that she’d be able to deal with Striker? She’d tried to tell the oil baron that this was a bad idea, but he hadn’t listened to her. The men in her life never seemed to listen to her. Not really.
“I’m thinking of going into public law,” she’d told her father in her last year of law school.
“Nonsense. You’ll join the family firm like we planned. You’re a Bradley, and Bradleys always do as expected.”
And so, in the end, she had. She’d done what was expected, including getting engaged to Ted Went-worth…with fatal results.
Kate took a soothing breath, before reminding herself that this was no time to be reviewing her life choices. She had to keep her focus here. She had a feeling she’d need her wits about her in order to deal with Striker.
She knew he was a Force Recon Marine, which meant he was a risk taker. An adrenaline junkie, like Ted.
Opponents who faced her in court called her Ice Queen because of her regal demeanor and distant manner. She used those tactics now, opening her eyes and facing Striker. “As I said, your grandfather’s will states that you return and run King Oil for at least two months or else the entire company will be shut down. If you do return with me, the King fortune will be split equally among you and your four brothers. In addition, a sizable amount will be bestowed upon your mother.”
Striker told himself he shouldn’t have been surprised that, even in his death, Hank King was trying to force him into this idiotic plan.
But Striker still held the ace in the hole. Money had never been important to his family. They’d managed okay without much of it. His mother believed that wealth had been a terrible burden and made Hank a bitter man.
“So King Oil is sold off.” Striker said. “So what?”
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Kate replied. “Everyone who works for King Oil will be out on the streets if you don’t come back.”
As if on cue, the Marine Corps’ top brass, present but silent until now, explained their presence. General Hyett was their spokesman. “Top government officials are of the opinion that King Oil is too important to go under, that such a thing would make the economy unstable after the series of recent corporate bankruptcies. Therefore, it’s in the country’s best interest that Captain Kozlowski spend the two months at King Oil.”
Striker had been trained to fight and rescue, to do whatever was necessary for his country’s best interest. No doubt his grandfather had counted on that when devising his will.
“Sir, I feel compelled to point out that I know nothing whatsoever about the oil business or about business in general,” Striker said.
“That doesn’t matter,” General Hyett replied. “All you have to do is show up and stand guard for two months, then you can return to your regular duties. Isn’t that right, ma’am? You said that would meet the terms of the will.”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Then it’s agreed,” the general stated. “Look on this as just another mission, Captain. I’m sure you’ll complete it as successfully as you have all the others.”
Striker nodded curtly. He knew when he was beaten. “Thank you, sir.”
“You and Ms. Bradley may use the conference room next door to work out the details,” Commander Jenks told Striker. “That will be all. Dismissed.”
Striker saluted before doing a precise about-face and heading for the door, which he held open for Kate. It wasn’t until they were alone in the conference room that he displayed some of his pent-up frustration and anger.
“You and Hank had this all worked out, didn’t you?” he growled.
“For your information, I told Hank that this wasn’t a good idea,” Kate replied in that highfalutin voice of hers.
“Bravo for you.”
“He didn’t listen to me.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Look, I’m no happier about this state of affairs than you are.”
“And why is that?”
“I’ve got better things to do with my time than deal with stubborn Marines who have a chip on their shoulder.”
The woman clearly had an attitude problem. He knew why he was upset—he felt like his grandfather was still trying to control him even from beyond the grave. In addition, Striker had never done well dealing with the world of the rich and privileged.
He had his reasons, going all the way back to his time on Hank’s Westwind Ranch. That had been his mom’s idea. Hank had convinced her during one of their rare phone conversations that “the boys” should have a choice, should see what they were missing. Hank could have suggested having them work the rigs out in the oil fields, but instead he’d been wily enough to suggest they visit the ranch.
Striker wondered if his mom had ever been afraid her sons might be wooed over to the dark side by the wealth and the power visible at Westwind. Or if she’d trusted them to stand by the ethics and values she’d instilled in them from birth.
Sure, money had been tight when he’d been growing up. But there had never been a lack of respect, love or laughter in their household.
The same could not be said about the domain of Hank and his “child” King Oil. In Hank’s world, he was absolute ruler. If you weren’t with him, then you were against him.
Which is why Striker had been so sure Hank had written him off. That and the fact that the old man had vowed to disown him the last time he’d seen him, after the disastrous nineteenth birthday party Hank had thrown for Striker. In fact, Hank had shouted the words, tossing the threat at him as if throwing hand grenades. His face had been taut with rage, his oversized fists clenched.
Not the picture of the loving grandfather. But there had been other moments, when Hank had taught Striker how to bait a hook and taken him fishing, that had given Striker hope that there might have been a bond forged between them.
He’d never know now….
Striker turned off the memories and refocused his attention on Kate.
The bottom line was that this lady lawyer, with her fancy ways and arrogant assumptions that he’d obediently fall in with his grandfather’s plans, represented that wealthy lifestyle—the one that Striker had so painfully collided with that summer.
Oh, yeah, he had plenty of reasons to be upset.
But he didn’t know why she had eyed him so disapprovingly, calling him a stubborn Marine. Her voice had a new edge to it, an edge that got him wondering what her story was.
“How many Marines have you dealt with?” he asked.
“Not many,” she admitted. “But I know your type.”
“Really? And what type might that be, ma’am?” he drawled, noticing for the first time how lush her mouth was.
“The type that takes pleasure in living on
