Allan Baldwin, said Erin.
The Allan Baldwin? asked Julie.
Erin wasnt surprised that Julie recognized the name. Allan Baldwin had revolutionized the diamond industry.
With his huge diamond find in northern Canada, hed 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 Allans gems. Including Elle Jewelers.
The Allan Baldwin, Patrick confirmed.
Julies eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered contemplatively. WellHe 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 Erins relief. Drop-dead gorgeous and a diamond mine is all it takes.
Patrick chuckled.
Erin shook her head.
Didnt 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. Patricks proposal was ridiculous. She threw up her hands. Im 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 Elles 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, Im getting a chance to best the whos who of Elle Jewelers buying staff because of my glutes?
Erin wasnt ready to accept that. Growing up in a stuffy little apartment in the Bronx, she may not have had much, but shed had her mothers wisdom. Her mother had always told her that with hard work and perseverance a person could accomplish whatever they wanted. Shed 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.
Allans not gay, said Julie with an air of authority.
Im 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 Patricks smooth sales pitch, this didnt 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.
Theres an empty office on the ninth floor, Patrick continued.
Erin felt her resolve weaken. She definitely wouldnt offer sexMaybe she wouldnt even have to flirtSchmoozing wasnt flirting
She could buy a dress that thoroughly covered her butt
Youre a professional, said Patrick. Now get out there and give it your best shot.
Julie linked her arm with Erins. 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 fathers words still cycled relentlessly through his brain.
Then hed hear his mothers soft voice, see the vulnerable look in her eyes, and hed know that he had to find a way to make things work with his fatherno matter what. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but walking out wasnt an option.
In an effort to focus on something, anything besides the sorry mess that was his professional life, hed 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 didnt 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 hed sweated out some more of his anger, hed 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, hed 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 werent 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 womens bodies and faces definitely did justice to their legs. The closest one reminded him of a lady hed 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 poutythe 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 didnt 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 oclock.
Its six-thirty, said Striker.
Are you our pilot?
Im 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.
Cant 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.
Not that sex would help solve his problem.
Why not? she asked. Youre here. Our real pilot left. We did call and leave a message on the machine as soon as we hit Sea Tac. I cant imagine anyone would object if you took care of the customers.
Striker had to admire her tenacity and straight-ahead logic. Didnt change his mind. But he had to admire it.
Youre 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.
Im sure youd get brownie points from your boss for helping out, she said. Above and beyond the call of duty and all that.
Youve 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 wasnt our fault we were late, she said.
Never suggested it was. But I dont 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. Well pay you to fly us to Blue Earth Island. Cash.
Striker jerked his thumb back toward the engine. Im changing the oil.
How long will that take?
Im 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 youve got.
Try me.
Listen, youre a beautiful woman
Her brown eyes darkened. What does that have to do with anything?
Im sure youre used to guys falling all over
Im not used to anything. My plans fell through. I need to charter a plane. And Im willing to pay you whatever it takes to get me to Blue Earth Island by seven.
Im not for sale, and I have at least an hours 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?
Im not getting you to the island.
If you were. How soon?
Striker knew he shouldnt answer that question. He knew he was being manipulated by someone whod 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.
Thats too long.
Good thing Im 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 youre not getting us to the island until eight, we need to dress for the reception before we go.
Striker had had enough. He didnt have time for a difficult woman, and he sure wasnt 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 OConnell, 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. Well 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. Cant 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 oclock.
Striker slowed the plane down, yet again. I said I wasnt taking you. And I shouldnt have taken you. Im going to have a hell of a time landing in this chop.
What time do you think well get there?
He glanced at her and smirked. Im not about to give you anything to hold me to.
Im only asking for an estimate. She figured nine at the outside to even make the last few minutes of the art reception. If they werent on the island by nine, they had a very big problem.
He shook his head. No guess.
Eight-thirty? she asked.
Its 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. Heres 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 Erins 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 Erins 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 hed 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 wouldnt be the first to try reeling in one of the seasonal residents.
It says hes expanding the emerald exploration work this year, said Julie, leaning forward in her seat.