by Katee Robert
He liked this game, liked this careful peeling away of their defenses as they shared little details. The conversation in the plane had been heavy, and that was important, too. But this was something special. Something they did only with each other.
Beckett shifted closer. “Did you watch a lot of Jaws as a kid?”
“When I was eleven, my amma decided I was old enough to fend for myself while she worked Saturdays, and one of those weekends, there was a monster marathon. Jaws, Piranha, Anaconda. Back to back.”
He barked out a laugh. “I could see how that would leave a mark.”
The elevator doors dinged and opened. They walked out arm in arm, turning as one down the hallway to the suite he’d booked. This is how it could be with us. The small moments and the big. Facing down each obstacle as a single unit.
He couldn’t offer her a job again. She wouldn’t say yes now any more than she’d said yes up to this point, but at least now he understood why. In Samara’s mind, taking a job with him while they were sleeping together put her at his mercy the same way her mother had been at her father’s mercy when she got pregnant. It wasn’t even close to the same situation, but he understood why it felt similar.
The suite was similar to ones he’d used in the past—a very high-end airy feel with large windows overlooking the beach. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, and even that one glimpse settled something inside him. He felt Samara’s gaze and spoke without looking over. “Some days, I really consider leaving it all, buying a little house on a beach somewhere, and starting over.”
She came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. Samara propped her chin on his shoulder. “What’s stopping you?”
“It’s the coward’s way out. I didn’t choose this life, but it’s mine. I’m uniquely qualified to make changes within Morningstar, and it’s my responsibility to see it done.” He could sell the company—had threatened to do exactly that once in a fight with his father—but it wasn’t the right call. Most days, Beckett even loved his job.
He didn’t love what would come next in this conflict with Lydia, though.
With a sigh, he turned and took Samara’s hands, dropping a kiss to first one and then the other. “I have to go if I’m going to make my meeting.” He paused. “Why don’t you take advantage of the superior spa they have onsite? It’ll be a real vacation.” It was the least he could do after the insanity of the last few days.
“I might just do that.” She gave him a playful push. “Text me when you’re done and we’ll go somewhere for dinner.”
“Deal.” He forced himself to release her and headed for the door. The car was waiting for him, as requested, and he took a short drive parallel to the beach to Marina del Rey. Following the instructions he’d been given, Beckett made his way to a massive yacht tied to the end of one of the docks. Its name was written across the side in classy blue font. The Queen Bitch.
This is the place.
Movement on the top deck caught his attention. A thin man in a pair of swim trunks and boat shoes leaned over the railing. Judging from his tanned skin, he spent most of his time on the yacht. Silver seeded through his hair, peppering the dark brown, and though his eyes were hidden by sunglasses, Beckett knew they were blue. Elliott Bancroft, Lydia’s husband.
“Beckett King.”
“Uncle Elliott.”
The man burst out laughing. “Don’t start with that family bullshit. Come on up.”
Beckett studied the interior of the yacht as he made his way up three floors to where his uncle waited. He’d only ever been on one once, years ago, and everything had been gold plated and decorated within an inch of its life. In such a small space, it left Beckett feeling claustrophobic and wanting to put as much distance between himself and the yacht as possible.
This wasn’t the same at all. Everything from the floor beneath his seat to the trim lining the windows to the furniture in the rooms he passed were all top of the line. Their understated luxury screamed money, but only if one knew where to look. Part of the inside joke in the perpetual bullshit between new money and old.
Elliott had acquired a cocktail—a Manhattan from the look of it—and he toasted Beckett. “What do you think of the old bitch?”
“Nice place. You live here?” He already knew the answer, but lording his knowledge of the man over Elliott wasn’t going to win him any favors. He needed his uncle on his side, and from the research he’d done on the man, all evidence indicated that Elliott Bancroft liked to consider himself the smartest person in the room at all times.
“For now.” Elliott took him in. “You have the look of your old man. Same stubborn expression and that jaw that makes the ladies weak in the knees. Shame to hear he died.” The sheer glee in his voice gave lie to the words.
There isn’t a damn person in this world actually sad to see Nathaniel King gone.
“He left Lydia Thistledown Villa.”
Elliott straightened and whistled. “Well, shit. She actually pulled it off.” He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from a little cubby next to the captain’s chair. “You mind?”
“Go ahead.” Beckett waited for him to light up. “What do you mean she pulled it off?”
“Lydia always said she’d get that damn house back.” He inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a few moments, and exhaled through his nose. “She couldn’t handle being cut off all those years ago. It drove her out of her mind, and she wasn’t completely sane to begin with.”
Beckett could think of a few choice words to describe his aunt, but crazy didn’t come into the equation. There was nothing uncontrolled or insane about her actions—she was cold and calculating and perfectly aware of what was at stake every step of the way. “How do you think she managed it? The will was changed right around the time my father died.” It was one thing he couldn’t make fit in the rest of the puzzle. Lydia wanted Morningstar or, barring that, she wanted to bring it down brick by brick. Every single one of her moves up to this point had been inching them toward that goal. But if she’d somehow managed to manipulate Nathaniel into handing over his family home, why not go for the company as well?
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Elliott dragged in more cigarette smoke. He tipped his sunglasses back onto the top of his head and stared at Beckett. “Let me paint you a scenario and you tell me how far off I am.”
He bit back his frustration. He hadn’t come there for more games. He’d come because Elliott Bancroft had a bone to pick with his wife, and even with their spending more time apart than together, they’d been married thirty-two years. If there was anyone who knew Lydia, it was her husband.
Beckett dropped into the seat across from the man. “I’m listening.”
“I imagine she’s been seeding malcontent with someone within your company for years, dropping little bits of poison in their ears until they’re sure night is day and day is night. She’s good at playing roles to get what she wants.” Something dark flickered over his face, and he tapped the cigarette into an ashtray. “This man—and ten-to-one it was a man—slips something into Nathaniel’s drink during a meeting. Nothing serious. Just something to make him a little more agreeable. Then they change the will and make it official with two witnesses, both of whom she owns.”
Beckett went cold. He pictured Walter Trissel’s stammering, red-flushed face when he read the will. No point to contest it. I stood as witness. Fast-forward to two days later when Walter left the company for Kingdom Corp. He’d known the man was disloyal, but drugging Nathaniel crossed so many lines. There hadn’t been anything in his system but alcohol the night he died, but this would have happened up to a week beforehand. Plenty of time for any evidence to disappear. “Why not just take the whole company at that point?”
“She only fights when she knows she can win. It would be logical for Nathaniel to will her that damn house, but if he gave her everything, that would raise too many red flags. I’m sure she’s got some kind of backup plan in place.”
&nb
sp; A backup plan like convincing Beckett to sell the company.
He sat back. “That’s quite the story, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing without proof.” He had theories for days, but a theory wasn’t enough to help him at this point. The photos Frank provided didn’t mean anything in the long run now that Lydia had changed her story. He could—and would—put pressure on Walter, but that meant he had to get the man alone first.
“It’s how she operates. If you look back through her history, there are a trail of people—again, mostly men—who have been at her mercy because of events she orchestrated. I was always surprised she didn’t try the same song and dance on her father, but maybe he was on to her games.” Elliott shrugged. “Or maybe passing over her for CEO was punishment for the shit she’d stirred up with my family.”
He frowned. “What do you mean? I was under the impression the Bancrofts and Lydia were on good terms.” Except for Elliott’s near-constant affairs.
“Who do you think her first victim was, Beckett?” Elliott snubbed out his cigarette. “We were friends, once upon a time, but she wanted more and I didn’t. She took matters into her own hands, and when it came out that she was pregnant, there was nothing to do but marry her.”
Beckett stared. What he was saying…what he was accusing Lydia of? “But you stayed married.”
“Bancrofts aren’t quitters, nephew. If I walked out on her, I stood to lose everything. Over the years, we fell into what passed for a comfortable arrangement, but I still can’t stand to be in the same room as that woman.”
There were two sides to every story. Beckett might think his aunt was damn near evil, but he seriously doubted that Elliott was some babe in the woods who’d fallen prey to her. It was far more likely that he’d always been a philanderer and his family had jumped at the chance to make him someone else’s problem. But if even part of what he said was true, Beckett needed to have a conversation with Walter Trissel—sooner rather than later. His former attorney might be brilliant in court, but he was a weak man with weak impulses. If Beckett found something to leverage against him, he could get the man to talk. He was sure of it.
“Thanks for your time.” Beckett stood and considered his uncle. “If you were going to hit Lydia where it hurt, where would you aim?”
Elliott threw back his head and laughed. “Good luck, nephew. That would require Lydia to have a fucking heart.”
Chapter Fourteen
Samara put her time to good use while Beckett was gone. If this was going to be a break from reality and a date at the same time, she wanted it to be a damn good date. The best date. She chatted up the bellman and got the best restaurant within easy traveling distance—a place just up the beach—and then she went shopping.
It was frivolous and silly to want to wow Beckett, but she couldn’t just sit in the hotel room and wait for him to come back. As she flipped through dress options at a little boutique the bellman had recommended, she gave in to the temptation to call Journey. Just to check in.
Right.
Her friend answered as if she’d been waiting by the phone. “Thank God. Samara, I swear to all that’s holy, you scare me sometimes.”
Samara considered a red dress and set it back on the rack. “You’re looking through the notes for the bid.”
“Of course I’m looking through the notes for the bid. I’ve been doing nothing but wading through your notes since I picked them up this morning. Seriously, honey, we have to talk about your research habits. You have two binders full of information.”
“There’s a ‘CliffsNotes’ version in the smaller of the two. I put all the pertinent information there for easy reference.” She frowned at a sequined gown that looked like it belonged in a bridal shop. “If you need me to come back—”
“Nope. I don’t care what my mother’s reasons were for forcing you to take a break, but I do support the end result. You work your ass off for Kingdom Corp. You might as well enjoy those vacation days you’ve saved up and let your hair down.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Are you still with Beckett?”
“Not currently, but yes.” Her gaze landed on a dark purple dress and she lifted the hanger to get a better look at it. Perfect. “I…I kind of like him.”
“Honey, I know you do. Just be careful, okay?”
“I will,” she promised, though it felt like lying through her teeth. Samara had left careful behind days ago. She was in a full free fall and she couldn’t bring herself to care about the fast-approaching ground.
Journey snorted. “Somehow, I just don’t believe you. But that’s neither here nor there.” The amusement disappeared from her tone. “Mother has leveled the direst of threats against me if I screw up your presentation—her disappointment. She’s in danger of micromanaging, but you’ll be happy to know that I’ve kept my temper in check. Mostly.”
If they hadn’t been friends for so many years, Samara wouldn’t have picked up on the thread of tension in Journey’s voice. Everyone had their hot-button issues. For Samara, it was her father. For Journey, it was both her parents.
She glanced around, but no one was paying her the slightest bit of attention. “You can do this. You’re even better at this job than I am, and I’m fucking great at my job.”
“This isn’t my forte, Samara. I’m better at telling people what to do and managing the bullshit that crops up when the different departments start butting heads. Hell, I’d rather deal with the media than this.”
Samara drifted toward the back of the boutique, her dress in hand. “Are you at home?”
“…Yes. Though if you’re about to ask me what I’m wearing, we’re going to talk about your phone sex skills.”
She laughed. “You know that giant atrocity of a mirror in your front hall? Go stand in front of that.”
“Kinky.”
“Shut up and do what I say.”
“Yes, mistress.” Heels clicked in the distance as Journey must have stood and walked to the mirror. Samara could picture the mirror perfectly. It was easily seven feet tall and three feet wide, and its one-foot-wide metal frame only made it seem more massive. Journey huffed out a breath. “Okay, I’m staring at my mirror and feeling like an idiot.”
“Repeat after me.”
“Oh, no. Samara—”
“I am a badass, capable woman and I’m going to make this bid my bitch.”
Silence for a beat. “Do I have to scream it like Jerry Maguire?”
She laughed. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Now, stop stalling and say it.”
“I am a badass, capable woman and I’m going to make this bid my bitch!” Journey dissolved into giggles. “Okay, I don’t hold to the positive affirmation stuff, but I feel slightly better. Thanks. This thing has me all twisted up. It’s wrong that I’m doing this, Sam. It should be you.”
It should be me. She wouldn’t say it. Not to Journey. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that Lydia had pulled this bullshit a couple days before the presentation date. Lamenting about how upset she was to lose her place would only serve to make Journey feel like shit and cause conflict between the two King women. There would be other bids and other contracts to secure.
She hoped.
If she didn’t get fired.
If Lydia wasn’t implicated in Nathaniel’s death or the fire set in Morningstar Enterprise’s building.
She gave herself a shake. Stop borrowing trouble. “You’re going to do great.”
“Nice dodge.” Journey sighed. “I guess I should get back to it.” Her tone perked up. “What are you doing right now? Something interesting? You should tell me all about it.”
“Not a chance. Kick ass in your presentation and I’ll share all the illicit details over drinks. My treat.”
“Actually, on second thought, if those illicit details involve my cousin, I don’t think I want to know.”
Samara laughed. “Bye, Journey. Call me if you need anything.”
“Have fun!”
She slipped her phone into h
er purse and eyed the jewelry display at the back of the store. The dress she’d picked had a plunging neckline that just begged for some kind of adornment. For shoes, her black heels would work perfectly, and she could take her time getting ready.
Beckett wouldn’t know what hit him.
Samara was gone when Beckett got back to the hotel suite. He found a note set out on the table. Meet me at 1898. 7 pm. Don’t be late. It was signed with the imprint of her lipstick in a perfect kiss. He checked the time. Six thirty. 1898 was a ten-minute walk from the hotel, which gave him enough time to take a quick shower and change.
It didn’t explain why Samara wasn’t here, though.
He sent a quick text as he pulled out another suit. You okay?
Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?
The same way she’d responded when they spoke on the phone last. Beckett exhaled his tension. Samara was fine. She wasn’t in any danger just because he couldn’t see her. She’d been alone for a couple hours and she hadn’t come to any harm. He typed out a quick response. See you at 7.
I’ll be there.
He got ready in record time and actually enjoyed the walk. The humidity that plagued Houston was nowhere to be found here, and the ocean breeze actually felt refreshing. Despite his meeting with Elliott Bancroft, he found himself smiling and picking up his pace. As he came up the stairs to the restaurant’s deck, he caught sight of Samara and stopped short.
She leaned against the railing, watching the waves roll toward the beach. Her black heels made her legs look even longer than normal, and he let himself look his fill. The dress was a deep purple that set off her brown skin and it hugged her ass in a way that begged to be touched.
A board creaked under his shoes, and she glanced over and smiled at him. “Beckett.”
The dress was even better from the front. It dipped low between her breasts and she wore a long necklace of several knotted strands of pearls. Her hair drifted in the breeze and he didn’t bother to resist the urge to walk to her and sink his hands into the dark waves. “Hey.”
