Flying High. Barbara Dunlop
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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 wine 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