скачать книгу бесплатно
“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.
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.
