Flying High

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.

“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.”

“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?

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