiff strap bit into her bare shoulder, and she was sure the lap clasp was wrinkling her dress. “You said eight o’clock.”

  Striker slowed the plane down, yet again. “I said I wasn’t taking you. And I shouldn’t have taken you. I’m going to have a hell of a time landing in this chop.”

  “What time do you think we’ll get there?”

  He glanced at her and smirked. “I’m not about to give you anything to hold me to.”

  “I’m only asking for an estimate.” She figured nine at the outside to even make the last few minutes of the art reception. If they weren’t on the island by nine, they had a very big problem.

  He shook his head. “No guess.”

  “Eight-thirty?” she asked.

  “It’s eight-fifteen now.”

  “Nine?”

  “Maybe.”

  Julie leaned forward, holding a magazine between the two front seats, speaking loudly over the drone of the radial engine. “Here’s the latest article on him. That man is the catch of the century.”

  “Nine at the very latest,” said Erin to Striker.

  “You still have to get from the dock to town,” he pointed out.

  Her heart sank. “How long will that take?”

  He shrugged.

  She fought an urge to swear at him. “Five minutes? An hour? You must be able to give me a range.”

  “By the time you call a taxi? Probably forty-five minutes.”

  She closed her eyes and slumped back in her seat. They were toast.

  “They estimate his wealth at eight figures,” said Julie, dropping the glossy magazine into Erin’s lap.

  Erin half-heartedly glanced down at the open page. Fat lot of good the information would do her now.

  STRIKER SHIFTED his gaze from the horizon to the magazine in Erin’s lap. There was too much vibration to read the headline, but he wondered whose net worth they were talking about.

  Eight figures? Catch of the century? They sounded like a couple of husband hunters. Maybe they were rushing to the island because Prince Charming was going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

  He realized it was a jaded reaction, but he’d met a lot of women over the years who saw his bank account and his jet plane a whole lot more clearly than they saw him. And Blue Earth Island was an exclusive little resort area. Erin and Julie wouldn’t be the first to try reeling in one of the seasonal residents.

  “It says he’s expanding the emerald exploration work this year,” said Julie, leaning forward in her seat.

  “We’re not going to make the art reception,” said Erin.

  “We’ll meet him some other way,” said Julie.

  “How? Hang around town like a couple of stalkers?”

  “Don’t be such a defeatist. The man’s got emeralds.”

  “Maybe.”

  Julie pointed to a spot in the magazine print. “They’re already drilling portals. If the mineralized zones pan out, he could be sitting on a second fortune. For that, we stalk.”

  “You are shameless,” said Erin.

  Striker turned his attention back to flying. Mineralized zones? Portals? If these women were looking for rich husbands, they’d sure done their homework.

  “Absolutely,” said Julie. “If they’re gem quality, I’m his for life.”

  Striker snorted to himself. And here all these years, he’d thought a jet plane was a good strategy for picking up…well, dating women. Apparently diamond and emerald mines worked even better.

  Erin flipped the magazine back to the first page of the article and Striker recognized the man in the picture.

  “That’s Allan Baldwin,” he said, surprised they were talking about someone he knew. Not that he hadn’t heard about Allan’s diamond find. Everybody in Seattle knew about the local man who was on his way to becoming a billionaire.

  Striker peered at the picture for a moment. From the same upscale Seattle neighborhood, he and Allan had known each other most of their lives. Though Striker didn’t see him often anymore. The last time was at a university fund-raiser over Christmas.

  Striker took in the perfect haircut, the salon tan and the three-thousand-dollar suit. “He used to dress a lot more casually.”

  Erin’s brow creased. “You know him?”

  Striker shrugged. “Sure.”

  She paused for a second, peering at Striker, her expression turning puzzled. Then she held up the magazine, index finger tapping on Allan’s face. “You know this man?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her gaze traveled slowly from Striker’s worn work boots to his stained jeans to his torn T-shirt. Her obvious disdain made him feel like a bug under a microscope.

  Talk about a snap judgment. Just because he was dirty and oily and sweaty didn’t mean he was some lower life-form. He’d put in a hard day’s work today. Something little miss impractical shoes ought to try sometime instead of focusing on landing a rich husband.

  “You know Allan Baldwin?” she asked one more time.

  “Am I not speaking English? We went to high school together.”

  A light dawned behind her eyes and she turned her attention back to the magazine with a nod. “Oh. High school.”

  Now that was vaguely insulting. Like he couldn’t possibly know Allan in adult life. Apparently he was good enough to ferry the women across the sound, but he’d best keep to his station in life.

  Wouldn’t she be shocked down to her pretty little shoes if she got a look at his stock portfolio.

  Not that he was going to enlighten her. No way did he want to get on her husband hit list. If they found out his ten percent of Reeves-DuCarter International put him in the eight-figure range right along with Allan, he might as well paint a bull’s-eye in the middle of his chest.

  Julie leaned forward from the back seat, excitement coloring her tone. “You know, Erin…he might be able to help us out.”

  Erin stilled, eyeing Striker up and down again, a disconcertingly calculating expression on her face. This time he felt like a side of prime beef in a butcher’s window.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Julie, the pitch of her voice going up.

  “Exactly how well did you know Allan Baldwin?” asked Erin.

  Striker couldn’t believe where they were heading, looking down their noses at him one minute, using him as a go-between the next. “Give me a—”

  “We can clean him up a little,” said Julie, with obvious excitement. “Give him a shave. Buy him some decent clothes.”

  Striker felt his irritation building. Clean him up? Like he couldn’t be a suave, debonair guy when he felt like it? He’d never had so much as a single complaint about his personal hygiene. And, at his mother’s insistence, he owned at least half a dozen, custom-made tuxes.

  These women would be mortified to know who they were talking about cleaning up.

  Erin turned those powerful, bedroom-brown eyes on him. “You don’t have to get right back to Seattle, do you?”

  Oh, sure. She was the woman who never used her looks for anything. She could write a book on how to change a man’s mind with eyelashes alone. But he wasn’t about to take time out of his life to help them snare Allan.

  “This may shock and surprise you,” he said. “But even I have a life.”

  “We can pay you,” she countered.

  Could she insult him any more thoroughly in the space of five minutes? “Money is not an issue.”

  Erin took in his dirty clothes again. “You were quick enough to take the thousand.”

  Striker clamped his jaw shut before he said something he’d regret. Like admitting it was her sexy eyes and not the thousand that got him in the cockpit.

  “We’ll put you on the payroll,” she offered.

  The payroll? Just how organized were husband hunters these days?

  “And we’ll buy you some new clothes,” Julie chimed in. She glanced down at her black dress. “We got Fuchini, but I think you’re more of a Valnadi.”

 
Striker hated Valnadi.

  Erin’s brows knit together. “You think you’d be able to make contact with Allan Baldwin after all these years? I mean, without making him suspicious?”

  “Read my lips,” said Striker. “I am not helping you get to Allan.”

  Erin turned back to Julie. “You know, Allan might think Striker’s after his money.”

  “Excuse me?” Allan wasn’t going to think Striker was after his money.

  “That’s why we have to fix him up,” said Julie.

  “It’ll be a big job,” said Erin.

  “Excuse me,” Striker said a bit louder.

  They both stopped talking and looked at him.

  “I am sitting right here in the plane.”

  Julie grinned. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “What part of no do you people not understand?”

  Erin’s expression faltered for a second. Then she seemed to regroup. She took a deep breath and put a hand lightly on Striker’s shoulder. “I know you’re probably nervous. But, I promise, it won’t be that difficult.”

  “Damn right it won’t be that difficult,” he said. “It’ll be the easiest thing in the world.”

  She smiled, and his pulse reacted.

  He cursed himself for being so susceptible. “Because all I’m doing is dropping you off and flying back to Seattle.”

  Her smile died. “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Are you intimidated by his success?” Her husky voice sizzled the length of his spine, making him think of dark nights and long, slow lovemaking.

  He was sure she’d planned it that way.

  “You don’t have to be intimidated,” she said. “We can help you make a good impression. What to say. When to say it. Which fork to use.”

  Etiquette lessons? Striker had dined at a five-star Paris restaurant just last Thursday, and nobody’d complained. He hardened his tone. “I’m not the least bit intimidated by his success.”

  Abroad smile broke out on her face and those liquid brown eyes glowed with approval, sending sparks coursing through his body. “Good,” she said, giving his shoulder a little squeeze, making him wonder if she lived her entire life in denial.

  “I believe I said no,” he pointed out, ignoring the reaction of his skin to her soft fingertips.