âYouâd be okay if I went a little lower?â Striker whispered
âSure,â Erin replied. Yes. Anything. Just donât stop.
He eased the straps of her dress down over her shoulders. âStay on your stomach.â
She nodded.
As he inched her dress lower, the neckline rasped over her nipples and she sucked in a quick breath.
âOkay?â he asked.
âFine,â she replied.
Her skin had turned supersensitive, and she had a crystal-clear vision of Strikerâs rough hands on her breasts.
He went back to the sore spot between her shoulder blades, then gradually worked his way down her spine. His fingertips were strong and sure. Her muscles couldnât decide whether to relax in ecstasy or tighten in arousal.
Erin didnât know what heaven felt like, but she was sure it had to be close to this.
Dear Reader,
Iâm thrilled to be publishing the second book in the Reeves-DuCarter brothersâ series. This time itâs pilot Striker Reeves-DuCarter the maverick of the family, who meets his match in a jewelry buyer from New York City.
Over the past few years Iâve been fascinated by the discovery, development and marketing of diamonds in Canadaâs far north. When emeralds were discovered as well, I knew I had to use the northern gemstone industry in a story.
I hope you enjoy another glimpse of Tyler and Jenna Reeves-DuCarter, from my earlier Harlequin Temptation novel Next to Nothing! And I hope you enjoy reading Striker and Erinâs story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Iâd love to hear from you at www.barbaradunlop.com.
Best wishes,
Barbara Dunlop
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 whoâd approached his table last night at Carnabyâs on Leicester Square.
But he didnât.
And he hadnât.
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. âAnd then I hear that five, five of my top executives were forced to twiddle their thumbs in Paris because of you.â
Striker felt a muscle tick in his left cheek. It was only his motherâs presence in the dining room next door that kept him from walking out of his fatherâs office, quitting his job as a jet pilot with Reeves-DuCarter International on the spot and leaving his parentsâ house.
Instead, he counted to three, forcing himself to keep his voice low. âIf youâll recall, I was the one who stuck to the schedule.â
Jacksonâs dark eyes glittered. âThe schedule is subject to change. Thatâs why we have our own jet. Thatâs why we donât fly commercial carriers.â
âThen maybe you should hire a whole team of pilots, so one of us can be suited up, at the ready twenty-four-seven.â
Jackson shifted in front of the expansive bookcase, where his deep-seated opinions were reinforced by business administration textbooks penned in the fifties. âNot much point in having a pilot suited up when you take off with the jet.â
Striker counted to three again. His father might be willing to devote every waking second to the betterment of the family corporation, but Striker wasnât a corporate robot. He was a flesh and blood man.
âIâm entitled to a life,â he said.
Jackson scoffed. âIs that what you call it? A life? I call it a joyride. And Iâm getting sick and tired of you using my airplane to pick up women.â
Striker bristled. âIt was a date, not a pickup, and the jet belongs to the corporation, not to you.â
âThen next time, take your ten percent to London and leave my sixty on the tarmac where it belongs.â
Strikerâs mouth curved up in a smirk. âIf you want to get technical, I only used it ten percent of the time.â
Jackson obviously didnât appreciate the joke. His voice turned calculating. âIf you want to get technical⦠When can your mother and I expect to meet your new girlfriend?â
Striker shifted. Jeanette definitely wasnât coming to Seattle anytime soon. He wasnât even sure he remembered her last name.
Heâd met her in a Paris nightclub. Like many women, sheâd been impressed by the fact that he was a jet pilot. When sheâd asked for a ride, heâd 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, heâd maxed out on hours. So, when the executive group wanted to leave Paris early, Striker couldnât fly.
âJust as I thought,â said Jackson with a shake of his head. He pulled out the desk chair and sat back down, picking up a gold pen. âYouâre out of control, Striker.â