Flying High Page 10

  Julie held the camisole up to her chest. “I don’t mean parade in front of him like a stripper. Make it look like an accident. It’ll drive him crazy.”

  “He’s already accidentally seen me in my underwear, and it was darned good underwear, too.”

  Julie chuckled deeply. “Yeah, but he never bought you that underwear. This is his underwear. Trust me, phase two is definitely letting him see you in this.”

  The phone rang.

  As she crossed the room to answer it, Erin had to admit, she got a little shiver at the thought of Striker seeing her in the camisole and shorts.

  She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Erin?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Allan.”

  Erin felt her eyes go wide at the unexpected announcement. “Good morning, Allan.”

  “I was wondering if Julie was up yet?” he asked.

  “Sure. She’s right here. Just a minute.” She covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Julie grinned and gave Erin a high five on the way past. “All right, partner.”

  Erin sat down on the bed to listen to Julie’s side of the conversation, reminding herself that her energy should be focused on Allan not Striker.

  Forget the sexy underwear, they had dinner to cook.

  “Hello?” said Julie.

  Then she smiled. “Just fine.”

  She winked at Erin. “Me, too.”

  Erin folded the silk apricot shorts and placed them back on the tissue paper. She felt another little thrill at the thought of Striker’s hands on the soft fabric. She quickly tamped it down. Allan was the man who counted today.

  “Of course,” said Julie. “We’re not busy this morning. Happy to help.”

  Erin felt a smile grow on her face. It sounded like Allan wanted to see them again, even before tonight. This was fantastic.

  “An hour’s fine,” said Julie.

  Erin folded the camisole. They’d have to shower and have a quick breakfast, but there was nothing stopping them from a visit with Allan this morning.

  “Sure. See you then.” Julie hung up the phone.

  “What?” asked Erin.

  “He’s offered to bring the wine tonight.”

  “That’s very nice of him.”

  “Isn’t it? I think he’s a genuinely nice person. Even with all that money.” Julie frowned.

  “What?” asked Erin.

  “I have to tell you, I’m starting to feel guilty about lying to him.”

  That surprised Erin. “You? My wayward alter ego? The one who once told a man she was moving to Paris?”

  “Hey, this is business, not dating.”

  “And we’re not lying to him. We’re simply postponing the truth.”

  Julie looked unconvinced. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “We’ll tell him tonight,” Erin promised.

  “For sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, does he want to see us about something?” asked Erin.

  “Uh…” Julie turned and straightened the quilt on Erin’s bed. “Just me,” she said to the wall.

  Erin felt a shaft of disappointment. “Just you?”

  Julie turned back. “He asked if I’d come and help pick out the wine.” She paused. “You mind?”

  Erin forced herself to smile. She’d still get to see Allan later tonight, and Julie seeing him again so soon could only help to strengthen the relationship. “Of course I don’t mind. You soften up Allan, and I’ll stay here and work on Striker.”

  Erin glanced at the apricot outfit, making up her mind. Looked like she did have some time free this morning, and she had promised to wear it for him. She could be subtle, find a way to protect her dignity if he wasn’t interested.

  “Striker left,” said Julie.

  Erin’s stomach shifted. “He did?”

  “I think it was around seven.”

  “Oh.” That wasn’t disappointment she felt. She had a hundred things to do today. She had to go to the bakery, pick up some new candles, stop at the market…Julie had her job to take care of today and Erin had her own. Striker was less than a footnote in the operation.

  She stuffed the silk back into the gray bag.

  STRIKER MADE IT about ten miles before he realized he hadn’t thought this through. He was thirsty and sweaty, and he was dying for a shower. But all he had was the five dollar bill he’d stuffed in the pocket of his shorts.

  If he’d brought along his credit cards, he could have rented a hotel room, picked up some new clothes and freshened up for the day.

  As it was, he had a choice of staying sweaty and hungry or going back to the beach house to face Erin. Though sweat wasn’t his first choice, facing Erin after last night was definitely his last.

  She probably wasn’t even speaking to him this morning. Maybe she never would again.

  His father would get a kick out of the irony.

  Striker slowed to a walk on the loose sand, gazing at the beachfront houses. They were smaller at this end of the island, still nice, but not as sprawling and palatial as they were down near Allan’s place.

  He came to an access path and decided to walk into the business section of town and buy a bottle of water. At least he had enough money to stave off dehydration while he waited out the day. After dinner, he’d rent his own hotel room. Then he’d take off at first light and try to patch up his life. Maybe he could back off on the overseas women and meet his father halfway.

  If there was any justice in the world, Erin would sign a contract with Allan and forget she ever met a man named Striker.

  He sat down on a bench at the head of the path and removed his running shoes. Then he dumped the sand out, shook his socks and put everything back on again. There, that felt a little bit better. He could last the day.

  It was about six blocks up to Main Street and by the time he got there, his wet shirt had cooled in the wind. Businesses were beginning to open. Traffic was light, since it was barely nine o’clock and this was predominately a vacation town.

  He could see a small grocery store about half a block down Main Street. As he headed toward it, a flash of bright red caught his attention. He turned to look, then stopped and stared in awe into the open door of an oversized garage set next to a modest house, among towering cedar trees.

  He took a couple of steps closer, his thirst forgotten.

  It couldn’t be…

  He waited for a blue sedan to make it past him, and he trotted across the street.

  There, he stopped. He wasn’t crazy.

  An immaculate, BA Swallow airplane was parked in the garage, its silver wings nearly touching each wall.

  Striker walked toward it. As far as he knew, there were only two of them left flying in the world.

  At the edge of the open bay doorway he could see a gray-haired man working at the bench, bent over the engine block, fitting pistons.

  “Hello?” Striker called out.

  The man turned. He was tall and robust looking, although he must have been in his late fifties. He had a thick, gray mustache and dark eyebrows over pale blue eyes. “Hi, there,” he greeted.

  “Great plane,” said Striker.

  The man smiled. Wiping his hands on a rag, he took a few steps toward the fuselage, looking up at the Swallow with an appreciative smile. “She’s a beauty all right.”

  “Yours?” asked Striker.

  “Belongs to my sons and I,” said the man. He moved toward Striker and stuck out his hand. “Roger Cameron.”

  Striker shook his hand. “Striker Reeves. You owned her for long?”

  “Coming up on twenty years,” said Roger. “You’re welcome to come in and have a look.”

  Striker gladly accepted the invitation to take a closer look at the magnificent plane. It had obviously been lovingly restored. He ran his fingertips along the leading edge of the wing. “She fly?”

  “Hope she will soon,” said Ro
ger. “Airframe’s all done. I just have to finish rebuilding the engine.”

  Striker nodded to the bench. “Did you have to go with oversized pistons?”

  “Slightly,” said Roger. “Honed out the cylinders. Going two-thou.”

  “Best way,” said Striker. “I’ve got a little Tiger Moth and a Thunderjet myself. Love to get them up in the air someday.”

  “You’re a pilot?” asked Roger.

  Striker nodded. “And a mechanic when I have the time.” He nodded to the engine block. “You want a hand?”

  Roger smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “You sure you want to get your clothes dirty?”

  “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do than put a little elbow grease into this baby. Guess I must be missing my two back home.”

  “On vacation?” asked Roger.

  “Visiting a friend,” said Striker.

  “To be perfectly honest with you, I’d love a hand. It’s been a few years since any of my boys had time to come by and help.”

  “They move off the island?”

  Roger nodded. “My oldest opened up a fancy law firm in New York—his mom’s real proud.”

  “How many sons do you have?” asked Striker.

  “Two. Younger one…” Roger returned to the bench, and Striker followed. “Younger one is tending bar in a Las Vegas casino.”

  “Either of them fly?” asked Striker, picking up a micrometer to check the piston measurements.

  They fell into an easy conversation as they fitted the pistons and rings, and the morning flew by quickly.

  They took a break at noon for sandwiches and iced tea with Roger’s wife.

  Afterward, Roger got out the connecting rods.

  “She has the patience of a saint,” he said as the door closed behind his wife. “I’ve spent a fortune on this plane and she’s never complained, not once in twenty years.”

  “In this condition,” said Striker, admiring the Swallow once again, “it has to be worth a fortune.”

  Roger got a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ve often thought that if I sold it, I could take her on a world cruise. I know she’s always wanted to travel. But, then I think maybe I’ll end up with a grandchild who’s interested in flying, and I’d regret selling her.”

  “It’s tough when your sons have different ambitions than you,” Striker observed, thinking of the tension between himself and his father.

  Roger shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d never want them to take up flying to please me. Everyone has to find his own path in life. And things are working out very well for Adam.”

  “But Ben?” Striker prompted. In their stories, Ben had been the headstrong child.

  “Ah, Ben,” said Roger with a smile and a shake of his head. “We’re a little worried about that boy.”

  “How so?” asked Striker, helping himself to Roger’s toolbox and plunging on the connecting rods.

  “Molly and I met in Vegas,” said Roger.

  That surprised Striker. They both seemed so down-to-earth and settled. He’d pictured them both growing up in the Midwest. “You’re kidding?”

  “I was a dealer,” said Roger. “Fast money, fast everything. Molly was in one of the shows. She was gorgeous back then. Still is, of course.”

  “Definitely,” said Striker, trying to picture a younger Molly on stage in feathers and sequins.

  “I think she saved me from a life of decadence and debauchery.”

  “I find that very hard to imagine,” said Striker.

  Roger laughed to himself. “Here’s the secret. You remember this. It’s not your kids taking a different path that worries you. It’s when you see them making the same mistakes that you panic.”

  “Ben’s on the road to decadence and debauchery?”

  Roger winked at Striker. “I’m sure he’s having a wonderful time.”

  By the time dusk settled, they’d finished hooking up the connecting rods and torqued the cylinders.

  Molly appeared once again to invite Striker for dinner.

  At the mention of the word dinner, Striker’s stomach plummeted. He glanced at his watch and realized Allan was due to arrive in less than an hour.

  He quickly thanked Molly and Roger for their hospitality and promised to stop in before he left in the morning. Then he took off at a fast jog, taking the shortcut through town.

  9

  ERIN WAS TRYING not to panic as she stared at the plump, sockeye salmon lying on the countertop. Allan was due in fifteen minutes and she had all the ingredients for Striker’s salmon in dill sauce, but no recipe and no Striker.

  She’d gone from feeling slighted to worried to annoyed. If he was going to leave her high and dry, the least he could have done was warn her.

  So he wasn’t attracted to her. Fine. He’d told her as much last night. He’d also promised to stay for the dinner. It wasn’t like she was going to leap out from the hallway and attack him.

  Okay, so maybe she had been planning to give him a glimpse of the apricot silk camisole. But he was the one who’d bought it for her. In fact, he was the one who’d started flirting in the first place.

  She sure hadn’t pulled him down into her lap to plant a kiss. And she sure hadn’t massaged every square inch of his skin. It wasn’t fair for him to hold it against her because she responded to his sensuality.

  She heard the front door open and close, and her stomach clenched, first with relief and then with annoyance. She marched into the living room to see a sweat-drenched Striker standing in the foyer in shorts and a T-shirt. He was covered in grease from head to toe.

  Julie was staring at him in wide-eyed silence.

  “Allan will be here in fifteen minutes.” Erin’s voice was strident as she headed for the staircase. She really felt like grabbing Striker by the ear and hauling him up to his room. “Where have you been?”

  “I got delayed,” said Striker, breathing deeply, one hand on his side. His hair was damp across his forehead. He looked even worse than the day they’d met him.

  She couldn’t even imagine where he’d found so much grease and oil on this island. She mounted the stairs, motioning for him to follow her. “Come on. We have to get you dressed. Julie, will you entertain Allan?”

  “No problem,” said Julie.

  “Right behind you,” said Striker on a gasp.

  Erin trotted up the stairs, pushing open his bedroom door, heading straight for the en suite bathroom. “Wear the gray suit. I pressed your other shirt, and the tie’s hanging on a hook on the inside of the door.” She opened the glass door of the corner shower stall and cranked the taps.

  “You have exactly five minutes to shower. Then I want you to shave, blow dry your hair and get down to the kitchen.” As she spoke, her frustration grew. Hadn’t he understood how important this was? “I don’t understand how you could be so irresponsible.”

  “That’s enough, Erin.” His tone was cold. “I just busted my ass to get here and help you out.”

  Erin whirled to find him leaning against the door-jamb, arms crossed over his chest. She raised her voice above the sound of the spray. “Then why are you two hours late?”

  “And I don’t do well with orders.”

  She took a step toward him, regretting the moment she’d decided he could help her. “And I’d rather not have to give them. But when you’re in my employ and you show up hours late, covered in dirt and grime, having given no thought to how your behavior will affect anybody else but yourself, you can damn well learn to take orders.”

  The steam from the running shower began to billow out into the room.

  “Your employ?”

  “I am paying you.”

  “Not anymore you’re not.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I quit.”

  Erin’s frustration flipped to panic. “You can’t quit now.”

  “I’m not quitting now.”

  Thank goodness. She moved away from the shower door, intending t
o brush past him into the bedroom and give him his privacy. Plus, she needed to get out of all this steam before she wilted. “Then I’ll just leave you to—”

  “I’m quitting retroactively.”

  Erin stopped, a short pace away from him. “You’re what?”

  “This was a bad idea from the start, Erin. I shouldn’t be here. And you don’t need me.”

  Didn’t need him? Sure she needed him. There was Allan, the salmon…

  “I’ll pay you for the clothes and my share of the beach house,” said Striker. “I can get my own hotel room tonight and fly out in the morning.”

  Erin swallowed. She didn’t want Striker out of her life this second. Sure, he was frustrating and coarse and constantly getting dirty. And he didn’t respond well to direction. But, he was cooking tonight. And now that it came down to it, she was still debating the merits of modeling the apricot outfit.

  Maybe she’d have chickened out in the end. But, maybe…

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he growled.

  “Like what?”

  “Erin, we have got to get away from each other.”

  Not yet. He couldn’t leave yet. Erin wasn’t ready. “You’re going to abandon me before we get the contract? Before you cook the salmon? Before I wear your outfit?”

  Okay, that last bit was bold. Alter ego Julie would be proud.

  Striker’s eyes darkened at the word outfit, and he took a step forward, pinning her with his sexy, midnight blue eyes. “Especially before I…” He took a single, deep breath. “…cook the salmon.”

  She blinked.

  He’d made a joke.

  In the middle of this, he’d made a joke? Maybe all wasn’t lost.

  “It fits perfectly,” she said, daring to lean in closer.

  “The salmon?”

  She smiled. “The camisole. You should see me in it.”

  “No. I shouldn’t.”

  For a second there, she thought she’d misjudged him again. She searched his expression. “Why?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Me.”

  Okay, she was going for broke here. She moved in even closer, letting her eyes go bedroom soft. “Well, I’m not scared of you.”

  Striker drew in another breath as clouds of steam billowed around them. “You should be.”