The Last King Read online

  Amma would find the money and they’d both pretend it was there all along and she’d miscounted it somewhere along the way. Unnecessarily complicated, maybe, but her amma had sacrificed everything to bring Samara into this world and ensure that she grew up in the best life possible considering their financial situation. A few hundred dollars here and there was the least she could do.

  Samara made tea and they spent a pleasant couple of hours watching the Jeopardy! episodes her amma had recorded over the week.

  Her phone buzzed next to her. She almost ignored it, but her best friend’s name came up. “Sorry, Amma.”

  “Don’t worry, bachcha. Take your call. I’m on a roll.”

  She smiled. “You are.” She’d never met anyone better at Jeopardy! If her amma hadn’t gotten pregnant and altered her entire life to accommodate her new role as a mother, she would have gone places and changed the world.

  Guilt rose, choking her. There was no way to assuage it—over the years it’d become her constant companion within the four walls of this house. Her amma was the best of mothers. She loved Samara beyond all shadow of a doubt and never once let so much as a whisper of accusation pass her lips. If she blamed anyone for her life, it was Samara’s sperm donor rather than the baby she’d ended up with, but even that anger had faded over time.

  Samara’s guilt wasn’t going anywhere, though.

  It was almost a relief to step out of the room and take the call. “Hey.”

  “Hey, what are you doing after you leave your mother’s?” It didn’t surprise her that Journey King knew where she was—everyone knew that Friday nights were for her amma. Even Lydia respected this unless it was an actual emergency, probably because it was the only boundary Samara ever put her foot down about. She moved a little deeper into the kitchen. “Work.”

  “Wrong answer. We’re going out. We’ve been working crazy hours, and knowing my mother, that’s not going to be changing anytime soon. Take a break. Come have a drink with me. Dish about what the hell is going on with my estranged cousin.”

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Talking about Beckett would only bring up memories of what they’d been doing in Thistledown Villa today—both the good and the bad. Journey knew her too well for her to hide the truth, and her friend wouldn’t hesitate to pry every last detail out of her.

  “It’s funny. Sometimes you talk, and my mother’s voice comes out.” Journey laughed. “Come on, Samara. I’m not above pulling the best-friend card and kidnapping you for the night if I have to.”

  She wasn’t getting out of this, and the truth was that she needed the break and the reminder of what was really important in her life. Her amma. Her friend. Her job. Not Beckett. “I have to go home and change, but I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “See you then.” Journey hung up.

  Samara turned and found her amma standing in the doorway, a sad expression on her face. “You’re playing with fire, bachcha.”

  “Amma, we’ve talked about this. She’s my friend.” Journey might be Lydia’s oldest daughter, but their friendship had grown outside of work into something real and important to her.

  She shook her head. “King blood is like Patel blood. You might feel like you’re one of them—they might even feel like you’re one of them—but that can change without warning. If something threatens them, they will close ranks like a shoal of fish, and you’ll be left on the outside for the circling sharks.”

  Just like her amma had been.

  “Amma—”

  She grasped Samara’s shoulders, her weathered hands aged beyond her years by the cleaning chemicals she used. “I love you, bachcha. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “Nothing can hurt me. I’m bulletproof.” An old joke, but this time it didn’t make her amma smile.

  “You might think you are. You won’t realize your mistake until it’s too late.”

  After he got back from Thistledown Villa, Beckett couldn’t stay in the apartment. The thought of being closed in by those four walls made his skin crawl. He spent a useless hour trying to wade through his father’s paperwork on the proposal, but the words kept running together as he flipped between thinking about how good Samara had felt in his arms…and what plan he could put together to get the house back.

  It was no use.

  He thought better on the move, so he changed into a pair of shorts and running shoes and headed out. It wasn’t late enough for either the foot traffic or the humidity to have thinned, but he welcomed the struggle each breath became as he started to run.

  Houston had its ups and downs and the traffic was bad enough to make even the most even-tempered person crazy, but he loved how full of life it was. The Theater District’s restaurants were some of the best in the state—in his completely unbiased opinion—and he inhaled the tempting scents as he passed tables full of people eating before they headed to shows down the street.

  He ran until his legs started to shake and his mind was finally blessedly clear. Between Samara and Thistledown Villa, he’d let himself get turned around. Ultimately, both could wait. He’d spend the day tomorrow in the office. The presentation to secure the government contract was next week, which meant that had to take priority over everything else.

  Back in his condo, he showered, already feeling better, and sat down to pick through the proposal. It would secure majority oil rights in the Gulf of Mexico for the next ten years—rights Morningstar Enterprise had held for generations. The only other company that came close to edging his out was Lydia’s, and he’d be damned before he’d let that happen here. If he lost the bid, it would hardly be the end for the company, but it would hit them at a time when they didn’t need more uncertainty. If their shareholders thought for a second that they might crash, they’d abandon the company in droves, and that could potentially send them into a nosedive they might not make it out of.

  It won’t happen. I won’t let it happen.

  His phone rang, and he tensed at the sight of Frank’s name flashing across the screen. News about my father’s death. If there was one thing that would take priority over the company, it was that. “Hey, Frank.”

  “You have time for another beer?”

  Not good news, then. He glanced at the clock over his oven. It wasn’t early, but it was nowhere near late enough that he’d manage to sleep. “Careful, Frank. You keep asking me out and I might start to think you’re sweet on me.”

  “Never that.” Faint noise in the background, as if he was walking down the street. “Meet me at Cocoa’s.”

  Beckett frowned. Cocoa’s was a high-end club that catered to Houston’s elite. They only served top shelf, all their employees were painfully beautiful, and the whole place was decorated like a speakeasy—or at least how the owners thought a speakeasy should look. “Not really your scene.”

  “It is tonight.” He hung up.

  He changed into a suit—Cocoa’s had a strict dress code and jeans didn’t fit into it. He hesitated. Frank liked his games, but he wasn’t into the pretentious bullshit any more than Beckett was.

  Only one way to find out what’s up.

  Thirty minutes later, he walked past the velvet rope—a velvet rope, for fuck’s sake—and into the low din of Cocoa’s. Throbbing music had the dance floor packed, the crowd moving in a slow writhe that gave the impression of an orgy in progress. The roped-off VIP section was on the other side of that mess. People lounged on the fainting chairs and couches, pretending that eyes didn’t follow every little movement they made as they waited for something resembling an invitation.

  That was the other reason he hated this place. The club might pretend it catered to the elite, but its true clientele was the masses of social climbers who came here for the elite. Whether the aim was one night of bragging rights or some deeper game, if someone wanted a partner with more money than God, they had a good chance to find them at Cocoa’s.

  He skirted the edge of the dance floor, pointedly ignoring several women who g
ave him blatant invitations. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied with a certain Indian woman, he wouldn’t be tempted.

  Frank saw him coming and motioned to the pretty brunette manning the entrance to the VIP area. She stepped aside, and then he was just another lion prowling the cage while the crowd watched. You’re here for a reason. Get the info. Have a drink. Get the fuck out.

  Beckett dropped onto the couch next to Frank. “Why here?”

  “I have my reasons.” Frank sounded distracted, his attention on the dance floor. He could be looking at any one of the scantily clad women grinding to the throbbing beat. But this was Frank, which meant he had a specific one in mind—the woman who was probably the reason he’d set the meeting there to begin with. Finally, Frank shook his head and focused on Beckett. “I bought it last week.”

  “Cocoa’s?” He looked around the room with new eyes. It wasn’t any more appealing than it had been before. “Why the hell would you—” He stopped short. Of course. What better way to gather information than from the elite who came there to drink themselves stupid? They were bound to spill secrets into the right set of ears. “You crafty bastard.”

  “Man’s got to make a living.”

  Beckett didn’t dignify that with a response. Frank had enough money that he wouldn’t have to work for the rest of his life—and that his theoretical grandchildren wouldn’t have to work for the rest of their lives. “What do you have for me?”

  “You want to wait for a drink first?”

  He tensed. “No, I don’t want a fucking drink. Just tell me the news.”

  “Suit yourself.” Frank shrugged. “Your old man’s driver is enjoying a vacation in Brazil right now. He left the day Nathaniel died, and he’s been blowing enough money to turn heads down there.”

  He was paid off.

  Beckett didn’t know the man. He was someone Nathaniel had hired years ago, and one of his father’s conditions for a driver was complete silence. Be seen, not heard. Better yet, don’t be seen, either. He should have ordered the damn drink. “Who?”

  “Not sure yet.” Frank flagged down the waitress, a blonde dressed in a black flapper dress that barely covered the essentials. “My friend here needs a double of whiskey on the rocks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He waited for her to move away to lean forward. “Beck, there’s something else. Your old man had a meeting that night—a meeting with Lydia King.”

  Chapter Five

  You needed this. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Samara laughed and raised her martini. “You’re not wrong.” Her life was high stress on the best days, and the last forty-eight hours had hardly been that. She’d always had a very firm opinion of Beckett and Nathaniel King, and spending an hour in Beckett’s presence when they weren’t banging each other into oblivion was enough to start chipping away at everything she thought she knew. It left her feeling like she was wearing too-tight clothing with an itchy tag just beyond reach.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start ordering shots?” Journey stretched out long legs. She wore an impossibly short black jumper, which should have looked ridiculous, but she somehow managed to pull it off. Samara could never pinpoint if it was confidence or her model-proportioned body, or some combination of the two, but Journey could probably show up dressed from head to toe in a fuzzy pink bear suit and she’d still rock it.

  “No shots. I have to work in the morning.” She should be working now, truth be told. “The proposal for the government lease—”

  “Is up in seven days,” Journey finished. “I know. Between you and my mother, I could probably give you the exact amount of time left to submit the proposal, down to the minute.” Her hazel eyes went contemplative. “Maybe the second, too.”

  “Don’t you dare. I already have enough stress without a literal countdown clock.” Samara sipped her drink. “I was out at Thistledown today. Lydia sent me to babysit Beckett. I don’t know what she thought he was going to do—burn it to the ground, maybe.”

  Journey snorted. “If anyone’s going to do that, it’s my mother. I don’t know why she’s so damn bitter. Nathaniel and his father were dicks, sure, but that was thirty freaking years ago. She won. Kingdom Corp is the single biggest competitor Morningstar has. We own a third of the world’s leases for oil rights. At some point, you’d think it’d be enough.”

  “Maybe once we secure this contract, it will be.” She didn’t believe the words even as she gave them voice. Lydia was driven by things beyond understanding. Samara got it, at least in part. She’d been spurned by her father, too, albeit in a much different way. He hadn’t met Samara, hadn’t raised her from birth, only to tell her that she’d never be good enough. Her father had rejected her when she was barely the size of a lima bean. It was different.

  She set her drink down. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about work. It’ll hold until tomorrow.”

  “That’s my girl.” Journey grinned. “We’ll get through it. My brothers will be back in Houston at the end of the month, and then work will get back to something resembling normal. We just have to hold out until then.”

  With Lydia’s two sons in DC schmoozing senators to ensure that they looked favorably on Kingdom Corp, the bulk of the work they usually handled had fallen on Journey and Samara. It happened twice a year, and she’d been prepared for it.

  What she hadn’t anticipated was Nathaniel King dying and her being tasked with handling Beckett in addition to the rest of her responsibilities. One more week. Not even a full week. Once this contract is secured, I can get back to focusing on the rest.

  Samara turned and leaned against the bar. Being in Cocoa’s always felt like waking up in a fever dream. Everything was too ostentatious, too over-the-top, in an effort to prove how rich it was. While it brought in good business, the place missed the mark of the top one percent by a mile. Cocoa’s was more what normal people thought rich people were than anything resembling reality.

  It didn’t stop Houston’s crème de la crème from coming out in full force every weekend. She studied the dance floor and VIP lounge, picking out two hotel moguls, an heiress, and no fewer than four CEOs. Two men sat with their backs to the bar, and she frowned. “Is that Frank Evans?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She glanced at Journey, taking in the tight set of her shoulders. “Uh-huh. Your mom sent you to negotiate with him again, didn’t she?” While the Kings might be one of the richest families in Houston, Frank Evans owned half of the city. Anyone looking to expand—like Lydia was—had to deal with him in order to negotiate for the best buildings and property.

  “He’s a jackass.”

  Samara had met him only a handful of times, and though she found him distant and maybe a little scary, she hadn’t gotten the jackass vibe. She held up a hand. “I believe you. You hate him, I hate him.”

  Journey glared at the back of his head as if she could turn her gaze into laser beams. “I bet he’s awful in bed. He probably just grunts—a sixty-second man.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “That’s a very…specific thing to speculate on.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  Journey rolled her eyes. “I’m being irrational. I know it, you know it. Just let me have this moment, okay?”

  “Consider this moment had.” She turned to catch the bartender’s eye and motioned for another round. Shots might not be on the agenda, but this had just turned into a two-to-four-drink night. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Journey caught her look and laughed. “Really, I don’t. I’m just frustrated because negotiations are at a standstill and none of my usual tricks work on him. He just sits there and…stares. It’s irritating in the extreme. I can’t tell if he’s actually listening, or if he’s indulging in some lucid dreaming while I drone on.”

  Samara didn’t envy her that task. There was nothing worse than giving a presentation and having the main audience lo
ok like they were seconds away from falling asleep. “Maybe you should bring an energy-drink basket to your next meeting. That would get your point across.”

  “You know, I think I might do that.” Journey went tense. “Uh, Samara?”

  “Yeah?” She accepted their drinks from the bartender and glanced at her friend.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but is that my cousin staring at you right now? He looks like he’s playing a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill, and he’s not sure where he’s going to land.”

  She spun around and, sure enough, Beckett was the other man sitting next to Frank in the VIP lounge. The expression on his face was decidedly not friendly. Her stomach sank as he shot to his feet, his intentions clear. “He’s coming over here, isn’t he?”

  “Looks that way.” Journey downed her drink and squared her shoulders. “Want me to run interference?”

  Considering that Journey’s version of interference often resulted in her photo on the front page of some tabloid, that was the last thing Samara wanted. Any scandal would factor into whether their bid got accepted, and Lydia might skin Journey alive if she thought her daughter caused them to lose it. “No, I got it.” She considered her drink for a half a second and then followed her friend’s lead and downed it like a shot. A very large, very potent shot. Shit, that wasn’t a good idea.

  Beckett cut through the crowd, and despite the music and general intoxication, people scrambled to get out of his way, a flock sensing a predator in their midst. Frank trailed after him, his expression as closed off as ever.

  Journey shifted closer to her. “You sure? He’s already drawing attention.”

  He was. His dramatic path only ensured that whatever conversation he seemed determined for them to have would be in the presence of a hundred witnesses, every single one of them with a camera phone that would record it for posterity’s sake. Damn it. It’s not Journey I have to worry about making a scene. While Beckett wasn’t hers to corral, Samara couldn’t afford for her face to end up all over social media. Lydia would kill her.