by Katee Robert
Journey shook her head. “You never cease to surprise me.” She pointed at the shining hardwood floors and then at the paintings hanging on the wall up the stairs. “The outside looks like some kind of Southern Gothic mansion that might fall down around your ears and is most definitely haunted.” She turned that finger in his direction. “Inside, it’s like a damn work of art.”
“It’s my home.” The place he came to unwind. Where he didn’t have to be on guard every second of every day. His sanctuary.
She turned in a slow circle, eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth—you personally remodeled this place, didn’t you?”
Guilt flared, and he cursed himself for the irrational response. “It was my first real estate purchase.” At least he’d known enough at nineteen to realize he was too fucked in the head after his mother’s death to be trusted to make good financial decisions. He’d thrown the majority of the money her life insurance had paid out into a yearlong short-term investment fund, leaving just enough to buy this old house and a cushion to do what was required to make it livable.
It took him a year of nonstop work to get it where it was today, and he’d sloughed off the old Frank Evans in the process. Leaving that weak-ass kid behind was the best thing he’d ever done, and this house stood as a reminder that he’d never go back.
So many things encompassed in these four walls.
Journey shook her head. “Is there anything you can’t do? Because you’re giving me an inferiority complex.”
“Sure.” Frank shrugged. “I’m terrible at Monopoly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you just…You just made a joke.”
Despite his humor, her hand still shook as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Frank fought not to reach for her. She wouldn’t accept any comfort he tried to offer, and he didn’t know shit about offering it in the first place. “I’m setting you up in the room next to mine.”
“Presumptuous.”
He snorted. “It’s a big house, Duchess. I don’t want to have to stalk the halls hollering for you.” He wanted to be close in case she needed him. How many times do you have to think it for it to sink in? Journey King is not one of your strays. Her allegiance has never been and never will be to you.
His suite was situated in the corner of the house farthest from the front door. It took everything he had not to offer to let her stay with him in the truest sense of the word. Her decision-making skills were no less compromised now than they’d been the other night while she was drinking. Frank was a bastard and a half, but he had to draw the line somewhere.
When Journey King came to his bed, it would be because she had no doubts about being there.
When, not if.
Fuck.
“Here you are.” He walked into her room, dropped her bag on the floor by the bed, and turned so that he could see her reaction. The fact that he shouldn’t care about her reaction held no weight. He did. Simple as that.
Her eyes went wide. “Damn, Frank. You should give your decorator a bonus.” Journey froze and pinned him with a look. “There is no decorator, is there? You picked this—all of it. Every single thing in this house.”
Even thrown off her stride, she was far too observant for his peace of mind. He looked around the room, trying to see it from her point of view. There was nothing overtly feminine about the large dark wood bed frame or the soothing gray tones he’d chosen for this space, and he’d purposefully kept it without any personal touches that would make a guest feel uncomfortable.
Not that he had had any guests until now.
He cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”
“One, you’re a control freak, and I just don’t see you letting some designer into your place if you’re as anal about guests as you seem to be. Two, you keep watching me for a reaction like you have a vested interest in what I think of the house. And three, I’m just magic like that.” Her grin was much closer to normal. “The grays and white feel really soothing. It was a good call.”
“Thanks…” He didn’t know how to deal with the warmth in his chest that her words brought, so he moved to the bathroom door and nudged it open. “I’m assuming this shower will suffice.”
She ducked past him, careful not to brush her body against his. “Holy shit, Frank.” Journey stepped into the tiled-in shower and grinned. “You could have an orgy in here. Two orgies.”
“Two orgies in the same room is a single orgy.” He fought to keep his expression even. “Besides, I prefer my sex with a one-to-one ratio.”
Journey ran her hand over the oversized clear tile blocks. “Don’t we all? Seriously, though, this is amazing. You did this yourself?”
It was tempting to let her drive the conversation toward relatively safer topics, especially with her curiosity about his house waylaying her fear. But giving her that luxury was dangerous. Their arrangement was temporary and, goddamn it, he’d be an idiot to forget that. “We need to talk about what happened,” he said bluntly.
Her smile fell away as if it’d never existed, leaving the drawn and exhausted woman in its wake. “Can I at least have that shower before you start your interrogation?”
He bristled at her hostility and welcomed it at the same time. It was better than the softer emotions that threatened at the sight of this woman in his home. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Cut the bullshit. You asked for my help. And I need information to be effective. Plus, we need to hammer out the last few details of the plan before Monday. We don’t have time to pussyfoot around the issue.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at a spot over his shoulder. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be downstairs.”
“Take thirty. I have some calls to make.” And she needed more than ten minutes to find her feet.
Sap.
Fuck off.
Frank stalked out of the room and downstairs, pointedly ignoring the sound of the shower being turned on. If he thought about it too hard, he’d picture Journey stripping out of her leggings and sweatshirt, picture the curve of her breasts and the way her hips drew his gaze to whatever tease of underwear she’d be wearing.
If he concentrated, he could still taste her on his tongue.
She’d welcome him if he walked back into that room, if only for the distraction he offered. Even after a single encounter, Frank knew what she liked. What she needed. He could give it to her now, could fuck her back to solid ground. All he had to do was walk back up the stairs, turn the knob, cross the bedroom floor.
“Shit.” He scrubbed a hand over his head. He fought himself back from the edge, inch by inch. Touching Journey now was even more unforgivable than doing it when she was several shots in. If—when—she was in his bed, she’d be there because she wanted to be. Because she wanted him—not because she was running from something.
He stormed into his office and shut the door. It still wasn’t enough distance between them, so Frank did the one thing guaranteed to get his goddamn head on straight.
He called Beckett King.
Thank fuck his friend answered almost immediately. “Hey, Frank.”
“I need a favor.”
Instantly, Beck’s tone changed. “Sure. What can I do for you?”
He paced to his desk and then to the window, mulling over all the things he couldn’t say without betraying some portion of Journey’s dilemma. She hadn’t sworn him to silence, but she very specifically hadn’t gone to anyone else in her family with her problem—including her cousin. “Is Samara around?”
Beck didn’t answer for a long moment. Probably wondering why I didn’t call Samara directly. “She’s in the office.”
“You mind putting her on the line?”
Another pause, shorter this time. “Give me a few.” Rustling came across the line as if Beck had stood and was walking out of his office and down the hall. Beck cleared his throat. “Are you in trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” It wasn’t Elliott Bancroft that wor
ried Frank. No matter how dangerous Elliott was, he was just a single man. The Bancroft family, on the other hand, added a multitude of complications. Frank didn’t make a habit of disappearing people. It was messy business, and he knew all too well how the law would work against a black man, no matter how wealthy, if there was any hint of illegal acts. Often even if there weren’t hints. What happened today had him reconsidering that policy.
Journey wasn’t just a woman worried about losing her job because of her father.
No, she was in danger.
The problem was, Frank didn’t know what kind of danger. He had no parameters for what to expect, and he could no longer trust himself to act rationally where Journey King was concerned. He’d more than proven that today alone.
“What can I help you with, Frank?” Samara Mallick’s voice on the phone was slightly tinny, indicating she was on speaker. Good. It meant he could convey his information to both of them at the same time.
“If I were to tell you Journey’s father is back in town…”
All the warmth in Samara’s voice disappeared. “Elliott Bancroft is scum, and nothing good can come of him being in Houston.”
He already knew that, but her response confirmed what he’d suspected—whatever abuse Journey had suffered, Samara didn’t know about it. It hamstrung him. Saying anything more put him at risk of alienating Journey, and if he pissed her off too much, she’d end their deal and try to muddle through things on her own. He had no doubt that she’d figure something out eventually, but she’d suffer harm in the process.
Harm he could prevent.
“She’s with me this weekend, but you might want to give her a call on Monday.” He hung up in the middle of Samara’s sharp question and tossed his phone onto his desk. Maybe Samara could get something out of Journey now, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Still, it would be good for her to have contact with her friend. He could see the walls going up around her as she tried to isolate herself to deal with this mess. Samara was busy enough with her own shit that she might not have noticed if someone didn’t bring her attention to it—at least not right away. Frank merely corrected that.
And maybe pigs will fly.
Chapter Seven
Journey turned the shower as hot as it would go and stepped beneath the spray. She closed her eyes and let the scalding water beat against her back, pounding away the last of her shakes. For now. She was in over her head. No reason for that realization to be such a damn surprise, but Journey had fabricated a level of strength over the years that was just that—fabrication. Worse, she’d believed the fiction she’d spun around herself. Both the bad and the good.
Party girl. Spurned Duchess. Lydia King’s protégé. Brazen bitch who didn’t care what anyone thought of her. COO of Kingdom Corp. Independent woman.
Her father had been back in town for less than a week and it all crumbled around her in pieces. How strong was she when a single touch from him sent her to her knees instead of for a weapon to defend herself? How independent was she really if she needed someone to stand between her and her enemy?
First, Anderson had done what he could to protect her. And though their mother had never been loving or nurturing, Lydia hadn’t hesitated the second she realized her children were in danger.
Journey didn’t know how to fight her father when she couldn’t be in the same room as him without curling into a ball and waiting for the inevitable attack. I don’t have to fight alone. Asking for help is not weak.
She shoved the thought away and slicked back her hair. As tempting as it was to hide in the shower for the next hour or two, Frank wanted to talk about their plans, and the first step to kicking her father the hell out of Houston was getting dressed and having that conversation.
She had less than thirty-six hours to shore up her defenses so she was able to walk into Kingdom Corp on Monday as some semblance of the confident woman she’d shown herself to be over most of her adult life. It shouldn’t seem like a Herculean task but…
She didn’t know if she could pull it off.
One step at a time. Stop borrowing trouble.
Journey shut off the shower and used one of the big gray towels to dry off. It was fluffy and luxuriously soft, and she frowned at it as she hung it back up. Maybe it was nuts to expect Frank to have utilitarian towels and sheets and…
Warmth spread through her body at the thought of the sheets Frank had on his bed, warmth that chased away the tendrils of weakness still clinging to her beneath her skin. She already knew how good it felt to have his hands on her, his big body such a comfort. God, would you listen to yourself? Frank doesn’t comfort. He’s a deceptively deep river that carves his way through any obstacle in his path. He is dangerous. You can’t afford to forget that.
Journey walked to the bag Frank had tossed at the end of the bed and rifled through it. She wasn’t sure what to expect since Frank was the one who’d packed for her, but there was a totally reasonable number of leggings, shirts, and underwear. Her fingers brushed her thick wool socks, and something inside her relaxed. Bundling up made her feel safe and comforted, which was part of the reason she kept her apartment temperature just above frigid. Frank’s place wasn’t anywhere near as cold, but she still pulled on the socks after she got dressed.
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt and giant wool socks did nothing to support the impression that she’d always fought to present to the world. To present to Frank. If she went out there now…
What’s the alternative? Hiding in this room for the rest of your life?
Besides, that ship had already sailed when Frank found her in a huddled mess on her kitchen floor. There was no going back now.
She paused to pull her hair into a ponytail, squared her shoulders, and marched out of the bedroom. Journey considered snooping, but the last thing she needed was to piss off Frank, the one person capable of helping her out of her current predicament.
Besides, it’s not like I’m going to sleep tonight. I’ll wander after he’s in bed.
And less likely to catch her.
She headed downstairs and followed the faint strains of some classical melody she couldn’t quite place. It led her down a hallway with an arched ceiling and into what could only be Frank’s office. She stopped inside the doorway and took in the space.
Large windows overlooked the trees surrounding the house, their branches allowing filtered sunlight through to paint the hardwood floor with intricate designs. The walls were a pale gray that, combined with the high ceilings, made the space seem even larger than it already was. Frank sat behind a pale wood desk that might have been feminine if not for the heavy lines of the piece. A matching cabinet housed a docking system his phone was currently hooked up to and a small potted plant.
He glanced up, his dark gaze as clinical as that of a doctor checking on a patient. “You look better.”
It wasn’t a question, and she had no way to address it without flat-out lying—she wasn’t okay by a long shot—so she crossed to peer at his phone. Violin Concerto in D Major. “I didn’t take you for a Tchaikovsky fan.”
“It helps me focus.” He closed his laptop and leaned back, giving her his full attention. The weight of Frank’s gaze had her fighting not to fidget. She could feel it like a physical thing, tracing over her face and her shoulders, down her breasts and stomach, to her feet. And then back up again. It would have been easier to bear if it was sexual in nature, but he had the air of someone checking for wounds, rather than a man interested in ripping her clothes off and having her right there on the floor.
It didn’t matter if her current state didn’t drive Frank into a tizzy of lust. That wasn’t why she was there. Journey resquared her shoulders. “It’s time we talk about that plan of yours.”
“What did your father do to you?”
It took everything she had not to flinch at his soft question. Journey stared at a spot over his right shoulder. “That’s none of your damn business.”
> “I’m working blind here, Duchess. It would be helpful to know that history so I can anticipate his next moves.”
What he said made sense, but she still wasn’t prepared to trot out the stuff her nightmares were made of for strategic purposes. “He was abusive. Physical. Not sexual. That’s all you need to know.”
She didn’t actually hear Frank sigh, but the slightest movement of his shoulders gave the indication of it. “Noted.” He leaned back against his desk, the only warning she got before his tone lost its softness. They were down to business. “Your father has a long history of dancing right up to the edge of the law, but on the first pass of checking, it doesn’t seem like he’s ever broken it.” He paused, obviously waiting for her to jump in, but Journey just lifted her chin.
Finally, Frank continued, “That said, I had my man look at why Elliott Bancroft suddenly decided to take an interest in Kingdom Corp.” He held up a hand. “I know what he said. But he’s spent his entire life dodging responsibility. Even if he planned on draining the company dry, that’s still a hell of a lot more work than just taking the stipend Lydia had been paying him for the last twenty years.”
Mother paid him off.
Journey had suspected, of course. Her mother was terrifying in many ways, but for Elliott to leave and never come back…for them never to have ended up divorced…
Lydia had done what it took to keep him out of their lives—and away from Kingdom Corp. The only thing Elliott loved as much as power over people weaker than him was money. It still made Journey twitch to think about. “You think he’s got a larger plan.”
“I think that’s the only thing that makes sense.” Frank stood and pointed to the overstuffed couch situated diagonally to the desk. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“I’m fine.” But she moved to the couch anyway. Her knees were still feeling a little wonky, and as aggravating as it was to take orders from Frank Evans, it would be worse to collapse in the middle of his office out of sheer stubbornness.
