Flying High
Автор
Barbara Dunlop
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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.
