Flying High. Barbara Dunlop

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.

      “Am I not speaking English? We went to high school together.”

      A light dawned behind her eyes and she turned her attention back to the magazine with a nod. “Oh. High school.”

      Now that was vaguely insulting. Like he couldn’t possibly know Allan in adult life. Apparently he was good enough to ferry the women across the sound, but he’d best keep to his station in life.

      Wouldn’t she be shocked down to her pretty little shoes if she got a look at his stock portfolio.

      Not that he was going to enlighten her. No way did he want to get on her husband hit list. If they found out his ten percent of Reeves-DuCarter International put him in the eight-figure range right along with Allan, he might as well paint a bull’s-eye in the middle of his chest.

      Julie leaned forward from the back seat, excitement coloring her tone. “You know, Erin…he might be able to help us out.”

      Erin stilled, eyeing Striker up and down again, a disconcertingly calculating expression on her face. This time he felt like a side of prime beef in a butcher’s window.

      “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Julie, the pitch of her voice going up.

      “Exactly how well did you know Allan Baldwin?” asked Erin.

      Striker couldn’t believe where they were heading, looking down their noses at him one minute, using him as a go-between the next. “Give me a—”

      “We can clean him up a little,” said Julie, with obvious excitement. “Give him a shave. Buy him some decent clothes.”

      Striker felt his irritation building. Clean him up? Like he couldn’t be a suave, debonair guy when he felt like it? He’d never had so much as a single complaint about his personal hygiene. And, at his mother’s insistence, he owned at least half a dozen, custom-made tuxes.

      These women would be mortified to know who they were talking about cleaning up.

      Erin turned those powerful, bedroom-brown eyes on him. “You don’t have to get right back to Seattle, do you?”

      Oh, sure. She was the woman who never used her looks for anything. She could write a book on how to change a man’s mind with eyelashes alone. But he wasn’t about to take time out of his life to help them snare Allan.

      “This may shock and surprise you,” he said. “But even I have a life.”

      “We can pay you,” she countered.

      Could she insult him any more thoroughly in the space of five minutes? “Money is not an issue.”

      Erin took in his dirty clothes again. “You were quick enough to take the thousand.”

      Striker clamped his jaw shut before he said something he’d regret. Like admitting it was her sexy eyes and not the thousand that got him in the cockpit.

      “We’ll put you on the payroll,” she offered.

      The payroll? Just how organized were husband hunters these days?

      “And