Barbara Dunlop - Flying High

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.