The Last King Read online

  He never expected to feel pity for his aunt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you?” She said it almost gently. “You’ve spent your entire life in a gilded room as the favored son—the only son. You might be my nephew by blood, but you’re nothing more than a rival business associate.”

  The lack of heat in her words struck him as much as the words themselves. To Lydia, he wasn’t family. He was just an obstacle in her way. Can’t afford to forget that. He sat back. “My father gave you Thistledown Villa.”

  “It certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?”

  He fully intended to fight her on that ownership, but it would have to wait for the time being. That house was his main link to his past—to the times when the good parts of his family outweighed the bad. Beckett loathed leaving that battle before it started, but he had to think of the people who worked for Morningstar. They were depending on him to ensure that they still had jobs in a year, two, more. Compared to that, his family home didn’t measure up, no matter the personal value it held for him. Some things couldn’t wait, though. “I need access to the house for a few hours.”

  Lydia picked up an expensive-looking pen. “I don’t know that I’m inclined to give it to you.”

  “Lydia, shelve the act for a few minutes. Most of the furniture in Thistledown Villa might be heirloom and go with the house, but there are things I’m entitled to. No court in this state is going to deny me that right and you know it.”

  Her hazel eyes sharpened on him. She tapped the pen against her dark red lips. “What is it worth to you?”

  Anger flared, hot and potent. He wanted to get in her face, to yell at her for being so fucking callous in the wake of his father’s death, about the fact that Beckett’s loss was twofold in both the house and his last remaining parent.

  Beckett examined the office, partly to make Lydia sweat, and partly to give himself time. The room was decorated much the same way as the rest of the building’s interiors—white marble floors and massive windows. The only soft touches were the chair he currently sat on and its mate next to him, both a deep purple to match the basic coloring of the trio of photographs lining each wall on either side of the desk. He recognized different shots of the fields that composed most of the property around Thistledown Villa. During the spring, wildflowers bloomed there, turning it into something out of a fairy tale.

  She grew up there, too. No matter how many years she’s been banned from the property, it’s obviously important to her.

  He took a careful breath and released his anger. He wasn’t pissed at her so much as at the situation, and it would do well for him to remember that. “My father wants his ashes scattered at the property.”

  She set the pen down and steepled her fingers. He searched her face for the slightest bit of thawing, but there was only a deep freeze he felt in his bones. “I can arrange for it. I’ll see that your belongings are returned to you as well.”

  He met her gaze steadily, feeling like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. One flinch and it would go off. “With all due respect, Lydia, I can’t come up with a single reason to trust you with my father’s ashes.” Or with anything else important to me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He pushed slowly to his feet. “You hated him, and while I don’t think that’s unfounded, I’m also going to honor his final wish. I’m asking your permission out of respect, but if you don’t give it, I’m going to see this done regardless.”

  The only sign of her anger was a slight tightening around her eyes. The smile she gave him was as practiced as it was warm. “Of course you can scatter my darling brother’s ashes on the property. I’ll be sure to have someone waiting to ensure you don’t have any problems.”

  “Generous of you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  Lydia stood. She wore a perfectly tailored white pantsuit that molded to her lean form. “On the contrary, it’s entirely necessary.” She rounded the desk and leaned against it, the very picture of a successful businesswoman. “I’d like to make you an offer.”

  This should be good. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m more than happy to hand over Thistledown Villa and the accompanying land, along with a hefty amount of money—in exchange for Morningstar Enterprise.”

  He stared, waiting for the punch line. When none came, Beckett shook his head. “I’m not selling you my company.”

  Lydia sighed. “Beckett, stop reacting and think for a moment. Do you really want to be the CEO of that company? Up until this point you’ve been living the life of the unfettered, traveling and partying, and, while there was undoubtedly business in the mix, your focus was elsewhere. I don’t think you’ve stayed in Houston for more than a few months since you graduated college and took over the VP position for your father. Running Morningstar isn’t going to be fun. It’s going to be hard, thankless work.”

  Beckett gritted his teeth. She would see his business travel as evidence that he wasn’t prepared. The truth was that Beckett had been helping run the company for years, though up until this point he and his father had divided things right down the center—Nathaniel took everything in Houston, and Beckett handled everything else. It had the dual purpose of letting him expand Morningstar’s reach while keeping them mostly apart over the years. Minimizing conflict.

  Not that he expected Lydia to understand. By all accounts, she ruled her four children with an iron fist. “It’s a moot point what you believe. My father named me as CEO and willed me his shares—not you. Morningstar is mine, Lydia. It’s not for sale, and neither am I.”

  “Beckett…” She considered him. “I know for a fact he kept you from the worst of what being a CEO of a company like this means. You’d be much happier finding some nice girl, having a handful of babies, and living off your trust fund.”

  Guess the gloves are off. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. “Cute speech. Were you practicing that while my father’s body lay cold in the morgue until I made it back from Beijing to identify him? He always said you were a—” He cut himself off before finishing the sentence. There was no damn point. This whole meeting had been a waste of time.

  “A what? A harpy. A bitch.”

  He forced himself not to flinch. Beckett shook his head. “I would never call you any of those things.” His dislike of her might be growing by the second, but there had to be lines.

  She gave him a viper’s smile, as if she could hear his thoughts. “Morals won’t get you anywhere in this business, Beckett.”

  “Yeah, well, I like being able to sleep at night. See you around, Lydia.” Beckett walked through the door and shut it softly behind him. He took the elevator down to the main floor and headed out onto the street, his thoughts whirling. She hadn’t wasted a single second before trying to pounce on Morningstar. There were plenty of cold people in this business—it was essentially a requirement—but this went above and beyond cold.

  Lydia King wasn’t cold. She was fucking subzero.

  Chapter Three

  Samara was almost out her door when her phone rang. She cursed and then cursed again when she saw who was calling. After taking a second to make sure she didn’t sound out of breath or frazzled, she forced a smile and answered. “Good morning, Lydia.”

  “I’m afraid I need another favor.”

  After the long night before, all Samara really wanted to do was meet her friend for their coffee date and then head into the office to work on the presentation part of the proposal. If Lydia needed something at this hour, it didn’t mean anything good for Samara’s plan for the day. Doesn’t matter. I’m her number two for a reason, and that means no bitching about more work. Not now, when we’re so close to edging out Morningstar Enterprise. “What do you need from me?”

  “It’s a bit delicate, but you’re the one best suited for the job.”

  This isn’t going to be good. “What job?”

  “My darling nephew came to see me this morning.
He’s got it into his head that he needs to scatter his father’s ashes at Thistledown Villa. I can’t very well have him traipsing out there without supervision, so I need you to accompany him.”

  She blinked. Of all the things she’d expected, that didn’t even make the list. Samara started to point out that she wasn’t a babysitter but stopped. Lydia wasn’t stupid. In all Samara’s years of working for the company—for Lydia—she’d never seen the woman waste a resource, and sending Samara on a babysitting mission was a waste of resources.

  Which meant there was something more she wanted to accomplish.

  “Beckett is off his stride, and if you put a little effort into it, I’m sure you can convince him to talk with you. The more you speak, the higher the chance that he lets something vital slip.”

  Convince him.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. She could point out that it wasn’t in her job description to convince Beckett to do anything, or to comment on the fact that there were other hot buttons Lydia could push instead of sending Samara. Could Lydia know about their indiscretion in Norway? It wouldn’t surprise Samara—the woman seemed to know everything. But still, while Samara wasn’t above using a little flirtation to get what she wanted, she drew the line at sex.

  I already had sex with Beckett.

  Not because of who he was, or the company he was connected to.

  It didn’t matter. At the end of the day, they were both grown-ups and she had her bottom line to worry about. “Will today work for taking him out there?”

  “Of course. I haven’t had a chance to change the locks, so there’s no reason you can’t meet Beckett at the house. I’ll call him now.” She hung up.

  Samara cursed one last time, but there was no heat in it. Her grand plan had been to avoid Beckett until she could look at him without thinking about his body sliding against hers. Sliding into hers.

  Beckett wasn’t stupid. He’d see right through the choice to send her rather than some lowly employee with nothing better to do. That wouldn’t stop her from doing what it took to keep him distracted and talking. His barriers were already down from grief—it wouldn’t take much to nudge him in the right direction.

  No matter how unsettled the plan made her.

  Her phone buzzed. She pulled up the message from a number she didn’t recognize. I’ll meet you out there in an hour. Just that. Nothing more. No details. Beckett.

  She rolled her eyes and typed back a response. Very cryptic. I’ll be there. After a hesitation, she sent a second one. Wait in the car. Lydia doesn’t want you wandering.

  I’ll consider it.

  “Damn it, Beckett.” She slipped into her heels, grabbed her purse, and practically flew out the door. Samara made the drive in forty-five minutes, breaking more than a few speed limits in the process, and Beckett still beat her there.

  She pulled up next to where he straddled his motorcycle, and stared. God, he looks good. Today he wore a black T-shirt and a different pair of jeans. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes hidden by a pair of sunglasses, the set of his square jaw giving away nothing of his mood. He nudged the kickstand into place and swung off the bike, giving her an excellent view of just how well his jeans hugged his biteable ass.

  Get it together, Samara.

  She was incredibly grateful for her own pair of sunglasses hiding the way her gaze followed him. Business. This is just business, and you don’t even like him. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have to like the man to want him, and the glowing ember of desire that had never quite extinguished after that night six months ago chose that moment to make itself known.

  There was nothing to do but shut off the car and remove the last obstacle between them. Her heels sank into the gravel, and she wobbled a little as she stepped out of the car. “You made good time.”

  “Could say the same thing of you.”

  She turned and surveyed the building in whose driveway they stood. Samara had heard about the legendary King estate more than a few times and she’d even seen pictures, but nothing compared to the reality of standing there, dwarfed by the mansion. It had to be twenty thousand square feet and three stories high, the faintly Victorian style making her feel like a peasant trespassing on royalty’s property. Probably intentional.

  She swallowed. No matter how overwhelming, it was still just a building, and one that Lydia now owned. “Shall we?”

  “After you.” He bit out the words, tension rising in waves off his body. Beckett obviously didn’t want to be there any more than she did. He moved to his saddlebags and pulled out a plain gray metal container, the sight of which stopped her cold.

  Nathaniel’s ashes.

  She moved on autopilot, crunching her way across the gravel and up the imposing front steps to the door. It opened easily in her hand, which might have made her wonder if Beckett’s presence at her back wasn’t driving her before him.

  Samara stopped in the entranceway—foyer—looking up, up, up to the arching ceiling a good twenty feet above their heads. “Wow.”

  “Built to impress.” He started past her but hesitated, obviously torn. Finally, Beckett pulled the sunglasses off. “There are a few things I want out of my old room, and then I’ll scatter the ashes.”

  He obviously wasn’t asking permission, but she nodded. “That’s reasonable.”

  “Reasonable.” He snorted. “God, you kill me. I wasn’t giving you a choice. I was telling you how it’s going to go.”

  Irritation flared, the familiar feeling welcome after the uncertainty of their last interaction. Samara didn’t know how to deal with a grieving Beckett. But the prickly ass currently striding deeper into the house as if he had no doubt she’d trail behind him like a good little dog? That she could handle, and gladly.

  She followed him at her own pace as he moved up the grand staircase and down the left hall, allowing herself to study the long line of his back muscles that the damn shirt only seemed to accent. Beckett would never be pretty. His features were a little too rough for that, too masculine. He was all man, and his body matched his face—strong.

  He’d been strong when he lifted her against the door and ground against her until the need for more had her begging.

  Stop it.

  But there was no stopping the onslaught of memories. His big hands on her ass, squeezing as he guided her onto his cock. The way he’d made a cage of his arms when he rolled them, effortlessly changing positions without missing a beat. His rough five-o’clock shadow scraping against her inner thighs as he sucked her clit.

  “Samara?”

  She blinked to find Beckett less than a foot in front of her. “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “What were you thinking about just then?” His gaze fell to her mouth. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. It’s written all over your face.”

  She licked her lips as he stepped closer, as he backed her against the wall and bracketed her in with his hands on either side of her head. He felt bigger in this position, as if his shoulders could block out the very sun. You have to get him to back off. You’re too close. She leaned against the wall, the move arching her back just a little. Beckett’s gaze dropped to where her breasts pressed against her blouse, and he dragged in an unsteady breath. As if he was using every ounce of willpower not to touch her. He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. “You were thinking about that night.”

  She could deny it, but it would be pointless. “Yeah.”

  Slowly, oh so slowly, he moved one hand to sift his fingers through her hair. When she didn’t immediately answer, he leaned closer yet. “I think about it, too.” He trailed his fingers through her hair until he reached her shoulder and his thumb dipped beneath the fabric of her shirt. “All the fucking time.” He dropped his hand farther, the tips of his fingers tracing over her breast in a touch so light she was half sure she imagined it.

  Might have convinced herself she imagined it if her entire body wasn’t tuned to his in that moment.

 
Touch me.

  As if reading her thoughts, he shifted closer, his leg sliding between hers. The move forced her skirt up as she spread her legs to accommodate his thigh. Higher and higher until he was firmly pressed against her clit. It throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and it was everything she could do not to rub on his thigh like a mindless version of herself.

  She felt mindless. Samara gave up her determination not to touch him. She couldn’t wrap her legs around his waist because of her damn skirt, but she ran her hands up his chest. “We can’t.”

  “I know.” But he didn’t stop. He slid his hands down to her ass, urging her to grind against his thigh. Slowly, so incredibly slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. He dragged his mouth over her collarbone, the faint rasp of whiskers drawing a whimper from her lips.

  Samara dug her fingers into his hair, and he went still. Waiting. She pulled him up and took his mouth the way she’d wanted to since she’d snuck out of that hotel room six months before. She flicked his tongue with hers, teasing him even as he resumed the delicious movement between them again. Yes, yes, do that, don’t stop.

  Beckett let her have control for all of two seconds, and then he deepened the kiss, pressing her more firmly against the wall. He took with his mouth even as he gave with his body, hitching her higher until her toes barely touched the floor and she was completely at his mercy. Pleasure sparked through her, and she kissed him harder. It wasn’t enough, might never be enough, but she couldn’t stop.

  Not when she knew that, as good as this was, what came next was even better.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “I don’t give a fuck if this is a shitty idea. I want you again, Samara. I need you.”

  I need you.

  She stared into the storm barely contained in his eyes. He held perfectly still, waiting for her response. As if she had the slightest bit of control in this situation.

  She didn’t have control, though.