Flying High. Barbara Dunlop

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.”

      “You don’t even know what they are.”

      The warmth of her palm made its way through his T-shirt sleeve, playing havoc with his resolve as she leaned a little closer, her voice dropping. “I don’t think you understand. This is really important to us.”

      There she was, up close and personal, using every trick in the book, making him want things he couldn’t have, changing the chemistry of his blood.

      “I thought you said you never used your looks for anything?”

      She blinked, drawing back. “Who’s using looks? I’m trying to reason with you.”

      Like hell. “You’re flirting.” And it was seriously working.

      “I’m schmoozing. There’s a difference.”

      “You’re touching me.”

      “I’m touching your shoulder. If I was flirting, I’d touch your chest, or maybe your neck or maybe your hair.”

      She might as well have touched him in all those places. Her words sent a straight shot to his groin.

      “I’m making a business proposition,” she said.

      “And I’m saying no.”

      “Then I’m offering you more money.”

      “I’m still saying no.”

      “Then I’m appealing to your better nature.”

      “I don’t have a better nature.”

      “We have a spare bedroom in our beach house. Right on the water. View of the sunset.”

      Striker’s mind didn’t make it past “bedroom” and “our beach house.” He’d always been a sucker for promises women couldn’t keep. No wonder he was forever taking them on joyrides.

      “Fine. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

      “Forty-eight,” she said.

      “No way.”

      ERIN COULDN’T believe she’d resorting to schmoozing before they’d even made it to the island. Sure, they needed Striker’s help—desperately now that they’d missed the art reception. But she’d practically fawned over the man’s shoulder.

      And she hadn’t even realized she was capable of that please-sleep-with-me tone of voice. Patrick dangled a promotion in front of her eyes and she instantly turned into a shameless flirt.

      It was undignified. And she wasn’t going to do it again. Not that she’d have to. Now that she had Striker on board, things would run a lot more smoothly.

      As soon as the taxi came to a stop, Julie jumped out of the front seat. “Will you look at that ocean?”

      The setting sun had turned the entire world pink, and white-water crescents reflected on the waves as they roared on shore fifty feet away.

      Julie kicked off her shoes and sprinted onto the sand.

      Without a word, Striker began lifting the suitcases out of the trunk. He’d stayed peevishly silent for most of the taxi trip, and Erin knew he was annoyed. But he was the one who’d agreed to help them. Nobody had held a gun to his head.

      They’d stopped at the Mendenhal Resort’s office on the way through the gates to register and pick up the key. Now Erin unlocked the door and stepped back to let Striker carry the load of suitcases inside.

      “Where do you want the gigolo?” he asked, setting down the suitcases and gazing to where the rough hewn, wood-railinged staircase ran the length of one wall, up to a second floor balcony. Three doors opened off the balcony into rooms at the back of the house.

      “You are not a gigolo,” Erin insisted, even as the word conjured up a totally unwelcome image of the big, rangy Striker.

      She shook it off. He was nowhere near her type. And he was only here to introduce them to Allan. There were no other duties involved.

      Striker carried in the second set of suitcases. “You’re paying the rent and buying me clothes.”

      “There’s a perfectly good reason for that.”

      “Yeah. I’m a kept man.”

      “Get over it.”

      “Easy for you to say.”

      She rolled her eyes.

      “Okay,” he said. “What would you call me?”

      “You’re a consultant,” she said.

      Striker gave her a mocking grin. “That sounds so much more dignified.”

      “Doesn’t it though?”

      “Okay. Well, just to make sure your consultant understands the plan of attack…which one of you is trying to land Allan?”

      “I am,” she said.

      “Why does that not surprise me?”

      “Well, I’m the project lead. Julie’s here for technical advice.”

      At least that was the excuse Patrick had come up with for sending Julie on the trip. Truth was, there weren’t any diamonds for Julie to look at. And even if there were, it wasn’t necessary. High Ice Diamonds reputation for quality was well established.

      Striker’s СКАЧАТЬ