Striker?”
“What?”
“What is it you think I’m doing here?”
He raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “Trying to get Allan Baldwin to marry you.”
Erin let her chin drop down to her chest. She covered her eyes with her palm and shook her head. “Oh, boy.”
“What?” Striker sounded puzzled.
She peeked up at him. “I’m trying to get Allan to sell me diamonds, not give me diamonds.”
Striker’s brow creased. “Sell them to you how?”
An astounded smile tried to force its way from between her lips. “I’m a wholesale buyer for Elle Jewelers. You may have heard that Allan Baldwin owns a diamond mine.”
Striker blinked once. “You’re a diamond buyer?”
She nodded.
He blinked again. “Oh, well…In that case…I guess my estimation of your character just went up a notch.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“So, what exactly is one notch up from a hooker?”
3
AT ASHER’S ON MAIN STREET, in downtown Pelican Cove, Striker watched Erin’s dubious expression as he shrugged into an olive-green, double-breasted jacket above a pair of navy slacks. Awash in embossed gold buttons, with lapels out of the seventies, the jacket was tight across the shoulders and loose in the body.
It served her right.
Even if she wasn’t trying to land a rich husband, she was still planning to pull one over on Allan. Striker figured he owed it to his friend to at least make her work for the introduction. Besides, it was a kick to feed into her prejudices by playing the uncouth bohemian.
She wanted him so badly? Well, now she had him. And he was going to enjoy every second playing Eliza Doolittle to her Henry Higgins.
He struck a pose in front of the three-sided, full-length mirror, hoping he wasn’t overacting. “Now this is what I call an outfit.”
The salesman stared, his jaw dropping open in abject horror while Erin let out an ill-disguised gasp. Striker could see the panic building on her face.
She was going to kill him if she ever found out he was yanking her chain.
“Would the gentleman like to try the Hillsboro, as well?” the salesman asked diplomatically, holding up a charcoal suit. “Just as a comparison.”
“Does it come in brown?” asked Striker.
The man’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m…afraid not, sir.”
“The gray is nice,” said Erin, regaining her composure. “You should really try it on.”
Striker made a show of frowning. Truth was, Hillsboro was one of his favorite designers. Though his mother always made a fuss if he bought suits off the rack.
“The burgundy tie would go well,” said the salesman.
Striker accepted the clothes. “You sure you don’t like this one?” He posed in front of the mirror one more time.
“Not quite right,” said the salesman.
“Definitely no,” said Erin.
“Okay,” said Striker, closing the changing room door behind him and smirking into the mirror inside. This was the ugliest jacket he’d ever seen.
He stripped off the suit and changed into the Hillsboro, which fit just fine. He absently tied the burgundy striped tie while slipping into a pair of loafers the salesman had provided.
He supposed it was time to let Erin off the hook on the clothing front. But he couldn’t wait to present her with his medieval table manners, and he had plans to work his way through his entire repertoire of tasteless jokes.
He stepped out of the changing room and spread his arms wide, executing a turn.
She stepped forward and a wide grin broke out on her lips. “That’s it!”
Striker ignored her grin, and the resultant warm glow working its way up his legs, leaving a tingling yearning in the pit of his stomach. He was cursed with a Pavlovian response to beautiful women. But there was no time like the present to beat it.
“You sure?” he asked her, pretending to hesitate over the suit. “I think it would look better in brown.”
The salesman brushed the shoulder and straightened the back of the jacket. “Very good, sir.”
Striker wiggled his shoulders, holding out for just a few seconds longer. “It feels a little—”
“Not at all,” said the salesman.
“We’ll take it,” said Erin.
Striker turned and grinned at her. “How do you get four suits for a dollar?”
Both Erin and the salesman looked at him blankly.
“Buy a deck of cards.”
Erin blinked in astonishment.
“Very good, sir,” said the salesman.
Striker chortled obnoxiously at his own humor. “I’m going to need some blue jeans, too.”
“I’m afraid we don’t carry blue jeans,” said the salesman.
“We’ll definitely take the suit,” said Erin. “And an extra shirt, the shoes and the paisley tie.”
“Where can we get blue jeans?” asked Striker.
“I believe the Garment Barn on Second Avenue carries western wear.”
“What about some pleated chinos?” asked Erin.
“Perfect for daywear,” said the salesman.
“Do you have a pair in green?” asked Erin.
As the salesman crossed the store, Striker turned to Erin. “I’d rather have sweats than chinos.”
“Trust me. I’m the image expert.”
“What’s wrong with sweats? They’ll make me look like a jock.”
“They’ll make you look like a couch potato.”
Striker leaned in a little closer. “I have abs of steel.” He pulled the dress shirt out of his slacks, revealing his bare stomach. “Want to feel?”
Erin’s
