Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  Rama looks away. He is fascinated by the natural ease with which Seth wields his power. He's so different from his blatant brother, and his crafty cousin, so much more like a fox to Caleb's lion. It’s happened before, this sudden arousal at Seth's mere presence—that first meeting, in Bamboo. That night has been easy to forget in the racket of family feuds and his own syndicate responsibilities. Yet here he is, blood heating as the weed seems to push him gently against the seat, and steal the edge in his muscles.

  He says, “I like it here. Such an opposite to the city. It's peaceful.”

  “Don't you come from a city? I understand Bangkok's pretty large,” Seth says in between hits.

  Rama allows a small smile. The question is so seemingly innocent that he wonders if Seth is fucking with him. He says, “Yes, my city is a big city, but my people believe in keeping their souls. A forest is a magical place.”

  Seth passes the joint, then tips his head back against the seat. He says, quietly, “For me, it's the ocean.”

  Rama blinks, pauses on his way for a hit. Why does it always surprise him when Seth is honest? He has never been dishonest, not really. But he's usually so closed and far away that the glimpses of soul are as powerful as they are rare. Again, Rama finds his gaze slipping down over the guns, and the buttons. Why are the Morgans so damn irresistible?

  He hits the joint, and he wonders suddenly what it would’ve been like to have been in a room with both Morgan brothers at once. He wouldn't have stood a chance. His whole club wouldn't have stood a chance.

  Still, he won't be thrown off by his own game of sex appeal. He says, “You liked it in

  Cuba?”

  It's not quite a jab, just a little reminder that Rama is clever, too. Rama may not play like a fox, but he certainly understands a cat—and they play just as coy. Seth lifts his head, turns a thin-lipped expression on the Thai.

  Seth says, “I wouldn't say that.”

  Again, Rama is reminded that he and Seth are not so far apart. He understands this Morgan more than he realized. Sure, he relates. If asked about his stay in New York City, “like” is not the word that would come to mind.

  It's too early to push. They have hours left of this trip, and Seth is extending some sort of peace offering. So Rama says, “Tell me about this place.”

  Seth's posture eases, and he passes the joint for the last time. Rama kills the thing, rolls down his window, and tosses out the remnants.

  “Valhalla, the extremely off the radar, high-dollar destination for politicians and CEOs of multi-billion dollar companies. The place doesn't advertise, doesn't even have a website, and they're extremely picky about new members. What happens here stays here.”

  Rama tries not to look impressed. He says—more to himself than to Seth—“It comes with a built-in clientele.”

  “Exactly,” Seth says with a grin. The expression could almost be boylike, if the topic were anything else.

  The car rolls around a wide bend, and the trees open up to reveal a wide, still lake palely reflecting the surrounding mountains. The sky is clear, and the afternoon sun makes the autumn leaves feel warm. Across the lake, Rama can see a sprawling stone structure. It reminds him of the castles in England and he feels an unexpected pang of longing.

  Ever since his meeting with Emma, seeing his and Caleb’s plan, dreamt up over Cha Yen and weed—he’s been feeling that lost, lonely feeling. He shakes his head, trying to banish it and memories of the blue-eyed prince.

  They follow the road around the lake, and pull up to the front doors. Everything is stone and glass, sleek brushed metal fixtures and straight-backed attendants. Seth shrugs into his coat as his driver gets out to open his door.

  “How did you find out this is here?” Rama wonders.

  Seth's grin deepens, and he says, “Every piece of real estate has a price.”

  His door opens, and Rama watches the king unfold himself from the car, as though all the people of the land have gathered to see this glorious arrival. Rama scoffs softly. Seth makes it seem so easy to believe the whole world wants him. Pretty soon, Emma will be the same damn way.

  He pushes aside the thought, and follows Seth into the fall afternoon. It feels good to stretch his legs. He slips his hands into his pockets as a bellhop sidles up to them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan. Please, follow me.”

  They are led through the glass double doors in a wide reception area. A stone fireplace is alight in the middle of it, surrounded by earthy shaded couches and chaise lounges. Rama tucks his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, and lets his liquid eyes roll over the scene. Everything about the place screams of opulent elite.

  They are greeted by a man in his early sixties, wearing a black suit, red face, and stupid smile. He says, “Mr. Morgan, I'm Nicholas Hamilton, the proprietor of this establishment.” The men shake hands.

  Nicholas says, “Would you like a drink, or a cigar? I just got in some fine Cubans.”

  Seth allows a smirk, but just for a flash before he turns the smile into appreciative. He says, “Maybe just some water.”

  The girl behind the counter scrambles to a bottle of mineral, and pours into two crystal tumblers. She hurries around to present them to the guests. Rama watches Seth's charm in action, watches the girl blush when he smiles, and says thanks. He holds that smile as he takes a drink.

  “I've arranged for you to have full access to the resort. I also offer any of our services complimentary,” Hamilton says with that big, ridiculous smile.

  He hands them both lanyards with red cards attached.

  “My security and staff will recognize these and cooperate with you. Would you like me to show you around?”

  “No need,” Seth says coolly, slipping the card into his pocket. “We'll just have a look around, if that's alright.”

  “Of course,” says Hamilton. “Anything you need, just ask. We have also opened one of our empty suites, number fifteen, for your viewing pleasure.”

  Seth smiles, a sure, slow thing, and says, “Thanks so much, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Rama notices that the two of them still have the attention of the young brunette behind the counter. They've also caught the eye of the forty-something woman playing the baby grand in the corner. Likewise, the dolled-up barely-twenty-one blonde girl sitting beside the man in his fifties. The old man doesn't notice because his hand is on her inner thigh, and his lips are against her ear. Rama smirks at her, and she flushes. He can recognize one of his own.

  Then, he and Seth are brushing past the resort's owner toward another set of glass doors. Rama doesn't look back, doesn't need to look to know there are eyes burning into his back—he accepts it much as Seth, as the adoration due royalty. They enter a long hallway and follow it until they meet a parallel hallway. A wood sign informs them that the ballrooms, pools and sauna, and restaurant are to the left. Suites are to the right.

  Seth catches Rama's eye sidelong, and lifts an eyebrow in question. Rama flicks his chin to the right. Seth smirks, and they turn the corner.

  “So the word is Hamilton is looking to retire. He's got some other ventures going, has made a fortune off of the fortune of others. But it's hard to find a buyer with my kind of capital who's interested in this niche market. The truth is, we're a godsend, and he has no idea we mean to do anything but keep it running as-is.”

  Seth picks up his train of thought from the car as if they never quit talking. Rama soaks in the words, slowly, battling the distraction of Seth stalking the hallway like he already owns it.

  He's so natural here, in this place that oozes wealth and class. Rama has never seen anything like it.

  He had believed he had seen the utmost of style when he saw the Morgan hotels, but this is a level above it. He certainly never saw anything like this in Bangkok, where his family's bars are stuck between other brothels and wooden walls. This is so far above it that he feels suddenly out of place.

  “For the price I'm sure he's asking, he ought not give a fuck what happen
s to it once he sells,” Rama says with an edge.

  Seth pulls the red card from his pocket, swings it around on the lanyard so that it wraps around his fingers. He catches the card with a sly smile, and doesn't miss a beat. He says, “The other resort is nice, but this place—this is our goldmine. We stand to make some big friends.

  Powerful friends. And Hamilton can't stumble over himself fast enough to take my money.” They come to the door bearing a wrought-iron number fifteen. Seth grabs the door handle, and glances at Rama, that same fox smile. He says, “Tell me your girls wouldn't dig a place like this.”

  Rama finds the mischievous sentiment contagious. He cracks a one-side smirk. They would be scrambling over each other to provide the best performance once the word made it back home of this clean, safe whorehouse by the lake.

  “That's what I thought,” Seth says, and pushes open the door.

  They enter into a massive living room, done in polished red wood and earth tones. The ceiling is twelve feet high at least, and there's a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony. Beyond the glass, a view of the lake and fog-crested mountains. Breathtaking.

  To their left is the bedroom; to their right is a dining room with a dining table for eight.

  Rama ambles through the room, to the balcony doors. It occurs to him that for all the “business” he's seen Seth handle, he's never actually seen him do real estate. And though Rama doesn't know much about the industry, he can tell that Seth is absolutely right about this place. He smiles, and it's private with his back turned to the king. He says, “This is a Buddhist whore's paradise.”

  Seth steps up beside Rama to share the view of the beauty of up-state New York. He says, “Good. Because I believe we'll be closing within the week.”

  Chapter 10. Bamboo. New York City, October 14th

  She Hasn't Been To Bamboo In Months——hasn't seen Rama in an informal setting since before she left for Santa Lucia. Stepping out of her Bentley as Dom holds the door, she inhales the street air, and finds comfort in the sound of music and laughing people. Some of the tension that's been creeping into her since she stepped off the plane eases.

  She’s dressed down, in skinny jeans and half-boots and a thin black sweater against the cool fall evening. Her red-gold curls are down, and her eyes are wide and nervous. Here, more than anywhere, she is not a queen or a supplicant—she is just a girl.

  Except that she is flanked by Dom as she approaches the club, and the line is watching her, and she has never been just a girl.

  The bouncer, a big Asian she vaguely recognizes, grins at her, exposing even white teeth.

  “Princess. It's good to see you.”

  Dom is stiff and wary at her side, but she ignores him and the bouncer’s greeting, lifting an eyebrow as the bouncer raises the velvet rope. "Upstairs or his office?"

  The bouncer murmurs something into his headset and then looks up. “He asked you to meet him at the bar.”

  Dom touches her arm, a wary caution, and Emma glances at him. “I'm fine,” she says, and there is a silent order in those words. Then she steps into the club.

  There are new girls here, swaying on the dance floor and chattering at each other in their fluid language. They give her smirking looks, secure in their tiny kingdom and attentive dates. A slow smile turns her lips and they, one at a time, look away.

  Emma dismisses the whores as she walks to the bar. A girl is there, her gaze wary. “Vodka tonic, please,” she says. The girl nods, and Emma turns to face the dance floor. It’s a busy night—the place is packed in that way that clubs always seem to be, flirting with the line of not enough and too much. It’s too crowded for her to find Rama, and she sighs.

  She’s seen him, of course. At the airport, and Morgan Estates. But those were formal situations. Seth has seen the prince more than she has, and that rankles, even as she's been grateful for the buffer.

  Seth said he didn’t care—that she was free to see the foreign prince, so long as she was careful. But with music pounding in her veins, and the rattle of glasses and ice behind her, she doesn’t want to be careful.

  His arms come around her, and she twists in his embrace to stare at him. Liquid black eyes and a lazy smile that belies the heat in his gaze. The silk of his button-down tickles her palms.

  “You are here,” he murmurs.

  Nerves tickle in her belly and she shrugs, turning to take the vodka from the watching bartender. She sips it as she faces Rama again.

  “You asked me to come.”

  Hunger and a deeper emotion that she refuses to name flickers in his eyes, and then he looks away. Kai has appeared from nowhere and she grins at the big bodyguard. He gives her a rare smile.

  “Your car is ready.”

  Emma goes still and slides a look at Rama. He’s rubbing his wrist, almost nervous.

  “Come with me.”

  For a moment, fear wraps around her. There are too many people who want her dead, and he is foreign. Then he steps toward her, wraps her tighter in his embrace, dipping down to nuzzle

  her neck. “Please, mali,” he breaths against her skin. “Don’t make me beg.”

  She smirks. “Would you?”

  Rama’s expression is utterly serious when he straightens and claims her hand. “For you, Emma? There is very little I would not do.”

  She follows as he pulls her through the club, trailed by their bodyguards. There is a limo waiting, and Rama opens the door. Dom ducks to look inside and then nods, waiting as Emma slides into the dark interior. A short second later, and Rama slips in next to her. There is a soft thud as the bodyguards take the front seat, and then the privacy glass is raised.

  As they pull into traffic, Emma stares at Rama. It’s been a long time since they’ve been alone. She doesn’t know what to expect from him, this pimp who loves her. How can you be a queen when you want someone so badly?

  She glances out her window, and in the reflection of the city lights, she can see him staring at her. “Quit,” she murmurs.

  “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” There is curiosity and amusement in his voice that pisses her off.

  “You’re a king, for fuck’s sake. Not a love-struck fool.”

  Rama laughs, and leans back against the leather seat. Against her best wishes, she finds her gaze drawn to him, to the skin exposed at the v of his shirt.

  “The two are not mutually exclusive, Emma. Seth loved, didn’t he?”

  “And it got him shot!” she snarls.

  He tilts his head. “You see it as a weakness.”

  There it is. The truth she’s been trying to avoid. The reason she’s refused to be alone with him until now. Her lips thin, but she doesn’t answer Rama.

  He reaches for the champagne, pouring a glass that he passes to her, and then one for himself. Every move is smooth and feline. Everything is a study in seduction—and she can’t help but remember sex with him.

  Finally, he leans back and says, “Seth loves you. And you love him.”

  She stiffens, anger filling her eyes. “That’s different. You know that.”

  “No, mali. It’s not. Seth killed for you, and would gladly do it again.”

  “Mikie would have died even if he hadn’t shot at me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We won’t know, will we? Seth pulled the trigger when it would save you. Just like you did to save him.”

  “What are you saying?” she snaps, looking away.

  He doesn’t answer, and eventually, she looks back. He’s watching her with a patient smile. “Love is not a weakness, mali. What Nicolette did was not because of love.”

  She doesn’t answer as he lifts the glass and swallows the champagne. She watches his throat work, and the way the expensive drink clings to his lips.

  She doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to think about the woman she killed, or why—or that staring at him, all she can think of is a knife in her back. She doesn’t want to do anything but surrender thought and choice for a few hours, and let this strange
man and his amazing hands take her places she hadn’t realized were possible. She leans into him, and hunger lights his eyes. His breath stirs her hair, brushes against her lips as he murmurs. “Not yet, mail. We’re here.”

  The car isn’t moving. On either side, the car is flanked by the bodyguards, and she flushes, sitting up. Rama curses, and reaches for her. He moves fast, tugging her against him and kissing her, hard and thorough, before she can process what he’s doing. Then she makes a pleased little noise in her throat, and pulls him closer, nibbling at his lips.

  Rama breathes a Thai curse, and pulls away and she makes a low hungry noise, anger flaring over the desire unspooling in her belly. “Wait.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “We have an appointment,” he says, and without giving her time to respond, he shoves open her door and nudges her toward it.

  Glaring, she lets Dom help her out of the car, into the waiting night. She straightens and smooths her sweater, shoving aside the lingering arousal as she takes in the dark street and people moving around her.

  Emma eyes the storefront. It’s brightly lit and clean, with an ornate sign.

  “Why are we at a tattoo shop?”

  Rama smirks at her, and wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her into the shop. There are a few people being inked in the booths, and a couple of giggling girls eyeing the flash on the walls.

  Rama ignores them and the front counter, and strides to the third stall from the back. A tiny Thai girl sits there, reading a magazine and picking at a piece of fried chicken. Emma stiffens at the sight of the other girl, especially when she looks up and her bored expression shifts to eager pleasure. She chatters something at him, and Rama leans down to kiss her cheek.

  “Emma, this is Choi.”

  “Your girlfriend?” Choi says, eyeing Emma with barely disguised dislike. Dom shifts slightly and Emma stiffens. Rama says something sharply in Thai, and the tattoo artist blinks, a startled expression falling over her face.