Flying High

“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.