Her Millionaire Marine

by Cathie Linz

  The problem with loving someone who lived on the edge was that you could be in for a terrible fall.

  That didn’t scare some people. But Kate was different. She’d been burned, more than once. She’d tried several times to boldly go after what she wanted. But each time something bad had happened.

  The first time she’d been just a child. Her seventh birthday. Kate hadn’t wanted to go to visit her grandmother in Dallas. She’d wanted to stay home and have a party instead. She’d cried, and had eventually gotten her way. Kate hadn’t visited her grandmother. Three days later, Grandma Alicia died of a stroke.

  Then there was Ted. She’d secretly wanted out of their engagement. Ted died.

  She’d wanted out of the family law firm and her father had suffered a near-fatal heart attack.

  So call her a wimp, call her superstitious.

  But the bottom line was that when Kate tried to go after what she wanted, people died or got hurt.

  But, oh, Striker made her want to forget all that. He made her want to take risks.

  And so here she was, going with him to the barbecue even though he was perfectly capable of managing without her help.

  Just as she had to be perfectly capable of enjoying her time with Striker without making a big deal out of it.

  The fact that it was a beautiful day helped keep her mind off darker thoughts. Although it was mid-September, the temperatures were more in keeping with mid-July. Temperatures were already in the low nineties and thunderstorms were predicted for later in the day. But for now, the big Texas sky was populated with only a handful of cumulous clouds, looking like dollops of whipped cream placed in a Wedgwood blue bowl.

  Striker, apparently, was not equally appreciative of Mother Nature’s work. Instead he was fixing her lemon-yellow VW Beetle with a dismissive look.

  “I hope you didn’t plan on us going in your little car.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.” But visions of him stashed beside her in the close confines of her cute car were getting her hot and bothered.

  “I expected to see you driving some fancy imported convertible.”

  “It’s in the shop.” That was true. The Mercedes her father had given her for her last birthday was waiting for a back-ordered part. Not that Striker had actually ever seen her car. It irked her that his mocking lucky guess had been an accurate one. She’d bought the VW for herself. The Mercedes was for show, the VW was her workhorse.

  “We’ll go in the truck.” Striker had commandeered one of the ranch’s pickups, a bright red Ford. He held the passenger door open for her and offered her his free hand to assist her in getting in.

  Striker noticed the ruffled hint of the white petticoat peeking from beneath her skirt. Maybe there was something to be said for long skirts after all, he decided, appreciating the flash of bare skin on her calf as she hopped up onto the running board and slid into the seat.

  Yeah, there was definitely something about viewing forbidden hidden territory to having everything on display.

  Who knew? Who knew he’d be turned on by the flip of a long skirt blowing in the breeze, or by the view of fancy lace on a petticoat? He’d never thought of himself as an old-fashioned kind of guy before. But then Kate had a way of bringing out new depths within him.

  Walking around the front of the truck, Striker slid his sunglasses into place and watched her through the windshield. She still looked regal, even wearing supposedly casual clothes.

  When they arrived at the barbecue, he understood why.

  This was no redneck celebration—this was fancy fare. Regal stuff. Not that you could tell from the entrance. That was typical of any Texas ranch, including his grandfather’s Westwind. A carved wood sign hung over the cattle guard and a long one-laned drive lined with mesquite trees led to the ranch house. But the similarities ended there.

  First off, there was valet parking by guys wearing fancy little red vests over white shirts and black pants. Then there was the house. It was huge, even by Texas standards.

  There were three levels, complete with scrollwork balconies and huge windows, built into a rolling hillside. The place was the size of an aircraft carrier.

  The back patio was big enough to land a Marine Corps Super Stallion helo. Fancy flowers and plants in huge Mexican clay pots were strewn around the perimeter. Hand-tooled leather equipage chairs and matching tables were placed in groups.

  And then there was the food. The selections on the buffet table had scrolled handwritten descriptions—smoked quail and lobster nachos, sour-mango coleslaw, grilled corn with chili-basil butter, chipotle-and-braised-mushroom enchiladas with salsa verde. All looked over by more serving staff.

  Over in the grilling area there was a heaping pile of ribs and chicken. The smell of mesquite wood and barbecue sauce made his mouth water.

  “Looks better than an M.R.E.,” Striker said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Meals ready to eat. Combat food. In packets. Trust me, it’s not devised with taste in mind.”

  Striker’s words reminded Kate that he was more Marine than cowboy, despite the black Stetson he was wearing so well. “You know, I’ll bet that that’s probably what the Patterson’s told their caterer. We want a spread that looks better than an M.R.E.” Teasing him somehow made things easier to manage. Kate had discovered that for the first time the other day when she’d teased him about court-martialing Tex.

  Striker grinned and her heart leapt. “Yeah, well they did a good job.”

  “Welcome, you two,” their host William “Bubba” Patterson said in his booming voice. “Welcome to my humble home. Mi casa, es su casa.”

  Striker couldn’t help wondering how many workers this guy had laid off to manage this kind of mansion. The thought brought home how different he was from all these other people, including Kate. She fit in here. He didn’t.

  Striker wasn’t part of their world. He was a fish out of water. Not that anyone else would be able to tell that. When he wanted to, Striker could blend in to any situation. That was a requirement of his special forces training. There were times when standing out could get you killed.

  “It was kind of you to throw this party to welcome Striker to Texas,” Kate said on his behalf.

  Striker wasn’t real fond of people talking for him, but he tried to rein in his irritation.

  “No problem,” Bubba replied. “I was real fond of your granddaddy, Striker. He was a fine Texan.”

  Striker didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded.

  “Well, enough shooting the breeze,” Bubba declared. “Go on and grab some grub. We’ve got music starting later. Give you both a chance to practice your Texas two-step.”

  “Why the frown?” Kate asked Striker after Bubba had moved on to greet others. “Don’t you dance?”

  “I manage.” Striker hadn’t been real fond of dancing for years after that country club debacle on his nineteenth birthday, with his grandfather trying to force Striker’s hand by announcing in front of everyone that Striker was joining King Oil and not the Marines. But then a little cutie named Zoe in a honky-tonk out in San Diego had shown him the fun to be had by kicking up your heels.

  “Why were you frowning then?” Kate asked.

  “Marines don’t frown. We show no facial expression other than our battle face. We do eat lawyers who keep us from food, however. So let’s go eat.”

  This time Striker took her hand instead of her elbow. The feel of his fingers linked with hers created an all-too-familiar buzz that zipped throughout her body. He had strong hands, with lean fingers. There was a newfound sense of recognition within her, as if the missing piece of a puzzle had just fallen into place. Her hand did fit into his that way, as if meant to mesh together smoothly.

  When they arrived at the buffet table, he released her to hand her a plate. The sense of loss was so strong that it pierced right through her defenses and made a direct hit on her heart.

  If she felt this way after less than two weeks in
his company, how would she feel when he left after two months?

  What if Striker didn’t leave? What if the Marine Corps ordered him to stay?

  She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining what it would be like…having him in her life permanently. Having this traveling Marine settle down, marrying, having kids. All with her.

  “Do you want more?” Striker asked.

  Her eyes flew open. “More?” Her voice was husky. No, she wouldn’t want more than that…having him safe by her side would be a dream come true.

  But dreams didn’t come true. Not for her. Instead they tended to turn into nightmares.

  Chapter Six

  Striker decided that he just wasn’t a sour-mango coleslaw kind of guy. But the ribs…ah now, those were some of the best he’d ever eaten. The tender meat fell off the bone and the barbecue sauce might just be as good as his mom’s. And all of this washed down with a cold bottle of Mexican beer.

  Yeah, the food was great. But Kate had gone quiet since they’d stood at the buffet table and gotten their fancy china plates, the ones with the silhouette of bucking cowboys painted around the edges. No paper plates for this crowd.

  The way Kate was daintily nibbling on the ribs made his mouth water. He wanted to taste her, wanted to lick the tangy sauce from her lips. And then he wanted to lick his way down to the hollow of her throat, before going lower still to the shadowy valley between her breasts. It was so hot that she’d removed her overshirt and was just wearing the sleeveless top that matched it.

  But his thoughts weren’t consumed with her clothes. They were consumed with what she’d look like without them.

  Striker remembered the feel of her silky thighs when he’d removed her stockings that first night. And the feel of her breasts against the backs of his fingers as he’d undone her suit jacket.

  She hadn’t been wearing any jewelry that night. Today she was wearing a dainty necklace of liquid silver and turquoise that nestled in the hollow of her throat. The other women at the barbecue all wore big chunks of diamonds. But not Kate.

  With her, less was more.

  Was that why she got to him so badly?

  Striker reminded himself that he had a plan here. Spend more time with her, get to know her better, figure out why she got under his skin.

  Well, he was doing that, and so far no lightbulb had gone on over his head answering all his questions. There had been no “aha” moment; no “this is the secret” revelations. He hadn’t cracked the code yet.

  Because she was distracting him, licking her lips that way. Making him all hot.

  While no expert on social niceties, Striker was pretty sure that yanking her into his arms and having his wicked way with her right here in the middle of the crowded patio would probably be frowned upon.

  So why was she so quiet? Had she guessed that he was sitting here imagining making love to her? Hot, passionate, sweaty love—the kind that made you howl at the moon. Had she felt that way about the guy she was engaged to?

  The possibility made him feel strange inside. A little like a raw recruit charging up a hill wearing fifty pounds of combat gear…combined with the twist in his gut resulting from that time he’d leapt off what seemed like a thousand-foot-high waterfall on a special op in the jungles of the Philippines. Was this what jealousy felt like? Raw, on the verge of gut-wrenching?

  No way. He’d never been the jealous type. Never one to get too involved.

  Footloose and fancy free, that his was modus operandi. He’d seen his buddies Justice Wilder and Justice’s youngest brother, Sam, fall victim to Cupid’s arrows. And, yeah, okay, so things had worked out fine for them and for their other brothers. All the Wilder boys were married now. Apparently, happily so.

  He was glad for them. But marriage… No, that wasn’t for him. Striker valued his freedom. Sure he’d settle down someday. But not now. He wasn’t ready.

  He glanced over at Kate. She’d finally finished nibbling on the rib and was dabbing at her lips with one corner of the oversized red gingham napkin they’d all been given. Despite her best efforts, she’d missed a spot of barbecue sauce on her chin.

  He almost leaned over and kissed it off. But he stopped himself at the last moment.

  Now he was so close to her he could see her eyes widen. Could see little wisps of her hair shimmering around her face.

  “Is something wrong?” Kate almost didn’t recognize her own voice, so husky was it. She hadn’t expected Striker to lean forward as if he were about to consume her with one of his awesome kisses again. Because they’d both agreed that kissing wasn’t a good idea. Right?

  She’d felt him looking at her while they sat at a table for two, ignoring the crowd around them. Some part of her realized that since Striker was the guest of honor, they really should have chosen one of the larger tables and been more sociable. But instead they’d gravitated to a quieter corner of the patio.

  “Affirmative,” Striker belatedly replied, using his seducing voice.

  “Affirmative?” She blinked.

  “Affirmative, something is wrong.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t look so worried. It’s nothing earth-shattering. You’ve just got some barbecue sauce right here.” Instead of using his napkin, or even her own, he gently swiped her chin with the tip of his thumb. The brush of his work-roughened skin against her generated a waterfall of delicious pleasure.

  Keeping his intense green eyes fixed on hers, he shifted his thumb from her chin directly to his own mouth, “Mmm, very tasty.”

  She’d seen those scenes in movies where the guy did something like Striker had just done and her girlfriends had all gone “Ohhhh.” She’d never gotten it. Never understood. Now she did.

  He was tasting her.

  What an incredibly arousing surprise this was. The crowd around them faded away as she kept her gaze on his eyes. It was as if she couldn’t look away. As if they were in a visual lock, reminding her of their mind-blowing lip-lock of a kiss.

  She loved his eyes. They were infinitely green. Not grass-green, not bottle-green. Sometimes they were shadowy green, filled with hidden emotions. Not now. Now they reflected heated passion, telling her without speaking that he wanted her.

  “There you two are, hiding way over here.” Bubba’s booming voice broke the spell. “So how are you enjoying yourself so far, Striker?”

  “It’s been a real…pleasure,” Striker replied, keeping his gaze on Kate a moment longer.

  “Glad to hear that you’re appreciating our Texas hospitality.”

  “Once you’ve had a taste, it’s real hard to resist.”

  Kate knew Striker wasn’t talking about hospitality.

  But Bubba just slapped Striker on the back and laughed heartily. “Before we begin the dancing, I wanted to introduce you to a few folks.”

  Bubba whisked Striker away. Well, not exactly whisked. There was no whisking a six-foot-something, lean-mean-fighting Marine. Striker did go with Bubba, but not before giving Kate a meaningful look along with the husky promise, “I’ll be back.”

  Kate barely had time to cool herself down with a sip of iced tea before the first in a long series of women dropped into the empty seat and grilled her. Each one had a different question. “So what’s the deal with you two? Are you seeing him? What do your parents think about him? If you’re not seeing him, will you give him my phone number?”

  That last question elicited a frown and the closest thing to a glare that a cultured woman like Kate possessed. She was about to say, “Give him your phone number yourself,” before realizing that this woman would do just that.

  So what? Why should she care? She and Striker weren’t seeing each other.

  Liar. That look they’d shared before he’d left had been intimate enough to make her insides melt. There was plenty of seeing going on.

  They weren’t dating. He was just a business associate. Who happened to drive her crazy with desire.

  Not that she shared that last tidbit with
the women who flocked to her table, eager for some tidbit about the latest hottie to join their ranks. He was fresh meat, and they were eager for a taste.

  Taste…that brought her thoughts back to him swiping the sauce from her chin and licking it from his thumb.

  Even the memory was powerful enough to make her go all weak and hot in those places a decent woman wasn’t supposed to talk about. At least not at a public gathering like this.

  Not that the other women were showing equal restraint. They were extremely free in their discussion of Striker and his attributes.

  “Did you see that butt of his? Primo stuff,” Veronica Sands bluntly declared, waggling her manicured fingers in his direction. She was the trophy wife of an oilman forty years her senior. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? I find that hard to believe.”

  “We’re business associates.” Kate took another sip of iced tea, refusing to give in to the urge to toss it at Veronica.

  “Yes, I know. Business associates. You told me that already.” Veronica kept her avid gaze on Striker. “That doesn’t mean you can’t admire a great butt when you see one. And a mighty nice set of shoulders, too. Wide, narrow waist, trim butt. Oh, yes. Good in bed, for sure. I do believe I’ll mosey on over there and have Bubba introduce me.” Veronica was practically licking her lips.

  “Have Bubba introduce your husband to Striker as well,” Kate said.

  Veronica just laughed. “As if. My husband is inside talking business with a bunch of old cronies. No, Striker and I can manage quite well on our own.”

  Maybe they could. Veronica was a gorgeous woman. With a gorgeous body. Of course, much of it was thanks to her plastic surgeon. But some guys weren’t so choosey. They took one look at those breasts and they didn’t care if they were silicone implants.

  Veronica made the most of them, as she was today, wearing a halter top with a suede honey-colored skirt that hung so low on her hips it was amazing that it didn’t fall off.

  Maybe that was the kind of woman that Striker went for. The obvious type.