us can be suited up, at the ready twenty-four-seven.”
Jackson shifted in front of the expansive bookcase, where his deep-seated opinions were reinforced by business administration textbooks penned in the fifties. “Not much point in having a pilot suited up when you take off with the jet.”
Striker counted to three again. His father might be willing to devote every waking second to the betterment of the family corporation, but Striker wasn’t a corporate robot. He was a flesh and blood man.
“I’m entitled to a life,” he said.
Jackson scoffed. “Is that what you call it? A life? I call it a joyride. And I’m getting sick and tired of you using my airplane to pick up women.”
Striker bristled. “It was a date, not a pickup, and the jet belongs to the corporation, not to you.”
“Then next time, take your ten percent to London and leave my sixty on the tarmac where it belongs.”
Striker’s mouth curved up in a smirk. “If you want to get technical, I only used it ten percent of the time.”
Jackson obviously didn’t appreciate the joke. His voice turned calculating. “If you want to get technical… When can your mother and I expect to meet your new girlfriend?”
Striker shifted. Jeanette definitely wasn’t coming to Seattle anytime soon. He wasn’t even sure he remembered her last name.
He’d met her in a Paris nightclub. Like many women, she’d been impressed by the fact that he was a jet pilot. When she’d asked for a ride, he’d figured what the hell? Take her on a quick hop over the Channel and see where things went from there.
Unfortunately, by the time they got back, he’d maxed out on hours. So, when the executive group wanted to leave Paris early, Striker couldn’t fly.
“Just as I thought,” said Jackson with a shake of his head. He pulled out the desk chair and sat back down, picking up a gold pen. “You’re out of control, Striker.”
“Because I have a life?”
“Have a life on your days off. When you’re on the job, you’re on the job.”
Once again, Striker started to silently count.
Jackson didn’t even let him get to two. “I’m grounding you for a month.”
It took a second for the words to sink in. Striker took a step back. “You’re what?”
“I’ve hired another pilot.”
“That’s ridiculous.” And it was humiliating, and totally uncalled for. Striker was a grown man, not some errant grade-school boy. “You want me to write lines on the chalkboard, too?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I’m thirty-two years old—”
“Some days, I find that very hard to believe.”
“You can’t do this.”
“I just did.”
Striker took a sharp breath. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. His father was the CEO of Reeves-DuCarter International, and Striker was nothing but an employee and a minor shareholder. Arguing would get him exactly nowhere.
But there was one thing he could do. Something he should have done a long time ago.
Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. He’d have his letter of resignation typed up within the hour.
Ground him? Striker didn’t think so. His father might be the all-powerful CEO, be he was hardly the FAA. There were millions of other aircraft out there, millions of jobs for which Striker was fully qualified.
He strode determinedly into the dining room, where his mother was setting silverware out on the glass-topped table. In the center, a oriental vase was filled with white roses and artistically twisted cherry blossom branches. The place settings were her best royal blue china.
He slowed his pace to say goodbye, deciding to tell her about quitting later. No point in upsetting her right before dinner. Plus, he honestly wasn’t sure if he could blurt it out to her face.
She turned from the table and patted his arm. “Striker, honey, can you run down to the wine cellar for me?”
He paused, making sure he kept his voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m not going to be—”
“Tyler and Jenna are finally coming for dinner,” she said, “and we need a second bottle of merlot.”
Striker put a little more determination in his voice. “Mom, Dad and I just had another—”
She tipped her head sideways and hit him with an impatient look. “Now, Striker, you know there’s no point in talking to your father at this time of day. Go get me the merlot. You haven’t seen your brother in ages.”
The expression on her face and the rush of words told him she knew something was going on.
Had she overheard their argument? Had Jackson confided his “punishment” to her? She had to know that Striker would never stand for it.
“Jacques is making salmon in dill sauce tonight,” she continued, turning back to the table. “You know it’s your favorite.”
Salmon in dill sauce might have placated Striker when he was twelve, but he was past the point of being bribed by Jacques. He sighed. “Mom.”
“For dessert we’re having white chocolate mousse.”
He leaned sideways over the table in an effort to catch her eye. “Mom, I really am going—”
“Don’t be silly.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, refusing to meet his eyes. “Be a good son and go get the wine.”
Striker hesitated, frustration warring with loyalty, sharp words about his father hovering on the tip of his tongue. After a moment’s hesitation, he swallowed them. How the hell was he supposed to quit his job when he couldn’t even cut out on a family dinner?
Quitting would kill his mother.
He knew that.
He’d always known that.
She’d worried for years while his brother, Tyler, worked at his own business. And she’d been over the moon when her youngest son had finally come back to work at Reeves-DuCarter International last month, and the family was together once again.
If Striker left now, he’d pull the rug out from under his mother’s newfound happiness. What kind of a man would do that?
ERIN O’CONNELL couldn’t believe her boss would do this to her. “This is what you call my big break?”
“I’m asking you to schmooze with him, not sleep with him,” said Patrick Aster in an undertone, closing the boardroom door on the busy reception area of Elle Jewelers’
