Chapter 18
Bamboo, New York City. May 22nd.
She checks her reflection again and glances at Teresa Marie and Laney. They are giggling, laughing about something she didn’t hear. A slight pang of sadness hits Emma and she rolls her eyes upward to ignore it.
They had been surprised when she called. If it had been her choice, she would have gone alone—Nicolette warned her that it was a bad idea. Warned her to take a girlfriend, someone outside the family.
She steps out of the car first, and the line of scantily dressed women and handsome men seem to pause as they watch her. Emma twitches her black silk vintage dress and waits for the other two girls to step out before she leads them to the bouncer.
“Emma Morgan,” she murmurs.
He blinks. “You were here with….”
Emma watches, fascinated, as he pales, putting together the last time Emma arrived at the club, and who she came with. “Welcome to Bamboo,” he says, and she smiles as she tucks a neatly folded hundred into his breast pocket—let him remember her fondly and with a little less apprehension.
She steps inside, and the warm darkness is alive. Music is a living thing, and she sways, a tiny movement as the steady thump of bass winds its way into her. A mass of writhing bodies is jumping, cavorting on the dance floor in the flickering light of the large paper lanterns suspended from the high ceiling. It is rimmed by high tables of smooth, pale wood, with tall, backless stools where girls perch. A winding staircase leads to a balcony, a more sedate, elite section hidden behind a low partition of smoked glass. Emma angles toward it, pushing through the revelers and tiny Asian waitresses. Teresa Marie catches her as she begins to climb the stairs. “We can’t go up there,” the other girl yells above the music.
Anger floods Emma—they know her name and fear it. Fear her uncle and family. Fear her, now that she is at Seth’s side. And they would dare to tell her where she cannot go? She shakes off the arm and climbs the stairs, her hips swinging slightly.
The bouncer is waiting for her. “Ms. Morgan,” he greets, leading her to a table that—while not quiet—is somewhat muted.
“Tequila. The best you have,” she tells him, and he nods briefly. She surveys the upper deck as she sheds her light wrap. It is far more sedate here, but not so quiet that overhearing a neighbor’s conversation would happen. Blood-red carpet is lush and deep, the tables’ shiny, high polished bamboo smooth under her curious fingers. The bouncer returns with a small waitress, her features delicate and porcelain in the paper lantern light.
“Pen-kae will be here—if you need anything at all, Ms. Morgan.”
She smiles briefly and finally looks at Laney and Teresa Marie, who are wide-eyed as they stare around the VIP section. At Bamboo, that VIP status is not bestowed lightly, and Emma knows that all of the Asian playboys lounging around the room, the women with them—everyone here is of the world to which she was born.
Or they are whores to serve the errant royalty.
“Order what you want,” she says, pouring amber tequila from the crystal decanter, a neat shot that she throws back with barely a grimace.
Pen-kae vanishes to fetch a bottle of Cristal Champagne while the girls eye Emma to see if she will balk at the price tag. She barely notices—a pair of eyes on the other side of the balcony garners her attention.
Liquid black eyes study her, and she realizes he sits almost alone—with only one other man, who sits across the table, his attention on the dancing mob below them. The gaze on her takes in everything—the flirty curls and brilliant, decedent rubies and diamonds that form a wreath of flowers at her neck. The black silk vintage dress with dainty bows at the shoulders that dips into a low V—modest and eye catching, elegant in this place of sex and debauchery.
As black eyes come up to find hers once more, she wonders why he seems so familiar. She can’t have seen him here before—the last and only time Caleb brought her here, she was so drunk she could barely stand. His eyes skip away from her, breaking the moment, and Emma flushes as she turns her attention to Teresa Marie and Laney. They are staring around with predatory interest. Emma is relieved when they scamper to the dance floor.
Emma pours herself another drink, almost filling the large tumbler. She glances at him again, and he lifts his sake in a silent salute. She almost wants to smile.
“You’re alone, pretty.”
The voice turns her head, even as it makes her skin crawl. The thug is dirty, his clothes rumpled. Low-level enforcement, if he were in the syndicate. She wonders if her name will carry weight in a place like this. “I want to be alone,” she says coldly, her eyes raking over him before turning dismissively back to the dancers.
He slides into the booth anyway, rubbing against her, and fury blossoms in her. She wants her gun, small and powerful on the inside of her thigh. “A girl shouldn’t be alone in a place like this,” he says into her ear, his breath heavy and choking.
She shifts away, almost reaching for her gun. “The lady wishes to be alone.” A throaty grumble of a voice. The thug flinches, almost scrambling in his haste to vacate her seat.
Emma stares up at the Thai, caught somewhere between anger and amusement. “Our apologies,” he murmurs, the threat fading from his voice as he makes a half bow.
“Thank you.” She glances to where Black Eyes is still sitting, watching. “To both of you,” she adds.
It makes sense, suddenly, the familiarity of this stranger. He is similar to Seth. Despite pale brown skin, slightly slanted eyes, he sits like her prince—with negligent grace, an assumed air of power. She watches the others in the balcony, the way they edge around his table, watch him when he is distracted.
She wonders who he is—what he is within the Thai families.
The music shifts, and she stands, moves past his table toward the dance floor. She can feel his eyes following her, lingering on the slight sway of her hips. Emma smiles at the bouncer and descends, letting herself fall into the embrace of the music.
Even lost to the beat, the steady thrum of it dancing along her veins, making her head buzz until she is drunk on it more than the tequila, she can feel his eyes on her. She turns with the music, searching for him—his pale ivory button down and dark pants, his hair like black silk. Emma falters when she realizes he isn’t there—the table is empty.
As she tells herself it’s for the best and begins leaving the floor, long fingers wrap around her waist, pull her flush against a lean body. “Dance with me,” he whispers, a soft purr as he nips the shell of her ear.
She wants to resist, wants to make him work for it. But his body, hard against her own, is moving to the music, and his lips are gentle against her skin. She relaxes into the dance.
His hands are flat, low on her belly, and she wonders if it is the alcohol making them seem so heavy and warm. “Who are you, little flower?” he murmurs under the beat of the music, trailing kisses over her warm skin.
“Emma,” she murmurs, finding the will to twist away from his embrace. “Who are you?”
He smiles, sex and danger and power in his eyes, and she shivers—the combination is an aphrodisiac stronger than any she’s ever known. She wants, suddenly, to feel his lips, his hair—wants it with a fierceness that surprises her and makes her back away.
“Rama,” he calls above the music as she retreats. Emma pauses, and he catches her hand, tugs her close enough that he can speak into her ear. “My name is Rama.”
His breath is heavy with the scent of sake, and she fights the urge to stretch up and kiss him. His eyes darken, seeing the desire in her, but he pulls back a little, and pulls her into the exotic thumping bass.
“Who are the whores with you?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No one. The guard with you?”
Rama looks at her sharply, and she smiles. “Kai. His name is Kai.”
They lapse into silence, and Emma wonders if she has shown too much—will he back away, knowing she is familiar with a world where guards on an evening
in a club would be needed?
And how must he rank, to warrant a guard with so much weight? He moves with all the assurance of a son born to power—like Seth. Guilt makes her pause for a moment, and Rama notices, stills behind her. His accent—so very slight—thickens as he dips his head and asks, “What’s wrong?”
Since there is no answer she can give, she shakes her head and turns away—to the stairs. Rama follows her, like a predator hunting. Seth—if he were to see her now—would kill Rama for the look in his eyes. He would also be furious at the broken promise that led her here.
Nicolette is too prominent, too valuable and known, to risk being seen in a club like Bamboo, an Asian stronghold. Seth hates it, hates the rich rebels who loiter here with high-dollar whores and heroin so expensive it makes the working girls look cheap. Why would Caleb be here—it was only drugs and whores. None of the guns he ran, none of the specialized weapons he was so good at procuring and distributing.
Rama’s arm slides around her waist as she turns to her table, the tequila and Cristal, and she finds herself turning, leaning into him.
His lips are paper dry, like moth wings brushing against her. Hands come up, wrap lightly around her throat, cupping her head, thumbs massaging her pulse above the ruby flowers. She whimpers, softly, and he steals her breath. It’s like kissing a monsoon: torrential, exotic, flooding, fierce. When he breaks away, he stares at her, searching. She takes his hand, leads him to her quiet table and long, curving booth.
“Why did you come here?” he asks as they sit in silence. He moves suddenly, pouring a flute of champagne. She watches the bubbles rise and burst, watches him lift it and sip. She is hungry for his lips on her—something she’s never felt for a man before.
She gave her virginity to Quinn, one of the few friends she had in her private school of snobs and bitches. But it had been more for him than anything—and a willful act of defiance and anger. Caleb refused to let her even flirt with the men in the clubs. Seth was too far away to care—and why wait for something so completely unattainable?
There was never a deep attraction, though. No hunger to touch Quinn, kiss him, the physical pull to him that she finds herself fighting as she sits next to Rama. Seth is the closest she has ever come to feeling like this, and it pales in comparison as she stares at Rama’s black eyes, bright and seeming lit from an inner fire. He is watching, waiting for an answer.
She summons her icy control, her demure façade that has served so well. “Would I need a reason?”
He laughs, a sound that slides over her and makes her nerves tingle in anticipation. “A princess like you, in a place like Bamboo?” He gazes around at the decadent opulence, the open debauchery, before his eyes return to her, concern in them. “Yes. You would need a reason.”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispers, looking away. She snatches up the tequila, pours a shot of amber courage and throws it back. When she looks back, Rama is watching with open interest—open desire.
Too easy, to give in. She smiles coyly as she pours another shot and asks, “Where are you from?”
“Bangkok—but my mother sent me to England for school.”
Which, Emma realizes, explains the faint, odd accent. “How did you end up in New York?”
He leans closer, his lips nibbling at her ear. “An extended business trip.”
She turns, and their lips meet. Distantly, she knows she should press for more information. But the tequila is buzzing in her, and she is tired—so tired—of being a Morgan, always, first, foremost.
For this sliver of time, Rama does not know her family, her uncle, her cousin. She is wanted for herself and nothing more. She traces his lips with her tongue, and is surprised by the way he opens to her, letting her take control of the kiss. He tastes like sushi and ash and a hint of liquor—a taste so exotic and unfamiliar, she feels dizzy.
His hands are roaming, slow and possessive. The thoroughness of a man learning something new that belongs to him. Those hands drift, down the soft skin of her arms, across her flat belly. She tenses as one hand smooths over her thigh, and wonders what he will do when he finds her gun in its thigh holster.
He smiles as he skims past it, kisses her again, deep and hard before pulling away to whisper against her lips, “It is good you are safe.”
She is trembling as his fingers slip upward, teasingly slow, and he smiles. Emma gasps as his finds her, wet, warm, lace panties already saturated. He quirks an eyebrow at her, and she leans forward. “Dancing always turns me on,” she whispers.
His breath puffs against her in a soundless laugh that makes her quiver. “It must.”
Rama brushes his finger against her deliberately, and Emma’s eyes close on a tiny sigh. It happens slowly, with the softest of touches and kisses, his body shielding her as the music thrums around them, and she lets herself go to the sensations. He builds the pleasure with softly fleeting touches and light kisses, growing stronger until she is all but writhing against him. He lifts her hand, presses it against his erection as two fingers slide beneath the skimpy lace and deep within her. Emma’s eyes fly wide at the sudden thrust, and he swallows her muffled cry as she comes apart.
She watches him as she leans against the back of the velvet booth, her eyes heavy still. He discreetly wipes his hand, sips the Cristal. “Are you ready to leave, Emma?” he asks, and she nods without thinking. He kisses her, gentle and soft, before he signals for Pen-kae. He murmurs something before the tiny waitress bows and backs away.
The guards watch, and she can feel their tension, as the foreign son leads her from his stronghold.
The city that never sleeps seems quiet. As she stands shivering next to him, she wonders at the anticipatory air—as if it were waiting for something. A sleek black limo comes to a halt before them, and Rama helps her slide in. He sits next to her and looks at her questioningly. “Where to, mali?”
She glances at him, startled by the affectionate name, shrugs. “Anywhere.” She leans back, stares dreamily out the sunroof as the lights slide by. “The city is ours.”
He laughs at that and catches her hand. “No, this is yours—I am foreign and always will be.”
There are secrets in his words, and she suddenly wonders if this is her key—if Rama knew Caleb. She should ask, and the question lingers on the tip of her tongue before she pushes it aside. Snuggles into him and whispers, “Then let me show you my city.”
He stares down at her, and she can see the knowledge in his eyes. They recognize each other, as only those born of their world can recognize another. Her breath catches, and she wonders if this man, so far from home, would push her away. “Tonight, mali,” he says softly, and there is an underlying message to the word. Tonight and only tonight.
“Tell me about Bangkok,” she murmurs, kissing his neck. It’s sweaty and warm and spicy.
He blinks, startled, and then smiles. The limo glides through the night as Emma listens to Rama weaving a tale of exotic lands. His voice is warm, a softly lilting lullaby that soothes her as nothing has since Seth told her stories to put her to sleep. “You’re tired. Lie down, mali,” he murmurs.
She shakes her head, and he sighs. He unearths several furs and throws them at her feet. Then tugs her hand until they both slip to the pile of fur, curl around each other in the thick warmth.
“Why did you dance with me?” she asks suddenly.
Rama laughs behind her, a soft shaking against and around her. He kisses her shoulder, where a large bow rests. “The bows,” he murmurs huskily. “You looked so above it all—that gorgeous hair, the ruby flowers. But it was the bows. Elegant and classy and ridiculous.”
She flushes, buries her head in his chest. He makes a soft, shushing noise, kisses her hair. “I like them. And your flowers.”
Black eyes regard her with fond amusement, and she wonders what he will think, how he will look at her, when he learns she is a Morgan. Her gaze is fuzzy and unfocused, and she stares into space, thinking about that moment, for too long. He sh
akes her slightly. “Not tonight,” he reminds her, and for a moment, her prince, her king, her family, is all set aside.
It is nice, she muses, as they talk of nothing and everything, watching the sky lighten and the city come to life, to be liked for your bows and not the name Morgan.
Chapter 19
Graystone Apartments, New York City. June 7th.
The walls seem to shrink, and Emma glares out at her million-dollar view. She has become used to it—immune to the beauty. She hates this gilded cage, the pre-selected furnishings that remind her it was all chosen for her. Behind her, Nicolette taps a long, manicured nail impatiently. “I need answers, Emma.”
“And I’m trying to get them,” Emma snaps. “I’m not a damn monkey who performs on command.”
Nicolette’s expression in the glass reflection is contemptuous. “You’re performing something, Emma. Your drivers report you get dropped at Bamboo four nights a week, for the past two weeks.”
Emma shoots an indignant glare over her shoulder, and Nic meets it levelly as she pushes to her feet. “How long do you think you can do this without Seth finding out?” she asks. “Do you really think he’ll allow it to continue, if he knows? He’ll kill your boy toy as soon as look at him.”
“I’m trying,” Emma says, and her voice quivers with something between rage and fear. “You can’t expect Rama to tell me everything two weeks after meeting him.”
Nicolette pauses in adjusting her long coat. “His name is Rama?” Emma nods, and the foreign princess gives a small shake of her head. “I’ll find out what I can.”
As Nicolette leaves, Emma sighs. The sun has dropped, and the city sprawls before her in indolent glory and glittering lights. She mutters a curse as she goes to dress. For a long time, she does nothing but glare at her closet and try to see past anger and fear.
In the end, she wears dark jeans and a pale green long-sleeve top. She is overly casual for Bamboo. She slides a raincoat on and leaves the suffocating apartment. She should call her driver, but Nicolette’s words are ringing in her head, and anger chokes her.
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