The Bastard: King Family, Book Three

by Julie Kriss

  “Of course it is. But he has to be persuaded to give up his claim. At all costs, Madison. And you have to do it soon.”

  “Me? Wait a minute—persuading him is my job?”

  “Madison.” Malick sounded impatient, even though we’d only been talking for minutes. “Did you or did you not just have a face-to-face meeting with Dylan King?”

  “I just said I did.”

  “Then he’s met you. You’re the one he knows personally. And, frankly, you’re his type of person, based on the file we have on him. You’re a young, attractive female. If anyone can influence King’s decision, it’s you.”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. Same old, same old—this was the kind of shit I dealt with daily, the assumption that I was a vagina and not a lawyer.

  Just get the job done, Maddy. Forget the bullshit they throw at you. Let it roll off like you do all the other times.

  Besides, I’d just admitted to Dylan that I’d used the promise of sex to get him to do what I wanted. You aren’t so high and mighty, Madison. You know you aren’t. You just pretend like you are and hope everyone believes it.

  “I don’t get it,” I said to Malick. “I wasn’t part of this emergency meeting, and I didn’t get to vote on this directive. Yet I’m the one who has to carry it out?”

  “You would have voted with us,” Malick said with the perfect confidence of a man who has been senior partner for over a decade. “It’s the best for the estate and the best for our firm. And you’ve always done what’s best for our firm. Unless you no longer have our best interests at heart? That isn’t a good quality for a partner.”

  I clenched my jaw. I was the most junior partner, the only female, the partner who’d gotten the most resentment when I was promoted. The one people liked to speculate had fucked her way to the top—though they never had the guts to say it to my face. I was the most vulnerable partner, the one with the most to lose. And Malick knew it perfectly well.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to Dylan.”

  “You’re already on a first-name basis with him, I see. That’s a good sign. And don’t just talk to him, Madison. Convince him. I’m not betting the firm’s future on a vague six-month deadline. I want papers drawn up with Dylan King renouncing his claim in writing. Signed and witnessed. Or we’ll be rethinking the makeup of the partnership of this firm.”

  “I’ll work on it,” I said.

  But there was no point. I was talking to dead air. He had already hung up.

  7

  DYLAN

  I slept for twelve hours, and then I got up and showered again. It was going to take more than one shower to wash twelve years of traveling off of me. I felt slightly better now that I’d rested, now that I knew Sabrina was safe. But I was still edgy and off-balance.

  Madison White’s face kept coming back to me, her expression when I’d said I would take over the estate. She hadn’t just been surprised; she’d been truly shocked. This doesn’t seem like something you’d do.

  Was this what everyone thought of me? That I wouldn’t step up when the time came? Okay, it was a little bit justified. I’d bailed early and I’d been gone a long time. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have the stones to step up if I had to.

  You’re a man of action, not a businessman.

  I dressed, called for room service, and swiped open my phone. Madison’s card was still on the table, with her personal number written on the back. I picked it up and flipped it between my fingers, looking at the numbers and thinking.

  She was right, but she was wrong at the same time. I could be decisive, but I needed information. So it was time for me to find some.

  There was a knock on the door. It was room service, and I put Madison’s card down and poured myself a much-needed cup of coffee. Then I picked up my phone again and dialed a number I knew by heart.

  The voice that answered was low and curt. “Eli McLean. Who the hell is this?”

  “This is Dylan King,” I said. “Who the hell is this?”

  “Well, well,” said my best friend. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. You deleted your email address.”

  “I hate email.”

  “I get that. Where are you now, King? Vacationing on the Gaza Strip?”

  “I’m in LA, actually,” I said. “About thirty minutes from your place. Assuming you’re there.”

  There was a second of stunned silence, but I’ll give him credit—it was only a second. “Fuck me sideways,” Eli said. “You’re in the US of A. I lost a bet.”

  “I hope it was a lot of money.”

  “It was. You owe me a hundred bucks.”

  I sat back on the sofa and drank more coffee. It was good to hear Eli’s voice—he’d been Special Ops with me for years, and we’d done a lot of missions together. Then he’d been shot in the hip and nearly died. The pain and the recovery hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as the fact that his permanent injury took him off active duty. He didn’t have to walk with a cane anymore, but his mobility and his strength were limited and always would be. Faced with the choice of retiring out or taking a desk job, he’d retired and come home to California.

  “Do you have time right now?” I asked him.

  “Maybe,” Eli said. “It depends if there’s money in it.” Eli ran a private security firm now—one I’d done lucrative side work for a few times. The pay was good, but the clients were assholes.

  “Maybe no money right now, but there will be,” I said.

  “Sure, sure. Tell me another one.”

  “I need intel, Eli. There’s a lot on the line. It’s important.”

  He sighed. “Okay, give me the rundown.”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “Meet me for a drink and I’ll explain.”

  We met at a lunch place off Sunset, a spot that Eli picked because they served sandwiches and beer. “It’s noon,” he said, ordering us a round. “That makes it beer time.” I didn’t protest; the beer in Panama was atrocious and usually warm, which was why I stuck to tequila. Even the whiskey tasted different down there.

  Eli had dirty blond hair that he’d grown out of his military cut, just like I’d grown mine. He was wearing jeans and a faded Captain America T-shirt. He wolfed his sandwich and drank his beer as I talked. When I finished, he sat back in his chair and drained his glass. “Jesus, Dylan. That’s a story.”

  “I know,” I said. I took a bite of my own sandwich, though I wasn’t really hungry.

  He put down his glass and watched me from across the table. “Okay, let’s get to the bottom line,” he said. “You get everything over your sisters.”

  “Or this Clayton Rorick guy is set to take over everything. Not to mention marrying Ronnie by coercion.”

  Eli shrugged. “Easy enough to look the guy up, get a background.”

  “I agree.”

  “And if he checks out?” Eli asked. “If Rorick is a stand-up guy? Are you still going to take everything?”

  “I’ll deal with that if it happens,” I said. “I want to be sure about Rorick first. My father’s estate is big enough to tempt a choirboy. If Rorick is anything less, I’ll take over.” I took another sip. “I also have to dig into what happened to Sabrina. I can’t discount the idea that if Rorick is dirty, he was involved somehow. Or that there’s someone else involved who is close to the family. From the little I read in the news this morning, there’s some two-bit local sheriff involved in Dusty Creek. Who the fuck is that guy, and how did he thwart a high-profile kidnapping if he wasn’t in on it in the first place? I can’t let everything go until I know my sisters are safe.”

  “There should be sources for that,” Eli said. “You’ll need a contact in law enforcement.” I raised my eyebrows at him, and he shook his head. “I’m not law enforcement, man. They hate me. The cops and the FBI always assume I’m up to no good.”

  “That’s because you probably are. Okay, then, but don’t tell me you don’t have access to law enforcement databases. Because I know you do.”
/>   Eli’s face went carefully blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, officer. No, sir.”

  “I want access,” I said. “I need intel.”

  “Then call up the local Deputy Dawg in Dusty Creek and ask him nicely for it.”

  “Eli. I want your access.”

  He scowled. “Why should I give it to you?” he said, proving that he did, in fact, have access. Like I’d thought.

  “I don’t know, maybe because we spent ten years in hellhole after hellhole together. I think I’ve saved your life, like, twenty times.”

  “Once,” Eli said, holding up a finger. “Once. And I could have gotten out of that one myself.”

  “Sure, because Taliban insurgents are so easy to take down. Especially when they’re coming in through a hole in the roof.” He didn’t say anything, and I grinned. “Then there was the time in the Johannesburg brothel.”

  Eli frowned, thinking back. “Nothing happened in the Johannesburg brothel.”

  “I know. I got you out of there before you could do anything stupid. That’s why you don’t have an STD right now. You’re welcome.”

  “She liked me,” he protested.

  “Sure. And her pimp wasn’t going to put an ice pick through your temple just to get the hundred bucks in your wallet.” He was quiet again, so I said, “Access, Eli. Access.”

  “Fine,” he ground out reluctantly. “Anything else I can do for you, your majesty?”

  “Yes. I need a laptop with all of your codes on it. I want to know everything you know. I also need a car. Oh, and remember when we worked that high-profile job for the President’s daughter a few years ago? And we got paid all that money?”

  “Of course I do. We invested that. We said it would be our retirement savings.”

  “Well, I want my half cashed out. It seems I’m retired.”

  He just stared at me. “Jeez, King. You don’t ask for much.”

  “There’s a fee in all of this for you, I promise.”

  “There’s a fee when you cut everyone else out of the will, you mean.”

  I smiled at him. “That’s between my lawyer and me.”

  8

  MADDY

  It took me until three o’clock to admit to myself that I was off my game. I’d come to the office at my normal time—seven a.m. sharp—and gone straight to work. It was my usual schedule as the Ice Princess partner, the partner with the most to prove. I worked more hours than anyone else at the firm, and I did better work. I made sure of it.

  I had money and success. I was also overworked and had sleepless nights, no friends, and I hadn’t had sex in—Jesus, I didn’t know. I checked my phone history to find when I’d last texted Axel, the personal trainer who was my sometime booty call whenever I needed a real live man. I liked him because he had a nice body, never stayed the night, and never asked any questions. He liked me because I didn’t care that I was only one of the many women in his little black book.

  I scrolled back. I’d last texted him a month ago. That meant a month with my own hand and a vibrator, if I bothered at all. Definitely too long.

  Dylan King’s hard, sexy body drifted into my thoughts. I’d turned around quick, but I’d seen plenty. The fact that he was my client and I was thinking about it at all meant that it had been too long. It would have to get taken care of.

  Don’t just talk to Dylan King. Convince him.

  Damn it, I had no idea what I was going to do. I needed a plan. And I needed to stop thinking about Dylan whenever I thought about sex.

  I dove into work, as I usually did, but today I found myself drifting. What exactly was Dylan doing in the penthouse at the Hexagon? Was he sticking with his decision? What would he do next? He hadn’t called the number on the card I’d left. I’d hired Max to keep an eye on the hotel, to see if Dylan went anywhere, but I hadn’t heard from him, either.

  At noon I had my assistant, Amanda, bring me my usual lunch—a seared tuna salad from the bistro a few blocks away. It cost $65, but it was worth every penny. When the door closed behind her, I set the salad in front of my computer and opened the Dylan King file.

  There was a paper file on Dylan King, but it didn’t have the good stuff in it: namely, the photos and the dirt about his love life. Birth certificates and records from the DMV weren’t exactly what turned me on. I ate my salad and scrolled through the digital file again, trying to reconcile the facts I already knew with the man I’d met yesterday. The man I’d argued with, flirted with, and seen naked. The man who annoyed me and saw too much about me. The man who might be my client for life. The man I had to convince, somehow, to give up his claim to millions of dollars, a lifetime of wealth.

  I put down my fork and called Max, my investigator.

  “Maddy,” he said when he picked up. Max was nearly seventy, an experienced investigator who always wore a suit. He’d retired years ago, but he needed money to help his grandkids, and I paid him very well, so he kept me on as his one and only client. This gave him the exclusive right, among my business associates, to call me Maddy.

  “Dylan King,” I said to him. “Is he still at the hotel?”

  “He seems to be,” Max said. “He went out for a while, but now he’s back.”

  “He went out?” I snapped. “You’re supposed to tell me these things. Where did he go?”

  “I have no idea. I tried to tail him, but he took a taxi and I lost him. It isn’t so easy to tail a cab in LA traffic.”

  “He doesn’t know anyone here. Or does he?”

  “I didn’t think so, no. But you never know with this guy. He isn’t easy to pin down.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  I heard Max take a sip of something, probably coffee. He was likely sitting in his car in the Hexagon parking lot, watching the doors. “A few hours. He got back about twenty minutes ago. Looks like he got a haircut plus a beard trimming. And when he came back he was driving a car and carrying a few garment bags.”

  Garment bags? A car? Now I sat up straight in my chair, alarmed. “He hasn’t received any money from the estate yet. Where is he getting a wardrobe and a car?”

  “Beats me.” Max took another sip of coffee. “Maybe military pay is better than I thought. I actually admire him, except I also resent him for making me sit in my car all day when I really need to piss.”

  “He’s up to something,” I said. Work was officially forgotten. “I need to know what it is.”

  “I paid a bellhop to let me know if anyone comes or goes from King’s room. So far, he says no. Maybe you impressed him, Maddy. Maybe he just wants to dress up for you.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Well, we know his sister’s wedding is coming up. Maybe he’s dressing up for that.”

  “Strange, because he shut down his email and never got an invitation.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind,” Max said. “Maybe—oh, shit, there he is.”

  I leaned forward in my chair, as if that would let me see Dylan from across LA. “What’s he doing?”

  “Talking to the front desk,” Max said. “It looks like he’s checking out.”

  “Checking out?” I nearly shouted it. “He doesn’t live here. He has nowhere to go.”

  “He disagrees, obviously. He’s coming out now. And, yeah, he’s cleaned up. Nice suit. That thing cost a bundle.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  “Now he’s getting in his Mercedes. Nice dark gray one, too. He just put his bags in and got in. I gotta go.” He hung up, leaving me with a dead phone in my hand.

  This was not happening. I’d had Dylan King right here in LA, right where I wanted him. I had him on the spot. He was supposed to think over his decision about the will and call me. I was supposed to convince him to back off in order to save my job. Simple.

  And now he’d gotten a haircut, bought a suit, and checked out, driving off in a car he almost certainly didn’t own.

  I had no control over this situation. None.

 
I stood up and paced to one side of my office, then the other. My assistant wouldn’t hold my calls for much longer. I had a one-thirty meeting with a real estate mogul client and I couldn’t miss it. I’d never missed a meeting this important ever in my career.

  And there was nothing I could do if I left the office. I didn’t know where Dylan was going, and I had Max on the case anyway. He’d find out what Dylan was up to. That was what I paid him for.

  I should just relax, go to the meeting. Do what I did best and put my anxiety away in a box. I’d open the box later, think about everything later. Dylan might have scraped up some money, but he needed to deal with his father’s will. He needed to make that call. That meant he wouldn’t go too far without at least getting in contact with me. There was no other way.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. Tried to fight for control. I had almost done it when my phone rang—my personal phone. The number I’d given to Dylan last night.

  I couldn’t tell who was calling. I answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  Dylan King’s voice was low and almost amused. “I lost your man,” he said. “Just like I did this morning.”

  “Dylan,” I said, the name a breath coming out of me. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “He’s not bad, actually,” Dylan said, ignoring me. “If you fire him, let me know. I could probably use him.”

  “No way,” I said. “I’ll ask again. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting out of that stuffy hotel and going home. No offense, since I know you picked the place. But it really isn’t me.”

  “You don’t have a home,” I pointed out. “Not in LA and not anywhere. So where are you going?”

  “You’ll find out when I get there, I promise,” Dylan said. “Do you trust me, Madison?”

  No. Yes. “Apparently I shouldn’t.”

  “Well, you have no choice—you have to trust me now. You should have just let me get on that plane to Dallas. Now you’ve set this in motion.”

  “Set what in motion?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Jesus, Dylan, please. Just tell me what you’re doing.”