Flying High

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.”