provocative area.
He probably should remove her suit jacket. Striker undid the first two buttons, not knowing what he’d find beneath. What he found was a lacy black bra that made his heart stop.
The temperature in the room rose another twenty degrees. The last button on the jacket was proving to be especially stubborn. The backs of his fingers brushed against her breast as he struggled—struggled to breathe.
She cuddled closer.
His breathing stopped. His body throbbed.
He got the last button undone and temporarily retreated.
Okay, he had to be fast about this, because drawing things out was only prolonging the sexual torture.
Jacket and then skirt removed efficiently.
Check.
She was wearing a slip. Black like her bra.
Fine, she could keep wearing it.
Because he’d had enough for one evening.
Striker grabbed a comforter from the chest at the foot of the bed and covered her with it, from chin to toe. Then he hightailed it out of the room.
He was greeted by Tony at the foot of the stairs.
“Señorita Kate is okay?”
Striker nodded. “Yeah, she’ll be fine. She took some new kind of travel sickness pill that knocked her out. She’ll be fine,” he repeated. Striker wasn’t so sure about himself, however. His body still ached. What kind of pervert was he to get so aroused over an unconscious woman’s half-naked body?
Yeah, well, Striker had never claimed to be a saint.
He deliberately focused his attention on the ranch foreman. “Like I said before, Tony, those are mighty nice slippers.”
“They are a gift from my granddaughter. They keep my poor feet warm.”
“Your feet warm? It’s early September. The average temperature down here this time of year is in the mid-eighties.” Or so he’d discovered when surfing the Internet for information on King Oil and San Antonio while waiting for their flight to board. Kate wasn’t the only one who knew how to use a laptop. He’d tossed his into his seabag at the last minute.
“It’s cooler at night.” Tony’s expression turned stubborn.
“Yeah, when it gets down to seventy. Big deal.”
Tony waved his words away. “You don’t have grandchildren, so you don’t understand.”
“How many do you have now?” Striker asked.
“Six.”
Normally Striker wasn’t the kind to make small talk, but it prevented him from dealing with other stuff—like the fact that Kate turned him on.
His gaze settled on the foyer, where a large portrait of his grandfather hung. Hank King gazed out at the world as if daring anyone to mess with him.
Regrets washed over Striker—regret that time had run out, that he and his grandfather had never made peace, that his grandfather was no longer with them. True, he hadn’t agreed with the old man, but he had never wanted him dead.
Unable to breathe, Striker quickly moved out the French doors to the patio that ran along the back of the house. The lights illuminating the large swimming pool couldn’t compete with the sparkle of stars above. He’d traveled around the world but had always remembered the night sky here at the ranch as being something special.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Tony admitted.
“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”
“I know. It was your grandfather’s idea. That’s why I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I’m just following orders. The Marine Corps’s orders, not my grandfather’s orders.”
“In this case, they are one and the same, si?”
Striker nodded. He’d had always known that this wasn’t the life for him, that he’d have no freedom with his dictatorial grandfather calling all the shots. Yet here he was, doing what his grandfather wanted and returning to Texas.
At times like this Striker was convinced Fate was a female, and that she was laughing her head off at this Force Recon Marine.
Chapter Three
“This is a surprise,” Kate’s father noted as he looked at her over the top of the morning paper. This morning, as he did every morning, Jack Bradley was eating breakfast in the formal dining room with its sumptuous red walls and gilded mirror. Her mother had one of San Antonio’s best interior decorators design the area to her specifications—which were rich and richer. “I thought you were still in Washington.”
“I got back late last night. Is that coffee?” Kate slid into a chair and reached for the thermal carafe. She’d walked the mile between Westwind and her parents’ place. Her Italian shoes would never be the same again.
“Of course it’s coffee,” he replied. “What else would I be drinking in the morning?”
“Decaf?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Doctor’s orders.”
“When is your next appointment with your heart doctor?”
“You sound like your mother.” He eyed her critically. “I must say you’re looking rather rumpled this morning.”
Kate wasn’t about to tell him that that was because she’d spent the night next door. “I ended up on a redeye flight last night. I didn’t plan it that way, but we kept running into flight delays…”
“By your use of the term we I’m assuming that you brought Hank’s grandson back with you?”
“His name is Striker, and I didn’t bring him with me, he came with me. He’s a Marine and they don’t take kindly to being brought anywhere.”
“Because he’s a Marine, I would assume he’d be accustomed to taking orders,” her father said, crisply folding the newspaper in half and setting it on the table. “Did he give you any problems?”
Plenty of them, she thought, but they were not the type that she could talk about with her father.
Kate still wasn’t sure how she ended up in the guest bedroom with half her clothes undone. She prayed that the housekeeper had put her to bed, but she had a vague recollection of turning over and seeing Striker looming above her.
Maybe that had been a dream. Surely, he wouldn’t take off her clothes?
What was she thinking? Of course he’d take off her clothes. He was a guy, wasn’t he?
But he was a Marine. Weren’t
