LITMIR.BIZ

      One

      Middle East Unrest Travels to Houston

      One Dead in Protests.

      Jake Cantrell turned off the engine of his Jeep and glanced over at the front page of the Houston Chronicle lying on the passenger seat. The headline in the morning paper was a reminder of why he was there, parked in front of the mirrored-glass, fourteen-story Marine Drilling International building.

      It was still hot as Hades today, the first of September, the sun and humidity baking him in his navy blue suit and white shirt as he strode toward the wide concrete steps leading up to the front doors. The clothes were the worst part of a protection detail—wearing a jacket and tie instead of the jeans and T-shirts he lived in most of the time. But the pay was top-notch and he’d been getting more and more restless sitting behind a desk at Atlas Security, handling the day-to-day management of the company while the owner, his best friend, Trace Rawlins, and Trace’s wife, Maggie, were off on an extended honeymoon in Australia.

      Jake was damn glad they were finally home.

      Pushing through the heavy glass doors, he entered the lobby, icy-cold in comparison to the wet heat outside. He headed for the bank of elevators and stepped inside one, pushed the button for the twelfth floor, then waited through the ride to the executive level.

      The time hands on his heavy steel wristwatch said he was a few minutes early for his ten o’clock appointment with Ian Dumont, the founder of Marine Drilling, CEO and chairman of the board. The family-owned business, originally Dumont Drilling, had been in oil production since the fifties, when Ian had made his first big strike along the Gulf Coast.

      Today, they were mostly in offshore oil and gas production, thus the name change to Marine Drilling International. The Dumont family was well-known in Houston society, with big money and everything that went with it.

      Walking out of the elevator, he made his way across shiny black granite floor to the reception desk, where his shoes sank into thick gray carpet. The waiting area was all black leather sofas and chairs, the desk itself smooth dark walnut and chrome. Nothing but the best for the Dumonts.

      A good-looking woman in her late twenties with wavy, shoulder-length, mink-brown hair was busily searching the drawers and cabinets behind the desk. The way she bent over in her tailored pencil skirt provided him with a perfect view of a very shapely ass.

      He almost smiled.

      Even the help was first-class.

      She jerked upright at his approach, noticing him for the first time, and her face colored. It was a pretty face with amazing golden-brown eyes that looked him up and down, which took a while, Jake being six-five, two hundred thrty-five pounds.

      “May I help you?” she asked.

      He gave her a smile. “I’m Jake Cantrell. I’ve got an appointment at ten with Ian Dumont.”

      She frowned, looked down at the computer screen on the desk, but apparently didn’t see his name. “He didn’t mention it. He’s getting ready for another meeting. You might have to wait awhile.”

      “Not a problem. In the meantime, I could sure use a cup of coffee.”

      Amusement tipped her mouth up, making a tiny dimple appear next to those plump, rose-colored lips. He could see the curves beneath her tailored suit, suggesting her breasts were just the right size, and her waist was small.

      Jake’s groin tightened. Which surprised him, since he needed the coffee to recover from the night he’d spent with Deanna Leblanc, an old flame who was in Houston to film a TV commercial.

      The receptionist cast him a look. “I’ll see what I can do.” But she didn’t make a move, just turned to the woman hurrying toward her across the waiting room.

      “Oh, I’m so sorry I’m late, Ms. Dumont,” the newcomer said.

      Son of a bitch. A Dumont, Jake thought. Asking her to fetch him a cup of coffee was probably not the best idea he’d ever had.

      “Is Paulo all right?” the Dumont woman asked.

      “My son wasn’t driving, thank God.” The real receptionist, attractive and in her mid-forties, had straight black hair pulled back in a bun and smooth, olive skin. “Paulo has a concussion and a couple of fractured ribs, but it looks like he’s going to be okay. Thank you for covering while I was gone.”

      “Your boy was in a car accident, Marie. It wasn’t a problem. I’m just glad he’s going to be all right.” The Dumont woman tipped her head toward Jake, her soft mahogany curls sliding around her shoulders, making the muscles across his abdomen clench.

      “Mr. Cantrell is here to see Ian,” she said. “I have to get to the meeting. Could you fetch him a cup of coffee while he waits?”

      Jake felt the slight rebuke in the glance she cast his way. Clearly, she wasn’t used to fetching a man much of anything.

      “Of course,” Marie said. Ms. Dumont walked away, heading for the tall walnut door leading into Ian Dumont’s imperial domain. Her strides were long and purposeful, Jake noticed, as if she had someplace important to go. He liked a woman who didn’t dawdle. And his earlier assessment was right—she had a great ass and a pair of legs that wouldn’t quit. She was only about five-six, but her expensive spike heels pushed her somewhere close to six feet.

      He watched her disappear behind the door, wondering what role she played in the Dumont empire, then turned his attention to the receptionist.

      Marie was smiling. “Mr. Cantrell?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Mr. Dumont mentioned yesterday that you would

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