Confusion flickers in her eyes, and he leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Wednesday morning. My car will pick you up.”
She swallows hard, but she jerks a nod. Stands, forcing him to back up as she rises. “Give me your tie,” she murmurs.
He hands it to her, and she loops it around his neck, her small fingers buttoning the last button before quickly knotting a double Windsor. The skinny cream tie lies like a noose, but he is more aware of her, the way she stands so close, the way her fingers brush his skin when she adjusts the collar. She steps away abruptly, and her hips sway, a bit. The fear is gone from her eyes when she pauses, looks at him over her shoulder. “The party won’t wait, Seth,” she reminds him.
The heat and subtle invitation in her eyes makes him grit his teeth, and then she’s gone, her heels clicking on the marble.
He shakes his head as he shrugs into his suit coat and goes to join her. That’s one lesson he doesn’t need to re-teach her.
Chapter 30
The Ritz, New York City. July 3rd.
It's a party in like the old days. Family and high-ranking guns mingle with the cities wealthiest elite. As Emma walks in, her silver gown sparkling in the light, she sees a pale assassin dancing with a rising Hollywood starlet. There are all types here, to pay homage to the city’s favorite son.
Mikie beckons her, and she fixes a smile on her lips as she glides across the marble ballroom floor to stand in front of him.
"It's a lovely party, uncle," she says, kissing his cheeks. The king smiles, genuine warmth in his gaze for Emma. She has always been his favorite—everyone loves Emma with her sweet smiles and biddable manner.
"Have you seen him?"
Not since they left the penthouse. He sent her in a different car—needed a few minutes alone, he said.
"Not today," she answers, looking down. Lying to her uncle has become easier. He is quiet, staring at the top of her head. For a long moment, she wonders if the man is having her followed as well, if Nic's men are not the only ones she needs to dodge. She feels a spark of anger and jerks back, out of Mikie's grasp. He smiles, a benevolent uncle, and she forces one in return. There's a commotion building at the front of the room, cameras flashing. Even Nic, in a stunning, simple scarlet sheath, has turned her cool interest toward it.
Seth has made his appearance, at last.
Emma turns toward the bar. If there is anything she has learned about her cousin, it's that he takes his time—there are lesser family to wade through, pretty girls to flirt with, board members to ignore for the sake of the party. All of them waiting, impatient and eager for a moment of his time. She's his right hand, and a few approach her as she makes her way to the bar, with questions about the restructuring of Caleb's division. There is still turmoil, still so much unrest seething beneath the surface of the family. She makes small talk and soothes their worries, making a mental note of who approaches her—and who doesn't.
"Talking is thirsty work, miss," the bartender says, grinning at her.
She wrinkles her nose at him, and he laughs. She smirks and says, "Can I get a glass of Chardonnay?"
He pours it quickly, sliding it across to her. Emma takes a sip and turns on her seat to face the crowd.
"People sure love that Morgan boy," the bartender says, watching with her. She smiles. From here, Seth is hidden from her view, obscured by the crowd. She can see the top of his unruly hair, but nothing more.
"He's like the sun," she murmurs. "People can't help but stare and fall into orbit around him."
The bartender sends a glance her way and asks, curiously, "Do you know him?"
He has to be a new hire. Everyone in the Morgan hotels knows her. She doesn't answer, because her driver and bodyguard appears at her elbow. She eyes him lazily.
"Who pays your checks?" she asks, sipping her wine.
Dom doesn't even blink, "You do, ma'am."
Emma frowns, and the man ducks his head. "He would like to see you, Ms. Morgan." She takes a final regretful sip of her wine before setting it down and standing. Seth is still surrounded, but Nic is at his side. His dark eyes find her across the room, questioning and challenging. She grins back at the bartender, all sultry Morgan charm, and then saunters through the party to flank Seth.
She has lost count of how many times she's been dragged to the dance floor. She's danced with more cousins and soldiers that she can remember, each of them a whirling, laughing face that blurs with the next.
She has danced with kings and killers, and still, the one who matters has remained aloof and apart, watching as he is courted and celebrated. After the display in the penthouse, she’s annoyed and close to tears, desperate for some kind of reassurance.
Another dance ends. "Excuse me," she murmurs to her partner, a tall enforcer from Mikie's division. Displeasure flickers on the man's face at the dismissal, but he doesn't argue. Not with her. She takes four steps before a hand catches her and she starts to turn, a polite refusal already forming on her lips. Seth smiles at her, his eyes bright in the dim light.
"Dance with me, Emma," he says, making it an order.
She never even considers refusing.
He moves her easily, with simple pressure and quick, smooth movements. Around the dance floor, family has slowed to watch. She can feel their uneasy glances, the not soft enough whispers.
“Why are they so afraid of you?” she asks, for a moment feeling like the little girl she was, looking up to her older and dangerous cousins.
“They fear us,” he corrects, gently, turning her, “because we will rule. And because they don’t know what we will do.”
She makes a little face. “We have that in common, then.”
Seth laughs. He is looser, somehow. Relaxed after the quiet tension in the hotel. It was, she realizes, a test. And a trust.
“What am I, Seth?” she asks, forcing her gaze up to meet his. She’s tired, the weight of the day, and the earlier encounter, the watching syndicate—all of it tugs at her. Seth pauses, going still on the dance floor. Around them, the whispers intensify. But she can’t hear them—all she can see is Seth, his wide brown eyes.
“You’re my family. The only family that matters, Em. You belong at my side.”
She shakes her head and breaks away. Vaguely, she’s aware of Nic watching from the bar. The room is too hot, and she makes for the balcony. The night is crisp, with a hint of coolness to it that makes her shiver. Beyond the steel railing, the city sprawls, glittering and indolent.
Emma feels him step out onto the balcony, but doesn’t turn. He waits until the last of the partiers retreat back inside and then steps up beside her.
Seth doesn’t push—that was Caleb’s role. He is content to stand quiet next to her while she grapples with her thoughts.
“You say you want me in your division, but tie my hands. You say you want me by your side, but you have a queen. You don’t tell me anything, but the entire family is waiting, and half are convinced I know what you're doing next. Do you know what it’s like, not knowing? When, by right, I should? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”
His hand clenches on the rail. “I’m trying, Emma. I want you with me. But I don’t want to expose you to everything—“
“I am a Morgan,” she says, her voice shrill. “This is my birthright, as much as it’s yours.”
He closes his eyes. “Emma,” he begins. Stops because there isn’t anything he can say that refutes that. She’s right.
“I want to help you, Seth,” she whispers, facing the city again.
They stand, shoulder to shoulder, facing the kingdom both are fighting to protect. “I want you by my side.” He says again, “You are the only one who matters, Emma. This is our kingdom.”
“You have a queen,” she says.
“Nic isn’t family,” he says, and she finally looks at him. “I need you to trust me.”
She stares at him, blue eyes so similar to Caleb’s, searching his face for the truth.
“Rama works the sex trade,” she says, cautiously, and he relaxes. Business is easier—Emma is smart and has brilliant instincts. He knew she was smart when he brought her into his circle, but he’s still surprised by her quick wits and razor sharp instincts.
Sometimes, he still sees the knobby-kneed little girl who followed him down hallways and made faces at his stories, while batting away smoke from Caleb’s cigarettes, half in love with them both.
She’s still there—that pretty, loyal cousin. But she’s grown up. He releases a breath and draws her closer, leaning down to brush a kiss on the top of her hair. The door to the balcony opens, and the cousins turn. Nicolette is backlit by the party lights, and he squeezes Emma’s shoulders before letting her go and taking Nic’s hand as they return to the party.
She stays there, for a moment, staring at the glittering party. She feels suspended, somehow—a ghost hovering between the shining kingdom and the brilliant royalty. His words play in her mind—the things he didn’t say are louder.
He trusts her. Despite her betrayal, he trusts her, and he wants her by his side. A knot of tension that she has lived with for so long she’s forgotten it eases, relaxing at the show of confidence. She smiles, a quiet, secret smile.
Chapter 31
Luxe, New York City. July 17th.
His hands shake. Rama inhales deeply, forces himself to steady them. The tiny tremor is the only evidence of nerves, and for that, he can be proud.
It has been almost a month since that night when Emma came to the club exuding sex and danger and risk. It had shaken him, seeing her deadly prince exposing secrets with a surgical skill and crippling precision.
Almost a month since he has seen Emma. Since Seth so effortlessly plucked her from his arms and returned her to her rightful place.
And then came the quiet, unexpected call. An invitation, and an order. Rama understood it instantly, known even as he thought of ignoring it, that he would meet the native son at the time and place of Seth’s choosing.
A waitress comes by again, a quiet intrusion. He smiles at her, the full devastating charm of his ethnicity. She blushes, and then something above his head catches her attention. Her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open in a perfect little ‘o.’ Rama sighs.
He turns in his seat, almost rising. Seth pauses in the doorway, cool eyes professionally assessing the hotel bar.
Standing quietly behind him to the left, a subordinate of rank, is Emma, the lovely and unassuming princess. Seth twists to her, murmuring, and Emma nods almost shyly. It is a quiet movement that reminds Rama—forcefully—that this is Seth’s woman, Seth's right hand.
Her presence is a reminder that Rama is also a subordinate, lesser syndicate being granted audience for Seth’s pleasure. Nothing more. He shivers as Seth’s sweeping gaze finds him. Seth smiles at him, darkly, before taking Emma’s arm and guiding her to the chairs where Rama waits.
“Ratchaphure,” Seth says, dipping his head slightly in greeting. The cordial motion, the manners, startle Rama. From where she stands, Emma can see the surprise rise in the black eyes she had thought she loved.
When Seth told her he was interested in business with Ratchaphure, she had been startled, and then dismissed the idea that he would meet with her former lover. Surely even Seth would avoid something that explosive. When his car came for her, she hadn’t known what to expect.
Seth takes the seat directly across from Rama, a sharp glance from him indicating she should take the one at his side. She hides a smile as she sinks gracefully into the plush cream cushions—despite the time that has passed, Seth is still angry with Rama for laying hands on her, and where she is concerned, Seth will never fully trust the Thai.
“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?”
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