Flying High

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 in 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.

“Why would you do that?”

“I have things to do.” Not that he needed a reason.

“I’m sure they’ll wait.”

“You don’t even know what they are.”

The warmth of her palm made its way through his T-shirt sleeve, playing havoc with his resolve as she leaned a little closer, her voice dropping. “I don’t think you understand. This is really important to us.”

There she was, up close and personal, using every trick in the book, making him want things he couldn’t have, changing the chemistry of his blood.

“I thought you said you never used your looks for anything?”

She blinked, drawing back. “Who’s using looks? I’m trying to reason with you.”

Like hell. “You’re flirting.” And it was seriously working.

“I’m schmoozing. There’s a difference.”

“You’re touching me.”

“I’m touching your shoulder. If I was flirting, I’d touch your chest, or maybe your neck or maybe your hair.”

She might as well have touched him in all those places. Her words sent a straight shot to his groin.

“I’m making a business proposition,” she said.

“And I’m saying no.”

“Then I’m offering you more money.”

“I’m still saying no.”

“Then I’m appealing to your better nature.”

“I don’t have a better nature.”

“We have a spare bedroom in our beach house. Right on the water. View of the sunset.”

Striker’s mind didn’t make it past “bedroom” and “our beach house.” He’d always been a sucker for promises women couldn’t keep. No wonder he was forever taking them on joyrides.

“Fine. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

“Forty-eight,” she said.

“No way.”

ERIN COULDN’T believe she’d resorting to schmoozing before they’d even made it to the island. Sure, they needed Striker’s help—desperately now that they’d missed the art reception. But she’d practically fawned over the man’s shoulder.

And she hadn’t even realized she was capable of that please-sleep-with-me tone of voice. Patrick dangled a promotion in front of her eyes and she instantly turned into a shameless flirt.

It was undignified. And she wasn’t going to do it again. Not that she’d have to. Now that she had Striker on board, things would run a lot more smoothly.

As soon as the taxi came to a stop, Julie jumped out of the front seat. “Will you look at that ocean?”

The setting sun had turned the entire world pink, and white-water crescents reflected on the waves as they roared on shore fifty feet away.

Julie kicked off her shoes and sprinted onto the sand.

Without a word, Striker began lifting the suitcases out of the trunk. He’d stayed peevishly silent for most of the taxi trip, and Erin knew he was annoyed. But he was the one who’d agreed to help them. Nobody had held a gun to his head.

They’d stopped at the Mendenhal Resort’s office on the way through the gates to register and pick up the key. Now Erin unlocked the door and stepped back to let Striker carry the load of suitcases inside.

“Where do you want the gigolo?” he asked, setting down the suitcases and gazing to where the rough hewn, wood-railinged staircase ran the length of one wall, up to a second floor balcony. Three doors opened off the balcony into rooms at the back of the house.

“You are not a gigolo,” Erin insisted, even as the word conjured up a totally unwelcome image of the big, rangy Striker.

She shook it off. He was nowhere near her type. And he was only here to introduce them to Allan. There were no other duties involved.

Striker carried in the second set of suitcases. “You’re paying the rent and buying me clothes.”

“There’s a perfectly good reason for that.”

“Yeah. I’m a kept man.”

“Get over it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “What would you call me?”

“You’re a consultant,” she said.

Striker gave her a mocking grin. “That sounds so much more dignified.”

“Doesn’t it though?”

“Okay. Well, just to make sure your consultant understands the plan of attack…which one of you is trying to land Allan?”

“I am,” she said.

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Well, I’m the project lead. Julie’s here for technical advice.”

At least that was the excuse Patrick had come up with for sending Julie on the trip. Truth was, there weren’t any diamonds for Julie to look at. And even if there were, it wasn’t necessary. High Ice Diamonds reputation for quality was well established.

Striker’s eyebrows went up. “Technical advice.”

“That’s right.” Erin glanced around the high-ceilinged living room of the West Coast log house. “Not that I’m going to need it.”

It was a beautiful building and a beautiful setting, right on the beach in the classy little town of Pelican Cove. There were skylights in the two-story living room ceiling and a massive stone fireplace against one wall. If a woman was going to kiss her principles good bye, this was as good a place to do it as any.

Striker leaned against one of the log walls, crossing his arms on his chest and resting one ankle over the other as he contemplated her. “I have to say, you’re pretty open about your plans.”

Erin blinked at him. “You did ask. And you are on the payroll now. We’re not going to tell Allan everything right away, of course. That’s why we hired you.”

“Of course,” said Striker. “Him knowing what’s going on, that might put a cramp in your style.”

“It wouldn’t make things any easier. That’s for sure.” She picked up one of the suitcases. Might as well get settled. The sooner they got started on Striker, the sooner they could arrange a meeting with Allan.

Striker took two long strides toward her. “Wouldn’t want you to get calluses.” He reached for the suitcase, lifting it easily with a broad, strong hand.

“What?” she asked.

“Detracts from the diamonds,” he said, picking up a second suitcase and heading for the wide staircase.

Erin stared at his back for a minute. She was going to buy the diamonds, not wear the diamonds.

“Or maybe you’d prefer a few emeralds,” he called over his shoulder.

Erin started up the stairs. “Quite frankly, I’d like to get my hands on both.”

“A truly mercenary woman.”

“I’m a professional.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least.” There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice.

Maybe it was a mistake to bring a man like Striker in on this, no matter how valuable he’d be in meeting Allan. “Does it bother you that I’m after his diamonds?”

“It’s not like you’re the first to try.”

“Really?” Erin reached the top of the stair and drew alongside him in the twilight hallway.

That surprised her. Had other gem buyers come to Blue Earth Island to approach Allan? Had Striker flown them over? Maybe there was more to this than an old high school acquaintance.

If he had flown the other buyers in, maybe he had some valuable information about them. Maybe she could get him to spill it. Not that she was going to schmooze with him again. But there had to be a professional way to ask.

“Of course you’re not the first,” said Striker.

The three upstairs bedrooms had en suite plumbing and queen-sized beds. The middle one was slightly smaller, and the two on either end had balconies.

“I’ll take the middle,” he said. “Since I’m the help.”

He headed to the far end of the hall with Erin’s suitcases.

She stood in the doorway while he dropped the cases on the bed, trying to come up with a way to broach the subject of the people on his previous flights.

“Striker?”

He turned to look at her. “Yeah?”

The stark assessment in his ocean blue eyes made her stumble. Focus, she told herself. Ask him. What were the other buyers’ approaches? How did Allan react? What mistakes had they made?

No. Those were too blunt.

“Spit it out,” he drawled, cocking his head to one side.

“I was just…” She tried to formulate subtler questions.

He took a step closer, his deep voice thrumming in the silent house. “Whatever it is, you’re going to ask eventually. Why wait?” He shrugged one of his shoulders forward and his tone turned teasing. “Unless you want to touch me again first. You know, schmooze me.”

“No.” She shrank back. “I don’t want to touch you.”

His eyes sparkled at her sharp reaction and a dimple appeared in one of his cheeks. She suddenly realized that beneath the dust and dirt, he was a incredibly attractive man. Not that she cared. Not that his looks were relevant.

“You want to flirt with me again, Erin?”

Her name on his lips gave her a little shiver, but she shook it away.

“I never flirted with you the first time.”

“That’s your story, and you’re stickin’ to it?”

She took a deep breath. “You mentioned there were…other people who tried to get Allan to sign a contract. Do you know how they—”

“A contract?” The dimple disappeared.

“Yes.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“What would you call it?”

He shook his head and let out hollow chuckle. “Whatever.”

“What?” What had she done now?

“Maybe it’s none of my business. After all, I did agree to help. But don’t you think calling it a contract is a little mercenary?”

Mercenary? “It is a contract. A diamond contract.”

Striker snorted and shook his head. “And here I thought I’d heard it all.”

“Hey, it’s done like this all the time. There’s nothing illegal or immoral about schmoozing.”

“Ahh,” said Striker. “Schmoozing again. We both know how much you like schmoozing.”

His tone irked, but she refused to let herself rise to the bait.

“Schmoozing is only the window dressing,” she said. “And it’s not like we’ll keep him in the dark until the last minute.” She was vaguely aware that her defensiveness made her sound guilty, so she put some more strength into her tone. “He’ll have a chance to consider the whole deal on its merits.”

Striker’s blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t find this all just a little too…calculating?”

“I consider it a prudent, professional approach.” Or at least Patrick did, and since Patrick was her boss, and since she desperately wanted that promotion, this was the approach she was taking.

Striker rolled his eyes.

“What? How would you suggest I go about it?” If Striker had a better idea, she was all ears.

He moved a little closer, increasing the impact of his stare. “What about ditching all the clandestine plotting? Meeting someone legitimately? Letting them get to know you? Maybe falling in love?”

Erin felt as if the floor had shifted beneath her. She gave her head a little shake. “In love?”

“Yeah. You know. The old-fashioned way.”

His words made no sense. “You’re suggesting I try to get clients to fall in love with me before signing a contract?”

“Clients? No offense, Erin, but calling them clients makes you sound like a hooker.”

Erin opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried again and managed a squeak. “A what?”

“You’re marrying a man for his money.”

“I’m not marrying anybody.”

“Excuse me. My mistake. You’re signing a ‘diamond contract.’”

Erin stopped.

She squinted.

She sifted through the conversation.

“Uh, Striker?”

“What?”

“What is it you think I’m doing here?”

He raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “Trying to get Allan Baldwin to marry you.”

Erin let her chin drop down to her chest. She covered her eyes with her palm and shook her head. “Oh, boy.”

“What?” Striker sounded puzzled.

She peeked up at him. “I’m trying to get Allan to sell me diamonds, not give me diamonds.”

Striker’s brow creased. “Sell them to you how?”

An astounded smile tried to force its way from between her lips. “I’m a wholesale buyer for Elle Jewelers. You may have heard that Allan Baldwin owns a diamond mine.”

Striker blinked once. “You’re a diamond buyer?”