LITMIR.BIZ

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not Tex Murphy.”

      “Marines do not drool,” Striker stated, swiveling his gaze to Kate.

      “Right.”

      “You, standing over there by Kate, state your business,” a grouchy, gravelly voice demanded.

      Striker’s dreams of being pampered by the sexy redhead dissolved. “Let me guess. That’s Tex.”

      “Yes, it is,” Kate said cheerfully.

      There’s no way anyone would mistake Tex for a lingerie model. She did have a lot in common with a drill sergeant, however, including the voice. She was a petite little thing, but she had the bearing of a general. Her short hair was gun-metal gray and her light blue eyes reflected her dissatisfaction.

      “Is she always this grouchy or is she just not a morning person?” Striker asked.

      “Tex is always this way,” Kate replied with a smile that told him she was taking great satisfaction in this.

      “Great.”

      “Don’t tell me a big bad Marine like you is afraid of a spitfire like Tex?”

      “Marines are never afraid,” he stated.

      “I’m glad to hear that.”

      Striker decided she was having entirely too much fun at his expense. Time to turn the tables on her. “So where did you disappear to this morning?”

      “This is not the time to discuss that,” she noted with a meaningful look in Tex’s direction.

      “Don’t tell me a big bad attorney like you is afraid of a spitfire like Tex?” he mocked her.

      “Tex has ears and eyes in the back of her head,” Kate muttered.

      “I heard that,” Tex growled. “So you two might as well get yourselves on over here and talk to me directly instead of behind my back.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Striker said before flashing her a grin. “Striker Kozlowski at your service, ma’am.”

      “I sincerely doubt that,” Tex retorted.

      “Doubt what? That I’m Striker?”

      “That you’re at my service. That you’re up to no good, now that I’d believe.”

      “Ma’am I’m just here to…” To what? He regrouped. “To assess the situation.”

      “I can tell you the situation. Your grandfather, God bless his soul, has cashed in his chips and departed this earth. For some reason he saw fit to complicate all our lives by demanding that you, a Marine, spend time pretending to be an oilman in charge of a huge company. Luckily you’ve got me to help you.”

      “I’m sure you’ll be an invaluable asset, ma’am,” Striker noted solemnly.

      Her narrow gaze was filled with suspicion. “I hope you’re not fixin’ to be messin’ with my routine around here.”

      “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Striker assured her.

      “I hope you are fixin’ to be messin’ with some other folks’ routines. They won’t take kindly to that, an outsider like you comin’ in here and messin’ with things.” She gave him an assessing head-to-toe look. “But then you don’t appear to be the sort of man to walk away from a fight.”

      “I’m a Marine, ma’am. We don’t walk away from fights.”

      “And they’re never afraid,” Kate added with a grin. “He already told me that much.”

      “Anything else I should know about Marines?” Tex demanded.

      “Plenty, but we don’t have to go into all the details this morning.”

      “Just remember you’re in Texas now.”

      “Hard to forget that, ma’am,” Striker noted with a nod toward the huge map of the state on one wall.

      “And Texans are different.”

      “By different, she means better,” Kate said.

      “Shoot, I would have thought that much was obvious.” Tex said.

      “I can’t work here,” Striker growled in frustration an hour later. He stood in his grandfather’s office. Before him were the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a great view of the skyline. The San Antonio River with its well-known River Walk meandered through the city while the Alamo rested in solitude to one side.

      Striker felt like those men stuck in the Alamo, fighting against incredible odds. Not only was Kate inundating him with information about the company, but he was surrounded by the presence of his grandfather.

      The walls were filled with photos of Hank standing beside former and present leaders of the free world. A pair of bronzes by some famous Western artist, Kate had told him the name but he’d forgotten, were on either side of a dark green leather couch that would have seated five comfortably.

      There were no photos of family on Hank’s desk or anywhere in the office. No personal items. Only indicators of power. And a mural of oil rigs painted on the far wall that had at its core a saying by fellow oilman John Paul Getty— “Success: Rise early, work hard, strike oil.”

      Striker supposed Hank had done all that. But what did he really know of his grandfather? There were few clues here.

      Pausing at the desk, Striker reached out to touch the fountain pen sitting there. This he did remember. Hank had never liked ball-point pens. He’d been old-fashioned in his preference for fountain pens. And for baiting his hooks with handmade lures he’d devised himself.

      It was as if everything had been left just as it was, waiting for Hank to return. Only he wasn’t returning.

      Striker wasn’t listening to a word Kate was saying, and he needed to. This was important. He needed to be successful in this mission. But to do so, he had to make some changes.

      Striker strode to the door and called out to Tex. “I need a conference room to set up my ops H.Q.”

      “You want to speak English?” Tex said.

      “A conference room. To set up my operational headquarters.”

      “What are you fixin’ to operate on?”

      “This company.”

      “There’s a meeting room down the hall to the right.”

      “Affirmative.” He resorted to his military language. It made him feel more in control.

      Ten minutes later he and Kate were seated in a small conference room.

      “Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous by refusing to use your grandfather’s office?” Kate said.

      “Ridiculous?”

      The tone of his voice should have warned her that she was entering dangerous waters, but it was too late now. “I just meant that it would be simpler to review the company’s status in his office where we would have easy access to files.”

      “Marines aren’t into easy.”

      “I’m learning that.”

      “This laptop computer is supposed to be able to access any information I need, so what’s the problem?”

      The problem was proximity. Unlike yesterday when she and Striker had sat across from one another at a conference table, today she had to sit beside him to show him how to use the spreadsheets displayed on the laptop computer.

      The conference room he’d chosen was one of the smallest on this floor. Her shoulder kept bumping against his, her arm warmed by his body heat.

      He was wearing jeans today, which reminded her of those times she’d seen him wearing jeans—and nothing else—that summer.

      Or

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