Striker cut the oil drain plug lock wire on the engine of his Cessna float
plane 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 bone
yard 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 hanger at Sea Tac. They
needed months, maybe years worth of work before he could take them up. But the
Cessna float plane 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 float plane 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
blonde 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 blonde 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 wind-blown 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.
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