Flying High

“Am I not speaking English? We went to high school together.”

A light dawned behind her eyes and she turned her attention back to the magazine with a nod. “Oh. High school.”

Now that was vaguely insulting. Like he couldn’t possibly know Allan in adult life. Apparently he was good enough to ferry the women across the sound, but he’d best keep to his station in life.

Wouldn’t she be shocked down to her pretty little shoes if she got a look at his stock portfolio.

Not that he was going to enlighten her. No way did he want to get on her husband hit list. If they found out his ten percent of Reeves-DuCarter International put him in the eight-figure range right along with Allan, he might as well paint a bull’s-eye in the middle of his chest.

Julie leaned forward from the back seat, excitement coloring her tone. “You know, Erin…he might be able to help us out.”

Erin stilled, eyeing Striker up and down again, a disconcertingly calculating expression on her face. This time he felt like a side of prime beef in a butcher’s window.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Julie, the pitch of her voice going up.

“Exactly how well did you know Allan Baldwin?” asked Erin.

Striker couldn’t believe where they were heading, looking down their noses at him one minute, using him as a go-between the next. “Give me a—”

“We can clean him up a little,” said Julie, with obvious excitement. “Give him a shave. Buy him some decent clothes.”

Striker felt his irritation building. Clean him up? Like he couldn’t be a suave, debonair guy when he felt like it? He’d never had so much as a single complaint about his personal hygiene. And, at his mother’s insistence, he owned at least half a dozen, custom-made tuxes.

These women would be mortified to know who they were talking about cleaning up.

Erin turned those powerful, bedroom-brown eyes on him. “You don’t have to get right back to Seattle, do you?”

Oh, sure. She was the woman who never used her looks for anything. She could write a book on how to change a man’s mind with eyelashes alone. But he wasn’t about to take time out of his life to help them snare Allan.

“This may shock and surprise you,” he said. “But even I have a life.”

“We can pay you,” she countered.

Could she insult him any more thoroughly in the space of five minutes? “Money is not an issue.”

Erin took in his dirty clothes again. “You were quick enough to take the thousand.”

Striker clamped his jaw shut before he said something he’d regret. Like admitting it was her sexy eyes and not the thousand that got him in the cockpit.

“We’ll put you on the payroll,” she offered.

The payroll? Just how organized were husband hunters these days?

“And we’ll buy you some new clothes,” Julie chimed in. She glanced down at her black dress. “We got Fuchini, but I think you’re more of a Valnadi.”

Striker hated Valnadi.

Erin’s brows knit together. “You think you’d be able to make contact with Allan Baldwin after all these years? I mean, without making him suspicious?”

“Read my lips,” said Striker. “I am not helping you get to Allan.”

Erin turned back to Julie. “You know, Allan might think Striker’s after his money.”

“Excuse me?” Allan wasn’t going to think Striker was after his money.

“That’s why we have to fix him up,” said Julie.

“It’ll be a big job,” said Erin.

“Excuse me,” Striker said a bit louder.

They both stopped talking and looked at him.

“I am sitting right here in the plane.”

Julie grinned. “Sorry.”

He shook his head in disgust. “What part of no do you people not understand?”

Erin’s expression faltered for a second. Then she seemed to regroup. She took a deep breath and put a hand lightly on Striker’s shoulder. “I know you’re probably nervous. But, I promise, it won’t be that difficult.”

“Damn right it won’t be that difficult,” he said. “It’ll be the easiest thing in the world.”

She smiled, and his pulse reacted.

He cursed himself for being so susceptible. “Because all I’m doing is dropping you off and flying back to Seattle.”

Her smile died. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

“Are you intimidated by his success?” Her husky voice sizzled the length of his spine, making him think of dark nights and long, slow lovemaking.

He was sure she’d planned it that way.

“You don’t have to be intimidated,” she said. “We can help you make a good impression. What to say. When to say it. Which fork to use.”

Etiquette lessons? Striker had dined at a five-star Paris restaurant just last Thursday, and nobody’d complained. He hardened his tone. “I’m not the least bit intimidated by his success.”

Abroad smile broke out on her face and those liquid brown eyes glowed with approval, sending sparks coursing through his body. “Good,” she said, giving his shoulder a little squeeze, making him wonder if she lived her entire life in denial.

“I believe I said no,” he pointed out, ignoring the reaction of his skin to her soft fingertips.

“Why would you do that?”

“I have things to do.” Not that he needed a reason.

“I’m sure they’ll wait.”