“Take Julie with you where?” asked Julie, coming fully into the room and closing the door behind her.
“To Seattle,” said Patrick. “The Mendenhal Resort on Blue Earth Island. All expenses paid.”
“The Mendenhal?” asked Julie, her blue eyes going wide.
“Elle Jewelers will throw in a new Fuchini wardrobe,” said Patrick. “For each of you.”
Julie turned to Erin, her short blond hair bobbing with her rapid nods. “Yes. Take Julie with you. Definitely.”
“Don’t get so excited,” said Erin. “He’s pimping us.”
Julie looked back at Patrick for a second, then back to Erin. She mouthed the word Fuchini. Then out loud she said, “Define pimping.”
Erin rolled her eyes.
“Have you seen their summer dress line?” Julie shot Patrick another look. “I wouldn’t actually have to sleep with anybody, would I?”
“Allan Baldwin,” said Erin.
“The Allan Baldwin?” asked Julie.
Erin wasn’t surprised that Julie recognized the name. Allan Baldwin had revolutionized the diamond industry.
With his huge diamond find in northern Canada, he’d capitalized on the demand for ethical stones. When he “branded” his diamonds by etching a microscopic killer whale into each stone mined at his High Ice property, the market had leaped to attention. Now every jewelry wholesaler in the world wanted Allan’s gems. Including Elle Jewelers.
“The Allan Baldwin,” Patrick confirmed.
Julie’s eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered contemplatively. “Well…He is gorgeous. I mean if I had to actually sleep with—”
“Gorgeous is all it takes for you to throw your principles out the window?” asked Erin.
“Of course not,” said Julie, much to Erin’s relief. “Drop-dead gorgeous and a diamond mine is all it takes.”
Patrick chuckled.
Erin shook her head.
“Didn’t you see his picture in Entrepreneur West last month?” asked Julie.
Erin had seen the picture. Allan was definitely good-looking.
Not that his looks made any difference. Patrick’s proposal was ridiculous. She threw up her hands. “I’m a professional gem buyer, not a good-time-girl.”
“Men do this all the time,” said Patrick. “Tell her, Jules.”
“Men do this all the time,” said Julie.
“What men?” Erin challenged.
Julie looked to Patrick.
“Jason Wolensky,” said Patrick.
Erin paused. Jason Wolensky was one of Elle’s top international buyers.
“And Charles Timothy,” said Patrick. “They both had a shot at Allan Baldwin, but they blew it.”
Julie nudged Erin. “I told you those millions of hours on the butt master would pay off one day.”
“So, I’m getting a chance to best the who’s who of Elle Jewelers buying staff because of my glutes?”
Erin wasn’t ready to accept that. Growing up in a stuffy little apartment in the Bronx, she may not have had much, but she’d had her mother’s wisdom. Her mother had always told her that with hard work and perseverance a person could accomplish whatever they wanted. She’d never said anything about having good glutes.
Patrick took a step forward. “Erin. Jason tried. Charles tried. Believe me, they used everything they had. If Allan was gay, they would have used their glutes.”
“Allan’s not gay,” said Julie with an air of authority.
“I’m not asking you to step over any ethical boundaries,” said Patrick. “Fly out west and meet him. Talk to him. Laugh with him. Then offer him our best terms and see if he says yes.”
Erin hesitated. Despite Patrick’s smooth sales pitch, this didn’t sit right with her.
“I can guarantee you a promotion to senior buyer,” said Patrick.
Okay. That seriously sweetened the pot. Maybe her ethics could be bought for the right price.
“There’s an empty office on the ninth floor,” Patrick continued.
Erin felt her resolve weaken. She definitely wouldn’t offer sex…Maybe she wouldn’t even have to flirt…Schmoozing wasn’t flirting…
She could buy a dress that thoroughly covered her butt…
“You’re a professional,” said Patrick. “Now get out there and give it your best shot.”
Julie linked her arm with Erin’s. “And take Julie with you.”
STRIKER CUT the oil drain-plug lock-wire on the engine of his Cessna floatplane and positioned the drain pan beneath. He was sweaty, dirty and tired, but his father’s words still cycled relentlessly through his brain.
Then he’d hear his mother’s soft voice, see the vulnerable look in her eyes, and he’d know that he had to find a way to make things work with his father—no matter what. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but walking out wasn’t an option.
In an effort to focus on something, anything besides the sorry mess that was his professional life, he’d spent most of the day combing a local airplane boneyard for parts for his three planes. Banging his way through decommissioned aircraft seemed 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