Flying High
Barbara Dunlop
One missed flight and diamond buyer Erin O'Connell thinks her shot at a big-time promotion is over. Or is it? She needs to hop a plane to idyllic Blue Earth Island off the coast of Seattle to schmooze a mining billionaire.Her charter pilot is gone, but with the flick of some skin and a stack of bills, unsinkable Erin has stand-in Striker Reeves revving his floatplane ready for action. Yes, that kind of action, too…En route, Erin discovers that Striker already knows the wealthy miner–and she hatches the perfect plan. Pay Striker to be her date…and introduce her to the billionaire. Little does she know Striker has his own secrets. And a plan that could have them flying in white-hot–and uncharted–territory!
“You’d be okay if I went a little lower?” Striker whispered
“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
Books by 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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Mom with love.
You make so many things possible for so many people.
Contents
Chapter 1 (#u356621a6-56ab-5559-bdd0-efa0a5b70b01)
Chapter 2 (#ud1ed6e0f-099d-5e49-87d4-f957de0007e7)
Chapter 3 (#u233b432a-0554-5287-a2ec-ecb486080a20)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
1
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.
He slowed his pace to say goodbye, deciding to tell her about quitting later. No point in upsetting her right before dinner. Plus, he honestly wasn’t sure if he could blurt it out to her face.
She turned from the table and patted his arm. “Striker, honey, can you run down to the wine cellar for me?”
He paused, making sure he kept his voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m not going to be—”
“Tyler and Jenna are finally coming for dinner,” she said, “and we need a second bottle of merlot.”
Striker put a little more determination in his voice. “Mom, Dad and I just had another—”
She tipped her head sideways and hit him with an impatient look. “Now, Striker, you know there’s no point in talking to your father at this time of day. Go get me the merlot. You haven’t seen your brother in ages.”
The expression on her face and the rush of words told him she knew something was going on.
Had she overheard their argument? Had Jackson confided his “punishment” to her? She had to know that Striker would never stand for it.
“Jacques is making salmon in dill sauce tonight,” she continued, turning back to the table. “You know it’s your favorite.”
Salmon in dill sauce might have placated Striker when he was twelve, but he was past the point of being bribed by Jacques. He sighed. “Mom.”
“For dessert we’re having white chocolate mousse.”
He leaned sideways over the table in an effort to catch her eye. “Mom, I really am going—”
“Don’t be silly.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, refusing to meet his eyes. “Be a good son and go get the wine.”
Striker hesitated, frustration warring with loyalty, sharp words about his father hovering on the tip of his tongue. After a moment’s hesitation, he swallowed them. How the hell was he supposed to quit his job when he couldn’t even cut out on a family dinner?
Quitting would kill his mother.
He knew that.
He’d always known that.
She’d worried for years while his brother, Tyler, worked at his own business. And she’d been over the moon when her youngest son had finally come back to work at Reeves-DuCarter International last month, and the family was together once again.
If Striker left now, he’d pull the rug out from under his mother’s newfound happiness. What kind of a man would do that?
ERIN O’CONNELL couldn’t believe her boss would do this to her. “This is what you call my big break?”
“I’m asking you to schmooze with him, not sleep with him,” said Patrick Aster in an undertone, closing the boardroom door on the busy reception area of Elle Jewelers’ New York head office.
“For schmoozing, the company’s buying me a new wardrobe?” Erin felt like a prostitute. Sure, she’d been bugging Patrick for months to give her a chance to negotiate with some of their bigger gem suppliers, but not like this, not at the expense of her ethics.
Patrick walked over to the coffee station and poured himself a cup. “This is Allan Baldwin we’re talking about,” he said. “Allan freaking, High Ice Diamonds, Baldwin. Do you have any idea what kind of an opportunity I’m handing you?”
Erin crossed her arms over her cream colored blouse. “Exactly how will flirting my way into a contract get me recognition and respect in this company?”
Patrick lifted the stoneware mug as he turned to face her again. “You land the Baldwin account, and this company will kiss your little white—”
“They’ll all think I slept with him to get it.”
Patrick scoffed. “No they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
He took a sip of the coffee. “Well, even if they do, they won’t care.”
“You don’t get me at all, do you?”
A smile played on his lips and his eyes danced. “You’re intelligent, committed, hardworking and hungry.”
Okay. So, maybe he did get her. She’d been a regional buyer for Elle Jewelers for four years now and she was dying to break out into the big leagues. But she had her standards, and she had her pride. She wasn’t about to use her gender, her looks and her body to get her first big gemstone contract.
Patrick sighed with exaggerated patience. “All you have to do is fly to Seattle, hop a floatplane to Blue Earth Island, attend the Pelican Cove Art Exhibition—I wrangled you an invitation—and ‘accidentally’ run into Allan Baldwin.”
“Then offer him what to sign with us?”
Patrick winked. “Whatever it takes, baby.”
Erin’s jaw dropped open.
“I’m joking, Erin. It’s done like this all the time. You meet him casually, get to know him, put him at ease before you start talking business.”
“No.”
The boardroom door opened and Elle Jewelers gemologist, Julie Green, stuck her head in.
Patrick nodded in her direction. “You can take Julie with you.”
“Take Julie with you where?” asked Julie, coming fully into the room and closing the door behind her.
“To Seattle,” said Patrick. “The Mendenhal Resort on Blue Earth Island. All expenses paid.”
“The Mendenhal?” asked Julie, her blue eyes going wide.
“Elle Jewelers will throw in a new Fuchini wardrobe,” said Patrick. “For each of you.”
Julie turned to Erin, her short blond hair bobbing with her rapid nods. “Yes. Take Julie with you. Definitely.”
“Don’t get so excited,” said Erin. “He’s pimping us.”
Julie looked back at Patrick for a second, then back to Erin. She mouthed the word Fuchini. Then out loud she said, “Define pimping.”
Erin rolled her eyes.
“Have you seen their summer dress line?” Julie shot Patrick another look. “I wouldn’t actually have to sleep with anybody, would I?”
“Allan Baldwin,” said Erin.
“The Allan Baldwin?” asked Julie.
Erin wasn’t surprised that Julie recognized the name. Allan Baldwin had revolutionized the diamond industry.
With his huge diamond find in northern Canada, he’d capitalized on the demand for ethical stones. When he “branded” his diamonds by etching a microscopic killer whale into each stone mined at his High Ice property, the market had leaped to attention. Now every jewelry wholesaler in the world wanted Allan’s gems. Including Elle Jewelers.
“The Allan Baldwin,” Patrick confirmed.
Julie’s eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered contemplatively. “Well…He is gorgeous. I mean if I had to actually sleep with—”
“Gorgeous is all it takes for you to throw your principles out the window?” asked Erin.
“Of course not,” said Julie, much to Erin’s relief. “Drop-dead gorgeous and a diamond mine is all it takes.”
Patrick chuckled.
Erin shook her head.
“Didn’t you see his picture in Entrepreneur West last month?” asked Julie.
Erin had seen the picture. Allan was definitely good-looking.
Not that his looks made any difference. Patrick’s proposal was ridiculous. She threw up her hands. “I’m a professional gem buyer, not a good-time-girl.”
“Men do this all the time,” said Patrick. “Tell her, Jules.”
“Men do this all the time,” said Julie.
“What men?” Erin challenged.
Julie looked to Patrick.
“Jason Wolensky,” said Patrick.
Erin paused. Jason Wolensky was one of Elle’s top international buyers.
“And Charles Timothy,” said Patrick. “They both had a shot at Allan Baldwin, but they blew it.”
Julie nudged Erin. “I told you those millions of hours on the butt master would pay off one day.”
“So, I’m getting a chance to best the who’s who of Elle Jewelers buying staff because of my glutes?”
Erin wasn’t ready to accept that. Growing up in a stuffy little apartment in the Bronx, she may not have had much, but she’d had her mother’s wisdom. Her mother had always told her that with hard work and perseverance a person could accomplish whatever they wanted. She’d never said anything about having good glutes.
Patrick took a step forward. “Erin. Jason tried. Charles tried. Believe me, they used everything they had. If Allan was gay, they would have used their glutes.”
“Allan’s not gay,” said Julie with an air of authority.
“I’m not asking you to step over any ethical boundaries,” said Patrick. “Fly out west and meet him. Talk to him. Laugh with him. Then offer him our best terms and see if he says yes.”
Erin hesitated. Despite Patrick’s smooth sales pitch, this didn’t sit right with her.
“I can guarantee you a promotion to senior buyer,” said Patrick.
Okay. That seriously sweetened the pot. Maybe her ethics could be bought for the right price.
“There’s an empty office on the ninth floor,” Patrick continued.
Erin felt her resolve weaken. She definitely wouldn’t offer sex…Maybe she wouldn’t even have to flirt…Schmoozing wasn’t flirting…
She could buy a dress that thoroughly covered her butt…
“You’re a professional,” said Patrick. “Now get out there and give it your best shot.”
Julie linked her arm with Erin’s. “And take Julie with you.”
STRIKER CUT the oil drain-plug lock-wire on the engine of his Cessna floatplane and positioned the drain pan beneath. He was sweaty, dirty and tired, but his father’s words still cycled relentlessly through his brain.
Then he’d hear his mother’s soft voice, see the vulnerable look in her eyes, and he’d know that he had to find a way to make things work with his father—no matter what. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but walking out wasn’t an option.
In an effort to focus on something, anything besides the sorry mess that was his professional life, he’d spent most of the day combing a local airplane boneyard for parts for his three planes. Banging his way through decommissioned aircraft seemed like one of the more productive outlets for his frustration. He might not be able to quit his job and still live with himself, but he sure as hell didn’t have to stay on the ground.
His Tiger Moth and his Thunderjet were stored in a hangar at Sea Tac. They needed months, maybe years worth of work before he could take them up. But the Cessna floatplane was definitely airworthy. Maybe later on this week, after he’d sweated out some more of his anger, he’d take the little Cessna up for a spin.
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 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?”
She nodded.
He blinked again. “Oh, well…In that case…I guess my estimation of your character just went up a notch.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“So, what exactly is one notch up from a hooker?”
3
AT ASHER’S ON MAIN STREET, in downtown Pelican Cove, Striker watched Erin’s dubious expression as he shrugged into an olive-green, double-breasted jacket above a pair of navy slacks. Awash in embossed gold buttons, with lapels out of the seventies, the jacket was tight across the shoulders and loose in the body.
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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