by A. N. Latro
“I waited to order,” Rama says softly, in that muddled accent that still stirs her blood. She stares at her hands, the demure façade falling into place with an ease that is frightening. From below her lashes, she peeks at him.
He’s thin, she notes immediately. Has lost weight to a point that is almost worrisome. And exhausted. She wonders—before remembering it is not her place to wonder—what his syndicate is doing that he would be so tired.
But for the gauntness in his face, and the exhaustion in his eyes, there is still beauty. A sleepy knowledge in the black eyes that scan the prince. His button-down is pale cream, cotton, emphasizing his dark skin. Suit pants rest low on his waist, and she wants to push them down, kiss the tattoo that curves around his prominent hipbones. She suppresses a shudder and pushes the thought away.
“Emma?” Seth murmurs, near her ear. Nicolette is curiously absent, and she wonders again what has caused the rift between Seth and his queen. He has not trusted Emma with the cause, but the tightness and sorrow in his eyes keeps her from pushing.
She glances at the wine menu Seth is offering and shakes her head. “A bottle of Dom Perignon.”
He nods, a smile curving his lips as he speaks to the waitress. When she vanishes, Seth shifts his attention to the other man. Rama is watching Emma, and there is an emotion in his eyes that angers Seth. Loss. Regret. Hunger.
“You were sent here by your family,” Seth says abruptly. Two pair of eyes dart to him, and he wonders if not confiding in Nicolette was wise. Too late. “Why?”
Rama wets his lips, an unconsciously sexual gesture that makes Seth tense and Emma shift nervously. She is uncomfortably aware of him, Seth knows. It is another test, and he is desperate for her to pass.
“Why did yours send you to the southern island?” Rama asks softly, brazenly. At his side, Emma gasps, furious. How much does it cost her, not to reach for her gun, not to snap a tart rebuttal that will so easily remind this upstart Asian of his place in this city.
Seth is still, more aware than ever of the danger posed in this meeting. He studies the other man again—seeing not a foreign prince, but an equal, someone he was not so very long ago. “If you know about my time in Cuba—I'm presuming Caleb told you—then surely you must know we are not looking for allies.”
“We don’t look to replace them,” Rama says earnestly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Emma makes an almost inaudible noise of distress and looks away from the unbuttoned shirt, the skin gleaming in the low light of the bar. Seth glances at her sidelong and sees her outward calm is beginning to fray. She takes a deep breath and settles into her chair, crossing her legs demurely. Rama’s eyes dart to the expanse of calf, and he pauses, then looks back to Seth. “We offer something different than the Cubans.”
“Our family has never been interested in what you offer,” Seth answers, sniffing. It is an insult, a deliberate one. Rama stiffens under it, and he leans back. Seth's tone is so very different from the one he presented in Rama's office, much harder and more challenging. Rama guesses that this American ritual of cock measuring is just part of the routine of business. He cannot let himself be intimidated, just as he didn't when Seth strolled into Thai territory without so much as a moment of hesitation.
“That is not strictly true, is it?” he asks softly, tauntingly. “And your kings could confirm that.”
“Be careful, ” Seth says softly. “Be very careful with your accusations.”
“He’s right, though.”
Emma’s voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper, but both Seth and Rama react like a whip. Her eyes are demanding and angry. Rama seems to relax at her agreement. “My mother made it very clear Mikie and Remi knew about Caleb’s—” Her eyes flick to Rama, and she lets her voice harden and fill with disdain. “—extracurricular activities.”
Rama flinches, paling. The waitress is there, a bottle of wine and platter of cheeses and wine glasses. They fall silent as she arranges it on the low tables that separate them. Emma ignores Rama and the pleading way he is watching her. Just as dangerous is the phenom to her right with his too watchful eyes. She takes in the bar around them, ignoring them both with a disregard that would make any queen proud.
It’s a recently opened hotel, and the Luxe is the crown. A leisure bar that caters to the wealthy who can afford the Morgan Suites. Across the sun-lit atrium is a café where socialites seem to congregate. Emma smiles at the knowledge that many of the pretty daughters of society spend hours there in hopes of seeing the elusive Seth Morgan.
The bar, though, is a dimly lit statement in elegance. Low chairs in groups of four surround small coffee tables, a comfortable place to relax with cigars, drinks, and friends. A live band plays jazz on the stage in the corner, soft crooning that is much better than one would expect to find in an average hotel bar.
This is a Morgan estate, though, Emma thinks proudly. Nothing is ever average in a Morgan estate.
Seth hands her a glass of Dom Perignon, and she sniffs appreciatively before sipping it and relaxing into her seat. The bar is quiet enough this early in the afternoon, something to be expected. Seth would not want too many who might overhear a conversation of this delicate nature.
“Why should I take on more allies?” Seth asks abruptly, drawing her attention back to him.
Rama seems startled by the question, but he fields it well. Idly, she wonders if Seth notices his slight hesitation. A smile she hides in her wine—of course he does.
“Profit,” he says easily. “Caleb knew there was money in my trade—and the kings know it.”
Seth makes a sniff of dismissal then answers softly, “I assure you, our syndicate needs no more risky ventures. Our capital and profit are well developed.”
Black eyes dart to her, heavy in their half-lidded interest, and she buries her nose in her wine again. His voice comes to her, soft and just a touch amused. “Your accountant has seen my profit sheets—I don’t need to convince you on that score.”
She gasps, her eyes darting up at being called out so blatantly. How did he know? She had been alone the only time she had seen his financial records. Seth’s eyes are on her, sidelong, questioning, but she ignores him. “You knew I would see them,” she murmurs accusingly. “You knew and left them for me. Why?”
Rama shakes his head. “Can you blame me?” he demands fiercely, and all of them still—she knows, they all know, that this question is heavy, loaded, more than just what it would appear.
Seth is tense at her side, painfully so. Seth inhales, prepares to say something, and she touches his arm, stalling him. “Yeah. I do. You knew, and you used me. You lied to me.”
Rama’s gaze flicks meaningfully to her cousin. “And you didn’t do the same, mali?”
Color floods her cheeks, and she hisses, “I gave you honesty. You fucked me as a replacement to my dead cousin!”
“You came into my club for your family. You whored yourself for information, and you dare to look down on my girls?” he snapped back.
“Enough,” Seth snarls, a flash of temper surfacing.
Emma subsides instantly, leaning back and taking her champagne with trembling fingers. Rama reacts slower, anger still hot in his eyes—and challenge. A subtle reminder that Seth may have Emma’s loyalty, and the city, but Rama owes allegiance to no one. He says nothing, but slowly, grudgingly, the Thai relaxes. Seth’s eyes are hard, brooking no argument as he steers the conversation. “Profit aside, why should I risk everything I've built, indeed, risk my own life to court the new kid in town? You said before that Caleb had some plan that would integrate everything, but short of Caleb himself coming back to life to tell me what he had in mind, I see only stupid and pointless danger to my empire by including you in it. That is, unless you can convince me otherwise.”
Seth watches Rama with an arched and expectant eyebrow, and Emma speaks, her voice like sleet, like rain on a fire. “The simple truth is you need us far more than we need you.”
Rama’s gaze slides to her q
uestioningly, and she smiles, chilly. “Your syndicate sent you here in hopes of expansion, but without an established ally in a city already claimed, you have nothing. Your time, their money, it is all for waste. And your best hope of alliance was buried with Caleb Morgan.”
He flinches, a tiny movement, and silence descends. He uses the lull in the conversation to regroup his thoughts and contain his emotions. Seth is giving him a chance to make his case, to sing for his empire and act like a prince. He can't say for sure, but behind the steel in the Morgan's eyes, Rama believes he can see a longing for him to breathe life back into Caleb's dream. He sighs so softly it's barely audible.
“Caleb envisioned a joint venture into a brothel ring for society's upper-crust, much like yourself—or him—that would utilize your family's real estate, Remi Oliver's bank, and my whores. Ever since he experienced some real . . . Thai hospitality in Bangkok's red light district, he had this grand idea of a total package experience here in the states. The operation would have all the flair of a five-star resort getaway and would provide rich playboys and politicians with their choice of girls—or boys if they were so inclined—drugs, booze, whatever they could possibly want, all in one request. That way, rather than compete or endanger your narcotics business, it would utilize and bolster it. We all know those rich motherfuckers love their drugs as much as they love their money.”
He sees the lines along Seth's jaw tense at the jab at high society, and he sees Emma's eyebrows raise at his brazenness. Neither of them, however, speak to break the silence as Rama's words rattle among them.
The band pauses in its music, and the barmaid wanders by before flitting away. Distantly, there is clatter of dishes and voices, laughter and life free of alliances and crime. Emma wonders—for a heartbeat—what life is like, that way.
Then she remembers that Nicolette had it, and came back. There is no other way for them, and she knows it. It is yet another reason why she was drawn to Rama—like calling to like.
Then, like punctuation, Rama says, “Your kings very much liked the idea.”
“The kings wish to play secrets and games,” Seth murmurs, so softly his words are almost obliterated by the soulful moan of a saxophone. “They sacrificed family for their secrets, and what they like will soon mean very little.”
Emma cannot bear to look at him, cannot take the grief in his eyes or the foreboding in his words. The slow realization that Caleb was not the traitor he had been branded is shattering Seth. Some days she wonders if he will survive—if the cousin she loves will be within the deadly man who has emerged.
“Secrets can be played by so many sides,” Emma says softly, and Seth’s sharp eyes dart to hers. Emma glances at Rama, sees the apology, the sorrow, the desire in his gaze, and she holds it. Wonders at the shudder that racks his body—what does he see in her eyes?
Seth speaks suddenly, and his voice is brisk. “A formal alliance is not something I can offer—or would, at this stage.” A smile curves his lips. “However, if we can begin quiet preparation and planning for this idea, it could be beneficial for both our Houses. Caleb believed fully in this, and I aim to honor it for him. It's the . . . least I can do. I have seen some of his projections, though I didn't know what they were at the time, and you're right. There is great profit in it, even with the high risk.” His gaze cuts to Emma. “ All of Caleb's assets are currently frozen and under my control. I need you to start working on a plan of how to move them around to make this work. No one else can know. Mikie cannot know.”
Emma nods—moving assets is like breathing to her. Seth looks back to Rama. “I will need financial statements and a plan.”
Rama blinks, stunned. Seth continues, “All of this must remain strictly confidential. If my other allies catch wind of something shady, they will not hesitate to act. So until I can figure out how to buffer them, this meeting and this plan do not exist. I'm sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Rama all but whispers. Somehow, in the time he knew Caleb, he never expected his little brother to ring so true with the qualities that had endeared the older to him. Though they seem so different outwardly, they really aren't that different at all. This, thinks Rama, is the product of quality upbringing, which he has found so lacking in the American populace. Though the Morgans seem so far above everything, so removed, they are the most real people he has met stateside. He remembers his manners, nearly chokes on his gratitude when he says, “Thank you. Both of you.”
Emma barely blinks, and lifts her glass, a silent toast. Seth follows suit, and then Rama. If Emma feels anything at all, Rama will never know, for she has become so good at banishing her emotions, just like her cousins.
Bamboo, New York City. July 18th.
She sits in the backseat and assesses the line. Security has erected overhangs so the exotic and beautiful are carefully protected from the rain. A tiny sigh slips free as she sees the familiar bulk of his security personnel—it feels like only yesterday when they herded her through the crowds, escorting her to Rama.
How would they react if she stepped out of her sleek black Bentley? Has he given orders against her presence? He knows she is here—he is nothing if not capable, and nothing happens in or around Bamboo that he does not know about.
But she can’t go to him—Seth would be furious if he knew she’d come even this far.
Seeing him had been harder than she’d thought—and unexpected. She still feels the echoes of that shock, the slight sting of betrayal that Seth had forced the meeting. She had seen the dark desire in his eyes, the anger in Seth’s, and had felt trapped.
But she still had been drawn here, in the dark rain of her city.
“Miss Emma?” Her driver’s voice is soft, prompting. She feels a small sense of satisfaction that he is indeed hers. He does not report back to her cousin or Nicolette. Somehow, she has a man loyal to no one but her.
“Just a moment more,” she murmurs softly.
Dom lapses into silence, and she bites back a sigh. A headache is working its way from her temples to her neck, and she considers the wisdom of using the small stash in her purse.
Coke won’t help her now, will make her do something she’d likely regret—betraying Seth again will not be easily forgiven.
There is a tap on her window, and she jerks, reaching for her gun. A smile teases her lips as she sees him. Her blood heats, and she lifts her gun, holding it almost lazily. “Roll it down,” she says softly.
He stands shadowed by the always present Kai, perfectly at ease in the rain and dark street. He is, she knows, at the heart, a prince of the city. Maybe foreign, but he will never be anything less than comfortable and at home in the streets.
Kai shifts at the sight of her gun, but Rama crouches, a smile flashing in the darkness, the cherry from his cigarette lighting the space between them dimly.
“I knew you’d come.”
She flushes, looks away. “How do you know I’m not a trap?” she wonders, wishing he would show some kind of nerves. She thumbs the safety and is pleased that his eyes dart to it for a moment.
“You are alone, mali. He would never send you without guards.” His accent thickens slightly, the only sign of his distress.
“Why?” she whispers. “Why did you lie to me?”
Something dark and painful fills his eyes for a brief second. “Would truth have changed anything?”
“It would have changed everything,” she snaps, and her gun lowers. Kai relaxes as she does. Rama murmurs softly, and the bodyguard steps away, giving them the brief illusion of privacy. It’s not real, and she knows it. Her driver will never speak of this, but he will hear—and so will Kai. The knowledge sparks her anger higher. “He was my cousin!”
An aggravated sigh brushes her arm, and she shivers. “I didn’t know. Not at first. And then, what? I should tell you I was with Caleb? I did not know where your loyalties lay, mali, other than you were loyal to your Seth. Is it so bad, that when I knew, I hid it? Is it worse then what you did?” His voic
e offers no censure, no challenge. It’s calm, and it infuriates her.
In the darkness and rain, she cannot see his face, cannot see anything but his lips, lit by the cigarette, forming an argument for which she has no defense, even though she wants to fight.
“Why change things, then? Because someone better dangled something you couldn’t resist?” she spits, but there is pain in her voice that she can’t hide.
“Seth is too powerful to ignore,” he reminds her gently. She is grateful, suddenly, for the darkness that hides the goose bumps on her arms. She remembers—too well—what his voice sounded like, vibrating across her skin, gentle and warm as he moved inside her.
Thunder rumbles around them, shaking her from her thoughts, and she suddenly realizes that he is being soaked. “Get in,” she says abruptly, without thinking. She can feel the surprise and unease rippling off her driver, the hesitation in Rama, but she insists—she pushes the door open, forcing him back. There is a soft, foreign curse, and then he spills in, liquid grace and icy rain and slate gray suit.
She wonders, idly, how much the suit cost and if he cared that it was now ruined.
They sit in silence as he smokes, the scent of smoke and ash clouding her thoughts, mixing with the rain and smell of oil-slicked streets. She has thought of this moment so often, accused him so many times.
And yet staring at him, at the rain staining her seats as it rolls from him, she is speechless, the knowledge hitting her like it had that first time. Revulsion twists with fascination. If she asks about Caleb, will he know why? Will he wonder at the questions no cousin should want the answers to?
Can she ask him and still face Seth in the morning?
He is watching her, too watchful, patiently waiting, and she suddenly has nothing to ask. Nothing that she can ask without raising more questions than she wants. “Did you love him?” she asks abruptly.
