He'd been cheerfully informed, those long years ago, that if there was anyone born to fly, it was this woman standing in front of him; to put her into even the sleekest company jet would be like asking a Formula 1 driver to drive a minivan. Stark Industries might not be making weapons, but he had more than a passing interest in aviation and all the technology that went into them, and increasing that sector was starting to win back military contracts. Well, at least making the brass hate him less.
He wanted the best flying the best, and would fight to have both, especially if that meant dangling one shiny toy in front of someone he needed to make restitution to anyways.
She almost had him with the comment on his manufacturing, but overstepped it a little by calling his tech third rate - really, that's the insult she went with? - and then gesturing to what she had here in New Mexico. "I can see where all this would be very tempting," he returned. It was a SHIELD base that was lucky to have air conditioning. "Of course you wouldn't be interested in being the first to pilot the fighter that's going to make the F-22 cry."