by Cathie Linz
“The type that takes pleasure in living on the edge. The type that never feels more alive than when you’re risking your life.”
“Is that a crime?”
Kate wanted to answer that it should be. But that would mean revealing too much about her inner feelings, so she bit her tongue and stayed silent instead.
“How long were you Hank’s attorney?” he demanded.
“Why do you care?” she countered.
“Just answer the question.”
“Two years. Before that my father had been his attorney for a number of years. But my father had a heart attack and was required to cut back his workload, so I took over several of his clients, including Mr. King.”
Striker wondered what she was thinking, wondered what was going on behind those cool blue eyes of hers. He preferred doing that to dealing with his own torn emotions—the unexpected grief at knowing he was never going to make peace with his grandfather, the conflicting resentment toward the old man for manipulating him even from the grave.
He had to view this entire mess as if it were just another special op. Get in, accomplish the mission, get out.
But none of his missions had ever tugged at his emotions this way.
Sure, he’d been affected by some of the things he’d seen over the years. But you packaged it up, put it on the shelf and got on with the job.
Good advice. He needed to do that here.
Striker had a feeling that would not be easy in this case.
Not that Marines were into easy. No, difficult was their specialty. A good Marine loves a challenge. And Kate was certainly a challenge.
Under other circumstances he might even have enjoyed flirting with her. If she hadn’t acted so icy and above him.
“I made our return travel arrangements before I left Texas,” she said. “We’re booked on a flight to San Antonio tonight.”
Okay, this was another thing that aggravated him about her. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you.”
Kate wished that was the case, but it wasn’t. Not at all. Striker could disrupt her normal calmness with remarkable ease. Which was why she’d wrapped her Ice Queen mantle around herself for protection. Who wouldn’t be rattled by coming face-to-face with the man who’d been the source of so many of her secret sexual fantasies, forbidden fantasies.
But there was more to it than that. So much more…
The bottom line was that Kate hadn’t anticipated this…thing…this physical thing that seemed to exist between them.
Just passing by him when he’d held the door open for her had made her heart beat twice as fast. Sitting at the large conference table with him now made her breath catch. And she had yet to even touch him. Not that she planned on doing that. But it was bound to happen at some point.
Maybe it would be best if she got it over with right now. Waiting for it only made things worse.
She dropped her pen, which obediently rolled across the table toward him. Striker picked it up, but instead of handing it over to her, he tossed it onto the yellow legal pad she’d taken out of her briefcase.
Was he deliberately avoiding touching her? Why?
She tried to imagine herself in his shoes—discovering that a member of her family had died, someone with whom she’d never made her peace. She’d be a wreck. She’d been a wreck when her father had had his heart attack two years ago.
But Striker was different. For one thing, he was a guy and guys dealt with these things differently. He was also a Marine, which no doubt meant he was even more disciplined about not showing any emotion.
Maybe she should be a little more understanding. “I’m sorry things have worked out this way, Striker.”
It was the first time she’d said his name and the sound of it on her lips made his heart unexpectedly clench. His strong reaction to her caught him by surprise. This particular female had a way of getting under his skin. Not a good sign. So he did what any good Marine would do. He fought back. “I don’t need your pity.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her. Great, now he had more guilt to add to the mess.
Concentrate on the mission, he grimly ordered himself. But it didn’t work. Not with her sitting so close that he could hear her breathe, could smell her rich perfume, could see the way her tongue darted out to nervously lick her lower lip.
He reached for the pitcher of cold water that stood in the center of the table. So did she. His hand covered hers. Her skin was so soft. He could feel her fingers tremble like soft butterflies against his callused palm.
Kate reminded herself about that old adage of being careful what you wished for. She’d wondered what touching him would be like. Now she knew. It was incredibly powerful.
Sexual awareness shot like a lightning bolt up her arm, infusing her entire body with hot restlessness and forbidden thoughts.
No, she wasn’t doing this. She wasn’t getting involved. Not with Striker. No way, no how. He triggered memories much too painful to relive.
She slid her hand from his so suddenly the water pitcher almost tipped over.
Anger rushed over her, surprising her with its intensity. He was just a Marine, she bitterly reminded herself, another risk-taking adrenaline junkie who lived to cheat death. In the end, Striker and her former fiancé weren’t that different after all. Except that Striker was still alive…and Ted wasn’t.
There was no changing the past, but she wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. She was going to keep her relationship with Striker strictly professional—no matter what it took.
Chapter Two
Striker stood in the bedroom of his furnished rental apartment near the base, jamming a few of his belongings into his seabag with one hand while pressing the memory dial button on his cell phone with the other. Kate was waiting outside for him in a cab.
After years as a Force Recon Marine, Striker was well accustomed to deploying on a moment’s notice. But he wasn’t accustomed to doing so in regard to his family.
Fighting for freedom or justice was something he could manage. He didn’t know how to manage telling his mom about his grandfather’s death.
Striker considered telling his dad the news and having his dad tell his mom. But the bottom line was that Stan Kozlowski was no better at this kind of thing than Striker was. In fact, he may even have been worse.
“Hello?”
He smiled at the sound of his mother’s soft-spoken voice. Many were deceived by her sweet demeanor, which camouflaged a will of steel. Angela King Kozlowski needed to be strong to be a Marine’s wife, to marry him against her father’s wishes and to raise five sons of her own. He and his brothers would walk on hot coals for her.
“Hello?” Angela repeated. “Is there anyone there?”
“Hey, Mom, it’s Striker.” He could hear the sound of the ocean in the background. “Where are you?”
“Eating lunch along the Oregon coast. It’s really lovely out here, Striker. You should visit this area sometime.”
“Yeah, maybe I will.” He figured he’d stalled long enough. “Listen, Mom, I’ve got some bad news.”
“Is it your brothers? Are they okay?”
Striker cursed under his breath at the fear in his mother’s voice. He should have started differently. “No, it’s not my brothers. We’re all fine. It’s your father. I’m sorry, Mom, I just found out that he’s passed away. Heart attack. In his sleep, so he didn’t suffer.”
She was silent.
Striker swore silently. He shouldn’t have just spit it out like that. He should have worked up to it gently. Sure, his mother was a steel magnolia, but even she was bound to be upset by news like this. She might be strong, but she also had a softer side. “Mom, are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s just a surprise. Somehow I thought he’d always be down there in Texas, running King Oil.”
“Yeah, well, about King Oil…it seems that he didn’t disown us the way we thought.” He told her about the terms of the will as briefly as he could.
“I had no idea my father was planning something like this,” his mom said. “How do you feel about it all, Striker?”
“I’m ready to obey my orders.”
“Of course you are. But that wasn’t what I asked.”
Striker tossed in his shaving kit before closing his seabag. His mom wasn’t just tough yet caring, she was also incredibly astute. She could probably sense that he was upset about this turn of events, despite his best efforts to hide that from her.
He loved his mom, but there was no way he was talking about his emotions with her. He hadn’t done that since he was ten and he sure wasn’t about to start now. “Listen, I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m sorry to be giving you such bad news about your father.”
“What about the funeral? When will it be?”
“Funeral?” Striker repeated, not even having thought of that.
“He didn’t want the fuss of a funeral,” Kate said from behind him, startling him. “He had a private burial earlier this week.”
Striker couldn’t believe Kate had slipped past his customary awareness of his surroundings. As a Force Recon Marine, his very survival depended on him being able to keep his head at all times, in all circumstances.
He’d dealt with combat situations. He’d completed surgical strikes in the dead of night. He’d successfully executed search-and-destroy operations. So why was one rich blonde throwing him?
“Let me get back to you on that, Mom. We’ll talk again soon.” Jabbing the end call button, he tossed his phone aside to glare at Kate. “What are you doing in here?”
“I was wondering how much longer you’d be? Our flight leaves in two hours, we really should be at the airport right now.”
“You’ve never heard of knocking before you enter a place?”
“I did knock, you didn’t answer. The door was ajar, so I came in.”
Leaving doors open? Striker never did that. Another sign that he didn’t have his head screwed on straight at the moment.
He narrowed his gaze on her, trying to figure out exactly what it was about her that was getting to him. She was pretty, but he’d dealt with pretty women before. Quite successfully.
She was classy and wealthy.
Okay, those were things he tended to avoid in his women.
Not that he went for trashy girls. But the ones born with a silver spoon in their mouths tended to hit him the wrong way. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out why.
He’d turned nineteen during that summer he’d spent with his grandfather in Texas. His grandfather had thrown a big party, big in the way only Texans know how to accomplish. Wanting to show off, his grandfather had chosen a superexclusive country club as the location.
The entire thing had been a disaster as far as Striker was concerned. Not at first. At first, he’d been flattered by the attention of all the girls. What hormone-driven male of that age wouldn’t have been?
He’d been pursuing one girl in particular, Carolyn Sinclair, for weeks. Like Kate, she’d been a sexy blonde with long legs and a lot of class. He’d been dancing with her, real close, when his grandfather had stopped the music to make the announcement that Striker would be joining him at King Oil.
Striker had been stunned. He’d been upfront with his grandfather from the get-go. Striker was following in his father’s proud footsteps and becoming a Marine. No way was he becoming an oilman.
To this day, Striker could still vividly remember the horrified look on everyone’s face when he’d joined Hank at the podium only to contradict his grandfather’s words. Striker had agreed to spend the summer to please his mother, he’d told the crowd, but his plans remained unchanged. Striker was joining the U.S. Marines.
The attitude of the crowd changed faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind.
The girls, with their big hair and even bigger bank accounts, had turned their backs on him. As for sweet Carolyn…well, she’d told him what a loser he was in no uncertain terms, throwing a hissy fit in front of everyone, shouting that the only reason she’d bothered to spend any time at all on a redneck like him was because of his grandfather’s money. So much for her “classy” ways.
Yeah, it was safe to say that the entire thing had left a very bad taste in his mouth and the desire to distance himself entirely from rich chicks born with silver spoons in their mouths.
His gaze settled on Kate. Unfortunately there was no distancing himself from this rich chick. He was stuck with her.
Kate wondered what she’d done to aggravate Striker this time. He was staring at her with those intense green eyes of his. There was no reading this guy’s thoughts. He was a pro at disguising them. But the aggravation, that came through loud and clear.
She shifted her attention away from the brooding Marine and instead glanced around the studio apartment.
She suspected it was a furnished rental. Aside from a glimpse of a few brightly colored Hawaiian shirts hanging in the almost-empty closet, there was nothing much to give her any additional insight into Striker’s character. The only personal items were two framed photos on the dresser. One looked to be of his family—his parents and brothers—and the other appeared to be a beach house of some kind.
The room was all done in monochromatic beiges, except for the bold Native American colors of the comforter on the neatly made bed. Her eyes remained on the bed while her mind wandered into forbidden territory.
Did Striker sleep on his back or on his side? Did he sleep in the nude? She imagined the sheet falling around his waist…
She reined in her wayward thoughts. Oh, no, she wasn’t starting this again. Having fantasies about Striker. Absolutely not. This was where she’d gotten into trouble in the first place.
Closing her eyes, the memories came fast and hard. After mooning about Striker for most of the summer, four months later, on her eighteenth birthday in late December she’d delighted her parents by saying yes to golden-boy Ted Wentworth’s marriage proposal. She and Ted had practically grown up together. Their parents were best friends and had made no secret of their desire for their only children to join together in holy matrimony.
The only son of one of Texas’s wealthiest families, Ted was two years older than Kate and an inveterate risk taker, participating in extreme sports like heli-snowboarding in the winter and race-car driving in the summer. But despite the fact that Ted was an adrenaline junkie, being with him had never made her heart beat wildly the way watching Striker had.
During her six-month engagement to Ted, Kate had tried to forget about Striker, who’d left Texas to join the Marines. But the fantasies she’d had that steamy summer had stubbornly remained fixed in her mind throughout the ensuing months, coming out at night to possess her dreams.
One recurring theme had her leaving Ted at the altar and running off with the sexy, rebellious Striker. Striker, who’d followed his dream of joining the Marines. Striker, who’d pleased himself instead of others.
Logically she’d told herself that Striker merely represented freedom.
Freedom was something she couldn’t afford right now. Because whenever she tried to follow her dreams, disaster struck. People died.
So Kate had wrapped up all her dreams and put them away, focusing instead on stability. That was the thing she valued most these days.
She couldn’t allow being with Striker to distract her from that fact.
“We’d better get going,” she said with chilly briskness, falling back into her Ice Queen persona. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”
Striker had flown to war-torn countries faster than his trip to San Antonio. Everything that could have gone wrong did. Their flight was delayed umpteen times before being cancelled altogether. Bad weather was snarling up the entire system.
They were finally put on another flight and the plane actually left the gate, only to sit for another ninety minutes on the runway. By the time they’d arrived in San Antonio it was almost midnight. Luckily their luggage hadn’t gotten messed up, but then he only had h
is carry-on seabag and Kate only had her briefcase and purse.
A company car was waiting for them. After scrunching his six-two body into a cramped airplane seat, Striker was infinitely glad for the limo with ample room.
He glanced over to where Kate had fallen asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. She’d taken some kind of travel sickness pills that had completely zonked her out. He’d barely gotten her into the limo before she was out again.
In fact, he’d been so concerned with keeping Kate upright and not sliding into a boneless heap on the sidewalk at the terminal, that he wasn’t even sure where they were headed now.
But when the limo eventually turned off the main road onto a long one-lane drive, Striker knew. They were heading for Westwind, his grandfather’s ranch.
Not his first choice, but at this point he was too tired to care. Besides, he had a bigger problem at the moment. Kate.
“How many of those pills did you take?” Striker muttered as Kate slid half-across his lap. His hand landed on her nylon-clad thigh.
His body reacted accordingly to the feel of a sexy woman strewn across it. He was still wearing his uniform, but that didn’t stop his arousal from hardening beneath the placket of his khaki pants.
As the car rolled to a smooth stop, Striker had a decision to make. Leave an out-of-it Kate in the limo with directions for the driver to take her home—not that he knew where that was—or take her inside with him.
He carried her inside.
The white pillars standing guard on either side of the door made the place look more like the White House than a Western ranch. But then his grandfather always had been into power and the White House image evoked a lot of power.
The front door opened, and there stood ranch foreman Tony Martinez, his now-white, thick hair standing on end instead of smoothly slicked back as it had been the last time he’d seen him twelve years ago. His face reflected the outdoor life he led.
“Did we wake you, Tony? The fuzzy bunny slippers are a nice touch,” Striker added, looking down.
Tony grinned sheepishly. “I forgot I was wearing them. It is good to see you again.” Then he noticed the woman in Striker’s arms and his expression became concerned. “What happened?”