Barbara Dunlop: Flying High

“Sure,” Erin replied. Yes. Anything. Just don’t stop.

He eased the straps of her dress down over her shoulders. “Stay on your stomach.”

She nodded.

As he inched her dress lower, the neckline rasped over her nipples and she sucked in a quick breath.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she replied.

Her skin had turned supersensitive, and she had a crystal-clear vision of Striker’s rough hands on her breasts.

He went back to the sore spot between her shoulder blades, then gradually worked his way down her spine. His fingertips were strong and sure. Her muscles couldn’t decide whether to relax in ecstasy or tighten in arousal.

Erin didn’t know what heaven felt like, but she was sure it had to be close to this.

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled to be publishing the second book in the Reeves-DuCarter brothers’ series. This time it’s pilot Striker Reeves-DuCarter the maverick of the family, who meets his match in a jewelry buyer from New York City.

Over the past few years I’ve been fascinated by the discovery, development and marketing of diamonds in Canada’s far north. When emeralds were discovered as well, I knew I had to use the northern gemstone industry in a story.

I hope you enjoy another glimpse of Tyler and Jenna Reeves-DuCarter, from my earlier Harlequin Temptation novel Next to Nothing! And I hope you enjoy reading Striker and Erin’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’d love to hear from you at www.barbaradunlop.com.

Best wishes,

Barbara Dunlop

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

848—FOREVER JAKE

901—NEXT TO NOTHING!

940—TOO CLOSE TO CALL

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

22—OUT OF ORDER

HARLEQUIN DUETS

54—THE MOUNTIE STEALS A WIFE

90—A GROOM IN HER STOCKING

98—THE WISH-LIST WIFE

Flying High

Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Mom with love.

You make so many things possible for so many people.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

IF STRIKER REEVES had the slightest interest in a lecture and a stern reprimand, he would have said yes to the gorgeous black-haired, leather-skirted fireball who’d approached his table last night at Carnaby’s on Leicester Square.

But he didn’t.

And he hadn’t.

And he was getting way too old for this.

His father, Jackson Reeves-DuCarter, leaned forward, voice tight as he placed his broad hands on the back of the tufted leather chair. “And then I hear that five, five of my top executives were forced to twiddle their thumbs in Paris because of you.”

Striker felt a muscle tick in his left cheek. It was only his mother’s presence in the dining room next door that kept him from walking out of his father’s office, quitting his job as a jet pilot with Reeves-DuCarter International on the spot and leaving his parents’ house.

Instead, he counted to three, forcing himself to keep his voice low. “If you’ll recall, I was the one who stuck to the schedule.”

Jackson’s dark eyes glittered. “The schedule is subject to change. That’s why we have our own jet. That’s why we don’t fly commercial carriers.”

“Then maybe you should hire a whole team of pilots, so one of us can be suited up, at the ready twenty-four-seven.”

Jackson shifted in front of the expansive bookcase, where his deep-seated opinions were reinforced by business administration textbooks penned in the fifties. “Not much point in having a pilot suited up when you take off with the jet.”

Striker counted to three again. His father might be willing to devote every waking second to the betterment of the family corporation, but Striker wasn’t a corporate robot. He was a flesh and blood man.

“I’m entitled to a life,” he said.

Jackson scoffed. “Is that what you call it? A life? I call it a joyride. And I’m getting sick and tired of you using my airplane to pick up women.”

Striker bristled. “It was a date, not a pickup, and the jet belongs to the corporation, not to you.”

“Then next time, take your ten percent to London and leave my sixty on the tarmac where it belongs.”

Striker’s mouth curved up in a smirk. “If you want to get technical, I only used it ten percent of the time.”

Jackson obviously didn’t appreciate the joke. His voice turned calculating. “If you want to get technical… When can your mother and I expect to meet your new girlfriend?”

Striker shifted. Jeanette definitely wasn’t coming to Seattle anytime soon. He wasn’t even sure he remembered her last name.

He’d met her in a Paris nightclub. Like many women, she’d been impressed by the fact that he was a jet pilot. When she’d asked for a ride, he’d figured what the hell? Take her on a quick hop over the Channel and see where things went from there.

Unfortunately, by the time they got back, he’d maxed out on hours. So, when the executive group wanted to leave Paris early, Striker couldn’t fly.

“Just as I thought,” said Jackson with a shake of his head. He pulled out the desk chair and sat back down, picking up a gold pen. “You’re out of control, Striker.”

“Because I have a life?”

“Have a life on your days off. When you’re on the job, you’re on the job.”

Once again, Striker started to silently count.

Jackson didn’t even let him get to two. “I’m grounding you for a month.”

It took a second for the words to sink in. Striker took a step back. “You’re what?”

“I’ve hired another pilot.”

“That’s ridiculous.” And it was humiliating, and totally uncalled for. Striker was a grown man, not some errant grade-school boy. “You want me to write lines on the chalkboard, too?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“I’m thirty-two years old—”

“Some days, I find that very hard to believe.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I just did.”

Striker took a sharp breath. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. His father was the CEO of Reeves-DuCarter International, and Striker was nothing but an employee and a minor shareholder. Arguing would get him exactly nowhere.

But there was one thing he could do. Something he should have done a long time ago.

Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. He’d have his letter of resignation typed up within the hour.

Ground him? Striker didn’t think so. His father might be the all-powerful CEO, be he was hardly the FAA. There were millions of other aircraft out there, millions of jobs for which Striker was fully qualified.

He strode determinedly into the dining room, where his mother was setting silverware out on the glass-topped table. In the center, a oriental vase was filled with white roses and artistically twisted cherry blossom branches. The place settings were her best royal blue china.