Flying High

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.