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.
A freshening wind moved in off the Pacific, sloshing rhythmic waves against the barnacle pillars of the Seattle floatplane dock. He moved the engine cowling out of the way and crouched beneath the plane to break the oil drain-plug loose with a wrench.
“Excuse me?” a female voice came from the other side of the plane.
Fingertips working the stiff plug, Striker glanced in the direction of the voice.
He could see legs, gorgeous legs, strappy little high-heeled sandals and the hem of a short skirt.
Under normal circumstances, he’d be more than interested in those legs and that voice, not to mention the second pair of legs hovering just behind the first. But these weren’t normal circumstances.
He gave the drain-plug a final crank and it dropped into his hands. He quickly pulled back as the oil whooshed out, splattering into the pan below.
He straightened, coming around the propeller, wiping his hands on a rag.
The women’s bodies and faces definitely did justice to their legs. The closest one reminded him of a lady he’d met in Australia. She had shoulder-length, sandy-blond hair, mysterious brown eyes and a hint of freckles beneath her carefully applied makeup.
She was wearing a stiff white skirt with a zipper up the front. Her gauzy mauve blouse told him she had both confidence and style. She was pretty and pouty—the kind of woman whom life had probably dealt few blows. Though at the moment, she was obviously frustrated.
The other woman looked amused. Striker liked that.
Her short, wispy, sunshine-blond hair lifted in the breeze. Her eyes were blue, and her makeup dark and sultry over a copper tan.
Striker turned his attention back to the pouty one. Challenging as she looked, he didn’t have the time nor the inclination to try to coax her out of her mood.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked her.
She trapped her windblown hair and pushed it back over her shoulders. “The office was locked.”
“The office?”
She tilted her head toward the small Beluga Charters building at the top of the wooden ramp. “We had a plane booked for five o’clock.”
“It’s six-thirty,” said Striker.
“Are you our pilot?”
“I’m a pilot. But not yours.”
Her hand went to her hip and she locked one leg.
Oh, yeah. This was definitely one woman who always got exactly what she wanted.
“Our flight from New York was delayed,” she said. “But we still have to get to Blue Earth Island.”
“You should probably call Beluga in the morning,” Striker suggested.
“We need to get there tonight.”
“Can’t help you.” He had parts to strip, airplanes to build and frustration to work out of his system. Gorgeous as she was, this woman did not look like the type to offer a no-strings-attached frustration outlet.
Not that sex would help solve his problem.
“Why not?” she asked. “You’re here. Our real pilot left. We did call and leave a message on the machine as soon as we hit Sea Tac. I can’t imagine anyone would object if you took care of the customers.”
Striker had to admire her tenacity and straight-ahead logic. Didn’t change his mind. But he had to admire it.
“You’re not my customers,” he pointed out as the engine oil continued to splatter noisily into the pan behind him.
She moved a little closer.
Oh, great, here it came.
Female coercion on his six.
“I’m sure you’d get brownie points from your boss for helping out,” she said. “Above and beyond the call of duty and all that.”
“You’ve obviously never met my boss,” Striker drawled. Flying beautiful women around for Beluga Charters or anyone else would definitely not earn brownie points with Jackson Reeves-DuCarter this week.
“It wasn’t our fault we were late,” she said.
“Never suggested it was. But I don’t work for Beluga Charters.”
The metallic echo of the oil drip behind him trickled to nothing.
“Who do you work for?” she asked.
“Today? Myself.”
“Great. We’ll pay you to fly us to Blue Earth Island. Cash.”
Striker jerked his thumb back toward the engine. “I’m changing the oil.”
“How long will that take?”
“I’m not flying anybody anywhere.”
She captured his gaze with liquid brown eyes and a long, slow blink. “How much?” she asked softly, getting under his skin for a split second.
Striker stuffed the oily rag into the back pocket of his jeans. “More than you’ve got.”
“Try me.”
“Listen, you’re a beautiful woman—”
Her brown eyes darkened. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m sure you’re used to guys falling all over—”
“I’m not used to anything. My plans fell through. I need to charter a plane. And I’m willing to pay you whatever it takes to get me to Blue Earth Island by seven.”
“I’m not for sale, and I have at least an hour’s worth of work left on my engine.”
She took a breath, which pressed her pert breasts against the thin blouse.
Yeah.
She never used her looks for anything.
Right.
“How soon can you get us to the island?”
“I’m not getting you to the island.”
“If you were. How
