Flying High Read online

  “You’d be okay if I went a little lower?” Striker whispered

  “Sure,” Erin replied. Yes. Anything. Just don’t stop.

  He eased the straps of her dress down over her shoulders. “Stay on your stomach.”

  She nodded.

  As he inched her dress lower, the neckline rasped over her nipples and she sucked in a quick breath.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she replied.

  Her skin had turned supersensitive, and she had a crystal-clear vision of Striker’s rough hands on her breasts.

  He went back to the sore spot between her shoulder blades, then gradually worked his way down her spine. His fingertips were strong and sure. Her muscles couldn’t decide whether to relax in ecstasy or tighten in arousal.

  Erin didn’t know what heaven felt like, but she was sure it had to be close to this.

  Dear Reader,

  I’m thrilled to be publishing the second book in the Reeves-DuCarter brothers’ series. This time it’s pilot Striker Reeves-DuCarter the maverick of the family, who meets his match in a jewelry buyer from New York City.

  Over the past few years I’ve been fascinated by the discovery, development and marketing of diamonds in Canada’s far north. When emeralds were discovered as well, I knew I had to use the northern gemstone industry in a story.

  I hope you enjoy another glimpse of Tyler and Jenna Reeves-DuCarter, from my earlier Harlequin Temptation novel Next to Nothing! And I hope you enjoy reading Striker and Erin’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’d love to hear from you at www.barbaradunlop.com.

  Best wishes,

  Barbara Dunlop

  Books by Barbara Dunlop

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  848—FOREVER JAKE

  901—NEXT TO NOTHING!

  940—TOO CLOSE TO CALL

  HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

  22—OUT OF ORDER

  HARLEQUIN DUETS

  54—THE MOUNTIE STEALS A WIFE

  90—A GROOM IN HER STOCKING

  98—THE WISH-LIST WIFE

  BARBARA DUNLOP

  FLYING HIGH

  To Mom with love.

  You make so many things possible for so many people.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  1

  IF STRIKER REEVES had the slightest interest in a lecture and a stern reprimand, he would have said yes to the gorgeous black-haired, leather-skirted fireball who’d approached his table last night at Carnaby’s on Leicester Square.

  But he didn’t.

  And he hadn’t.

  And he was getting way too old for this.

  His father, Jackson Reeves-DuCarter, leaned forward, voice tight as he placed his broad hands on the back of the tufted leather chair. “And then I hear that five, five of my top executives were forced to twiddle their thumbs in Paris because of you.”

  Striker felt a muscle tick in his left cheek. It was only his mother’s presence in the dining room next door that kept him from walking out of his father’s office, quitting his job as a jet pilot with Reeves-DuCarter International on the spot and leaving his parents’ house.

  Instead, he counted to three, forcing himself to keep his voice low. “If you’ll recall, I was the one who stuck to the schedule.”

  Jackson’s dark eyes glittered. “The schedule is subject to change. That’s why we have our own jet. That’s why we don’t fly commercial carriers.”

  “Then maybe you should hire a whole team of pilots, so one of us can be suited up, at the ready twenty-four-seven.”

  Jackson shifted in front of the expansive bookcase, where his deep-seated opinions were reinforced by business administration textbooks penned in the fifties. “Not much point in having a pilot suited up when you take off with the jet.”

  Striker counted to three again. His father might be willing to devote every waking second to the betterment of the family corporation, but Striker wasn’t a corporate robot. He was a flesh and blood man.

  “I’m entitled to a life,” he said.

  Jackson scoffed. “Is that what you call it? A life? I call it a joyride. And I’m getting sick and tired of you using my airplane to pick up women.”

  Striker bristled. “It was a date, not a pickup, and the jet belongs to the corporation, not to you.”

  “Then next time, take your ten percent to London and leave my sixty on the tarmac where it belongs.”

  Striker’s mouth curved up in a smirk. “If you want to get technical, I only used it ten percent of the time.”

  Jackson obviously didn’t appreciate the joke. His voice turned calculating. “If you want to get technical… When can your mother and I expect to meet your new girlfriend?”

  Striker shifted. Jeanette definitely wasn’t coming to Seattle anytime soon. He wasn’t even sure he remembered her last name.

  He’d met her in a Paris nightclub. Like many women, she’d been impressed by the fact that he was a jet pilot. When she’d asked for a ride, he’d figured what the hell? Take her on a quick hop over the Channel and see where things went from there.

  Unfortunately, by the time they got back, he’d maxed out on hours. So, when the executive group wanted to leave Paris early, Striker couldn’t fly.

  “Just as I thought,” said Jackson with a shake of his head. He pulled out the desk chair and sat back down, picking up a gold pen. “You’re out of control, Striker.”

  “Because I have a life?”

  “Have a life on your days off. When you’re on the job, you’re on the job.”

  Once again, Striker started to silently count.

  Jackson didn’t even let him get to two. “I’m grounding you for a month.”

  It took a second for the words to sink in. Striker took a step back. “You’re what?”

  “I’ve hired another pilot.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” And it was humiliating, and totally uncalled for. Striker was a grown man, not some errant grade-school boy. “You want me to write lines on the chalkboard, too?”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “I’m thirty-two years old—”

  “Some days, I find that very hard to believe.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “I just did.”

  Striker took a sharp breath. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. His father was the CEO of Reeves-DuCarter International, and Striker was nothing but an employee and a minor shareholder. Arguing would get him exactly nowhere.

  But there was one thing he could do. Something he should have done a long time ago.

  Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. He’d have his letter of resignation typed up within the hour.

  Ground him? Striker didn’t think so. His father might be the all-powerful CEO, be he was hardly the FAA. There were millions of other aircraft out there, millions of jobs for which Striker was fully qualified.

  He strode determinedly into the dining room, where his mother was setting silverware out on the glass-topped table. In the center, a oriental vase was filled with white roses and artistically twisted cherry blossom branches. The place settings were her best royal blue china.

  He slowed his pace to say goodbye, deciding to tell her about quitting later. No point in upsetting her right before dinner. Plus, he honestly wasn’t sure if he could blurt it out to her face.

  She turned from the table and patted his arm. “Striker, honey, can you run down to the w
ine cellar for me?”

  He paused, making sure he kept his voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m not going to be—”

  “Tyler and Jenna are finally coming for dinner,” she said, “and we need a second bottle of merlot.”

  Striker put a little more determination in his voice. “Mom, Dad and I just had another—”

  She tipped her head sideways and hit him with an impatient look. “Now, Striker, you know there’s no point in talking to your father at this time of day. Go get me the merlot. You haven’t seen your brother in ages.”

  The expression on her face and the rush of words told him she knew something was going on.

  Had she overheard their argument? Had Jackson confided his “punishment” to her? She had to know that Striker would never stand for it.

  “Jacques is making salmon in dill sauce tonight,” she continued, turning back to the table. “You know it’s your favorite.”

  Salmon in dill sauce might have placated Striker when he was twelve, but he was past the point of being bribed by Jacques. He sighed. “Mom.”

  “For dessert we’re having white chocolate mousse.”

  He leaned sideways over the table in an effort to catch her eye. “Mom, I really am going—”

  “Don’t be silly.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, refusing to meet his eyes. “Be a good son and go get the wine.”

  Striker hesitated, frustration warring with loyalty, sharp words about his father hovering on the tip of his tongue. After a moment’s hesitation, he swallowed them. How the hell was he supposed to quit his job when he couldn’t even cut out on a family dinner?

  Quitting would kill his mother.

  He knew that.

  He’d always known that.

  She’d worried for years while his brother, Tyler, worked at his own business. And she’d been over the moon when her youngest son had finally come back to work at Reeves-DuCarter International last month, and the family was together once again.

  If Striker left now, he’d pull the rug out from under his mother’s newfound happiness. What kind of a man would do that?

  ERIN O’CONNELL couldn’t believe her boss would do this to her. “This is what you call my big break?”

  “I’m asking you to schmooze with him, not sleep with him,” said Patrick Aster in an undertone, closing the boardroom door on the busy reception area of Elle Jewelers’ New York head office.

  “For schmoozing, the company’s buying me a new wardrobe?” Erin felt like a prostitute. Sure, she’d been bugging Patrick for months to give her a chance to negotiate with some of their bigger gem suppliers, but not like this, not at the expense of her ethics.

  Patrick walked over to the coffee station and poured himself a cup. “This is Allan Baldwin we’re talking about,” he said. “Allan freaking, High Ice Diamonds, Baldwin. Do you have any idea what kind of an opportunity I’m handing you?”

  Erin crossed her arms over her cream colored blouse. “Exactly how will flirting my way into a contract get me recognition and respect in this company?”

  Patrick lifted the stoneware mug as he turned to face her again. “You land the Baldwin account, and this company will kiss your little white—”

  “They’ll all think I slept with him to get it.”

  Patrick scoffed. “No they won’t.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  He took a sip of the coffee. “Well, even if they do, they won’t care.”

  “You don’t get me at all, do you?”

  A smile played on his lips and his eyes danced. “You’re intelligent, committed, hardworking and hungry.”

  Okay. So, maybe he did get her. She’d been a regional buyer for Elle Jewelers for four years now and she was dying to break out into the big leagues. But she had her standards, and she had her pride. She wasn’t about to use her gender, her looks and her body to get her first big gemstone contract.

  Patrick sighed with exaggerated patience. “All you have to do is fly to Seattle, hop a floatplane to Blue Earth Island, attend the Pelican Cove Art Exhibition—I wrangled you an invitation—and ‘accidentally’ run into Allan Baldwin.”

  “Then offer him what to sign with us?”

  Patrick winked. “Whatever it takes, baby.”

  Erin’s jaw dropped open.

  “I’m joking, Erin. It’s done like this all the time. You meet him casually, get to know him, put him at ease before you start talking business.”

  “No.”

  The boardroom door opened and Elle Jewelers gemologist, Julie Green, stuck her head in.

  Patrick nodded in her direction. “You can take Julie with you.”

  “Take Julie with you where?” asked Julie, coming fully into the room and closing the door behind her.

  “To Seattle,” said Patrick. “The Mendenhal Resort on Blue Earth Island. All expenses paid.”

  “The Mendenhal?” asked Julie, her blue eyes going wide.

  “Elle Jewelers will throw in a new Fuchini wardrobe,” said Patrick. “For each of you.”

  Julie turned to Erin, her short blond hair bobbing with her rapid nods. “Yes. Take Julie with you. Definitely.”

  “Don’t get so excited,” said Erin. “He’s pimping us.”

  Julie looked back at Patrick for a second, then back to Erin. She mouthed the word Fuchini. Then out loud she said, “Define pimping.”

  Erin rolled her eyes.

  “Have you seen their summer dress line?” Julie shot Patrick another look. “I wouldn’t actually have to sleep with anybody, would I?”

  “Allan Baldwin,” said Erin.

  “The Allan Baldwin?” asked Julie.

  Erin wasn’t surprised that Julie recognized the name. Allan Baldwin had revolutionized the diamond industry.

  With his huge diamond find in northern Canada, he’d capitalized on the demand for ethical stones. When he “branded” his diamonds by etching a microscopic killer whale into each stone mined at his High Ice property, the market had leaped to attention. Now every jewelry wholesaler in the world wanted Allan’s gems. Including Elle Jewelers.

  “The Allan Baldwin,” Patrick confirmed.

  Julie’s eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered contemplatively. “Well…He is gorgeous. I mean if I had to actually sleep with—”

  “Gorgeous is all it takes for you to throw your principles out the window?” asked Erin.

  “Of course not,” said Julie, much to Erin’s relief. “Drop-dead gorgeous and a diamond mine is all it takes.”

  Patrick chuckled.

  Erin shook her head.

  “Didn’t you see his picture in Entrepreneur West last month?” asked Julie.

  Erin had seen the picture. Allan was definitely good-looking.

  Not that his looks made any difference. Patrick’s proposal was ridiculous. She threw up her hands. “I’m a professional gem buyer, not a good-time-girl.”

  “Men do this all the time,” said Patrick. “Tell her, Jules.”

  “Men do this all the time,” said Julie.

  “What men?” Erin challenged.

  Julie looked to Patrick.

  “Jason Wolensky,” said Patrick.

  Erin paused. Jason Wolensky was one of Elle’s top international buyers.

  “And Charles Timothy,” said Patrick. “They both had a shot at Allan Baldwin, but they blew it.”

  Julie nudged Erin. “I told you those millions of hours on the butt master would pay off one day.”

  “So, I’m getting a chance to best the who’s who of Elle Jewelers buying staff because of my glutes?”

  Erin wasn’t ready to accept that. Growing up in a stuffy little apartment in the Bronx, she may not have had much, but she’d had her mother’s wisdom. Her mother had always told her that with hard work and perseverance a person could accomplish whatever they wanted. She’d never said anything about having good glutes.

  Patrick took a step forward. “Erin. Jason tried. Charles tried. Believe me, they used everything they had. If All
an was gay, they would have used their glutes.”

  “Allan’s not gay,” said Julie with an air of authority.

  “I’m not asking you to step over any ethical boundaries,” said Patrick. “Fly out west and meet him. Talk to him. Laugh with him. Then offer him our best terms and see if he says yes.”

  Erin hesitated. Despite Patrick’s smooth sales pitch, this didn’t sit right with her.

  “I can guarantee you a promotion to senior buyer,” said Patrick.

  Okay. That seriously sweetened the pot. Maybe her ethics could be bought for the right price.

  “There’s an empty office on the ninth floor,” Patrick continued.

  Erin felt her resolve weaken. She definitely wouldn’t offer sex…Maybe she wouldn’t even have to flirt…Schmoozing wasn’t flirting…

  She could buy a dress that thoroughly covered her butt…

  “You’re a professional,” said Patrick. “Now get out there and give it your best shot.”

  Julie linked her arm with Erin’s. “And take Julie with you.”

  STRIKER CUT the oil drain-plug lock-wire on the engine of his Cessna floatplane and positioned the drain pan beneath. He was sweaty, dirty and tired, but his father’s words still cycled relentlessly through his brain.

  Then he’d hear his mother’s soft voice, see the vulnerable look in her eyes, and he’d know that he had to find a way to make things work with his father—no matter what. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but walking out wasn’t an option.

  In an effort to focus on something, anything besides the sorry mess that was his professional life, he’d spent most of the day combing a local airplane boneyard for parts for his three planes. Banging his way through decommissioned aircraft seemed like one of the more productive outlets for his frustration. He might not be able to quit his job and still live with himself, but he sure as hell didn’t have to stay on the ground.

  His Tiger Moth and his Thunderjet were stored in a hangar at Sea Tac. They needed months, maybe years worth of work before he could take them up. But the Cessna floatplane was definitely airworthy. Maybe later on this week, after he’d sweated out some more of his anger, he’d take the little Cessna up for a spin.