1

      IF STRIKER REEVES had the slightest interest in a lecture and a stern reprimand, he would have said yes to the gorgeous black-haired, leather-skirted fireball who’d approached his table last night at Carnaby’s on Leicester Square.

      But he didn’t.

      And he hadn’t.

      And he was getting way too old for this.

      His father, Jackson Reeves-DuCarter, leaned forward, voice tight as he placed his broad hands on the back of the tufted leather chair. “And then I hear that five, five of my top executives were forced to twiddle their thumbs in Paris because of you.”

      Striker felt a muscle tick in his left cheek. It was only his mother’s presence in the dining room next door that kept him from walking out of his father’s office, quitting his job as a jet pilot with Reeves-DuCarter International on the spot and leaving his parents’ house.

      Instead, he counted to three, forcing himself to keep his voice low. “If you’ll recall, I was the one who stuck to the schedule.”

      Jackson’s dark eyes glittered. “The schedule is subject to change. That’s why we have our own jet. That’s why we don’t fly commercial carriers.”

      “Then maybe you should hire a whole team of pilots, so one of 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