Samara met Beckett at the door. She took one look at the shell-shocked look on his face and the horrible burden he carried in his hands and threw her arms around him. “I’ve got you, Beckett. I have you.”
It took several long seconds for him to bring his arms around her and hug her back. He squeezed her and exhaled as though he was the one compressed. “Samara.” Just her name. Nothing more.
He didn’t have to say anything else.
She’d been there when he walked through his childhood home and picked up the few things that mattered to him. She’d witnessed the intimate window into his past that he’d offered that day. She recognized the bagged baby book for the depth of the loss it represented. It was not just an item. Nothing so simple as that.
Samara hugged him tighter, trying to offer comfort with her body that she didn’t think he’d take from her words. I’m here. You aren’t alone. I won’t leave. She stroked her hands up his back and down again, soothing in the only way she knew.
A shudder worked through him and he took a slow, haggard breath. “It was bad.”
I’m so sorry. Let me share this burden. More words she couldn’t voice. She just kept touching him, pressing as much of her body against as much of his that she could reach.
Another breath. “I’m not under suspicion of anything, but the apartment is unlivable.”
“You’ll stay here.” She didn’t form it as question, didn’t give him an option. Beckett was more than capable of setting himself up in a hotel for the time being while he figured out his next step, but Samara couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone. He was already too isolated. Untethered. She couldn’t shake the irrational belief that he’d float away if she let go of him. “Stay with me, Beckett,” she repeated.
He stirred as if registering where they were for the first time. “You don’t have to offer.”
“I want you here, so I’m going to have you here.” When he made no motion to move, she slipped back and led him into the kitchen.
It was only then that she noticed the blood on his cuffs and marring his hands. “Beckett?” Samara worked to keep the alarm from her tone. “What’s this?”
He shook his head as if shaking off a dream. “Pig blood. You’ll be happy to know no one was murdered in my place. It was all for show.”
She’d bet whoever trashed his place didn’t realize he’d be gone all night. They probably knew about his trip to LA and they’d planned on him coming home, tired after a day of meetings and traveling, and walking into that scene unsuspectingly.
Fury roared through her, turning any doubts she had to ash. Beckett hadn’t done anything to deserve this level of hate. Even if he had been the biggest piece of shit in existence, it didn’t justify this systematic dismantling of his life.
She tugged him over to the sink and turned the water on. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
That got a reaction. He disentangled himself from her. “I’m okay. It was shocking and upsetting, but I’m okay. I don’t need you to handle me.”
Words he’d spoken to her after the reading of his father’s will. It felt like a hundred years ago instead of less than a week. She met his gaze directly. “Some days we all need a little handling. You already bear the weight of so much, Beckett. Let me help shoulder the burden, even if it’s only for tonight.”
She took the bag from his hands and set it on the counter in clear sight, and then unbuttoned his shirt. He watched her like a hawk as she slid it off his shoulders, but Beckett made no move to touch her. She nudged him closer to the sink and pointed at the soap. “I’m going to make a quick call, and then we’re going to sit down. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want to do something to check out mentally for a while, we can do that, too.”
“Therapeutic sex?”
She snorted. “I was thinking more of renting a movie on demand, eating good food, and letting me cuddle your tension away.”
Beckett considered. His frozen expression had thawed a little since he arrived, but he was nowhere near normal. It scared her. He’d never appeared more like his father than when she opened the door and found him looking at her from behind an icy wall. That wasn’t the Beckett she knew—the one she’d come to care about entirely too much. Her Beckett was fire and passion and a healthy dose of attitude.
She walked away before he could answer, hating the way her throat closed, refusing to be upset in front of him when it was Beckett who had been hurt. Samara made two quick calls—one to order several changes of clothes for him to be couriered to her condo from a shop about a mile away, and the other takeout from two different places.
By the time she made it back into the main living area, Beckett had finished washing his hands and was prowling around the space. Snooping. She paused in the doorway to take in a shirtless Beckett in her living room. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned over to read the titles on her bookshelf.
“Regency romance, thrillers, and a startling selection of classic horror novels.” He spoke without looking over. “Every time I think you can’t surprise me, you go and prove me wrong.”
He sounded more normal, which made her smile a little. “Which of those is the most surprising?”
“Definitely the horror. Thrillers and romance are just two sides to the same coin, so they go hand in hand to some extent.” He glanced at her. “Don’t tell that to men who like to read the damn thrillers, though.”
She recognized the subject for a desperate bid not to talk about what he’d just seen, so she played along. For now. “Do tell.”
“Both tell stories that are emotion-driven. Fear and love aren’t that different when it comes right down to it.”
He spoke with the kind of familiarity that drew her several steps closer. “You sound like you’ve read a romance or two.”
“My mother had a subscription to the old Harlequin novels at one point. I found them in a box in the attic when I was thirteen. She must have read them multiple times each, because the spines were exceedingly abused.” He grinned unexpectedly. “I read them all.”
She could just picture an adolescent Beckett holed up with those stories, reading them to feel close to the mother he’d lost. “That’s really sweet.”
“It was.” His smile fell away. “Though my father didn’t think so. He realized I’d hidden them away when I was fourteen and he made me watch as he burned them all.” He caught her expression and shrugged. “He was proving a point.”
God, her heart ached for him. He’d lost so much, and he just kept moving forward, barely missing a step.
You don’t have to be alone anymore.
She didn’t even know if she had any business promising him that. She couldn’t fill the void of so many missing people inside him. No one could but Beckett himself. But he didn’t have to stand as a pillar of solitude, protecting everyone under his wing without falter.
That was why he’d never left, no matter how shitty his father had been. Why he wouldn’t leave no matter how little his heart was in the oil business or the legacy of his family. He had people depending on his leadership, and he’d see it through to keep their lives secure.
Oh my God, I love him.
“What’s got that look on your face?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. She couldn’t tell him now or he’d accuse her of saying the words out of pity. No, they had to get through this mess and walk out the other side, and then she could confess what she felt for him. Or maybe I’m just a coward.
Beckett turned in a slow circle, seeming to take in her place. She tried to see the room from his point of view. Her condo was about half the size of his. Flowers bloomed on her windowsill, and she had pots set up on either side of her balcony. They made her feel closer to her mother, even when they didn’t get to see each other as much as she’d like. Her living room was cozy enough, with a reasonable-sized television and a deep gray couch that was deep enough for two people to sleep on side by side. Her mother had crocheted the throw blanket haphazardly folded across the back of the couch, the only bright thing in the room with its happy oranges, reds, and yellows that made her think of a sunset.
“A movie…would be nice. We have to talk but—”
“It can wait,” Samara said firmly. She hadn’t had a chance to study Lydia’s calendar, but she needed to tell him about it. “I ordered dinner. We’ll eat. Decompress. And then we’ll talk about what happens next.”
He hesitated, but finally nodded. “Deal.”
Samara handed him the remote and put on the hot water while Beckett flipped through the movie options. The bloody bag on her counter drew her gaze. The baby book inside looked saturated, but if there was a way to save even part of it, it wouldn’t happen while the thing was air-locked in a bag. “I’m going to see if I can dry this out.”
“If you want to.”
He didn’t sound exactly encouraging, but she didn’t let that stop her. Samara grabbed some towels and scissors and a pan. She carefully set the bag in the pan and cut down the sides. The metallic scent made her stomach clench, but she gritted her teeth and gingerly parted the cover to see what the damage was inside. Blood stained the edges of the pages and the first few were completely ruined, but most of the middle ones were still readable. She just needed to keep them that way. She blotted the wet spots with one of the towels, making sure not to smear it. The front cover was beyond saving, but she propped it up and spread the pages as best she could. She was considering getting her hair dryer and using the cold setting to try to dry it faster when the buzzer sounded.
“I got it.” Beckett’s voice sounded closer behind her than she expected.
She jumped and twisted to find him leaning against the opposite kitchen counter. “I didn’t hear you.”
His gaze settled on the spread baby book and the red marking her hands. She didn’t know what to say, so she blurted out. “I know it’s important to you. I couldn’t not try.”
He took two steps to her, pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “Thank you. For all this. For being there.”
Beckett set the food Samara had ordered out on the coffee table—Indian and Italian—and then took the garment bag into her bedroom to change. He noted the price tags on the suit and lounge pants, fully planning on repaying her the cost. Beckett changed into the lounge pants and paused to take in Samara’s bedroom.
He’d expected more of the same from her living room—cozy comfort. But it was downright girly. No less than a dozen throw pillows were artfully scattered across her bed, in gold and red and orange. The bedspread itself was red with a floral border. The gauzy gold curtains let in the early evening light, and the two prints on either side of the window were close-up photos of flowers that reminded him of that painter he’d studied in school. The overall effect was busy, but welcoming. A little sanctuary for Samara alone.
And anyone she’s been serious with over the years.
He shut that thought down. Samara hadn’t been a saint any more than he had. If she’d had a recent serious boyfriend, there was no evidence of the man in this room. Even if there had been…Beckett was here, not some ex of hers.
You’re focusing on something that doesn’t matter instead of the hulking elephant in the room.
Beckett sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. Seeing Samara trying to salvage the ruined baby book…He hadn’t expected it of her. He’d taken the damn book only because he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving it in his ruined condo for another moment. He’d called her because being alone was the worst thing he could contemplate while he dealt with the emotional fallout. Knowing someone had broken into his apartment—his safe space—and methodically destroyed anything and everything he valued.
The door opened and he looked up to find Samara standing there.
Not everything I value was destroyed.
But it could be.
She gave a half smile. “You should eat something.”
Taking care of him, even when he didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t let it go without telling her the truth he’d been avoiding for half the week. “I took the contract.”
Samara blinked. “What?”
“The contract—the one you’ve been working your ass off to put in a bid for. I pulled strings behind your back and took the contract before the date to give the proposal.” It was selfish, his need to get this out, to drive her away now before she kept piling kind act upon kind act onto him. Before he found a reason never to tell her so that he could keep this thing going between them longer.
Samara leaned against the door frame and considered him. She wore a simple black dress that did nothing to downplay her curves. Sometime after he’d arrived, she’d pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail, and it struck him that this was what Samara Mallick looked like without her many walls in place. Relaxed and a little rumpled and more beautiful than he’d ever seen her.
Look your fill now. This ends soon.
She finally sighed. “Okay.”
“What?”
“Okay. It’s a dick move, sure. But I get it. It’s business. And given that Morningstar already had that contract so long, it doesn’t surprise me you were able to bend the rules. I would have done the same thing in your position.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It was still shitty, though.”
“I’m sorry that it was you I was up against, but I’m not sorry I did it.” Losing out on that bid would hurt Lydia. Not enough and not for long, but it allowed him to retaliate in some way.
She threw up her hands. “Beckett, you’ve been systematically attacked multiple times in the last week and those attacks show no sign of slowing down or de-escalating. Right now, the bid is the last thing I’m worried about.” She hesitated. “But you should still call Journey and tell her not to spend the next twenty-four hours cramming for it.”
He could barely believe what he was hearing. “You spent a lot of time putting together that proposal.”
“Yes, I did. And I’m mad at you for pulling such an underhanded move, but I also know how to prioritize. Your safety—physical or otherwise—is more important than either Morningstar Enterprise or Kingdom Corp.” She crossed to him and crouched in front of him, putting their faces closer to level. “My job is important to me—really important to me—but losing that bid won’t change my life overmuch. What you’re dealing with will.” She gave him another of those sweet little smiles that he’d started to crave. “But the next time we go head to head, I’m going to kick your ass if you pull a stunt like this…if I don’t pull it first.”
He gave a faint smile. “Deal.”
She took his hand and rose, tugging him to his feet as she did. “You need to at least try to eat. I have my own bombshell to drop.”
It wasn’t until they were seated next to each other with plates of food that she took out her phone and showed him Lydia’s secondary calendar. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it too closely and compare it to the one I have.”
He zoomed in on it, noting the reflection from the monitor. “You were in Lydia’s office?”
“Yeah. How else would I have gotten this?”
Beckett’s stomach dropped and he had to fight not to raise his voice. “That was dangerous, Samara. No one knew you were there. Anything could have happened to you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve worked in that building for ten years, Beckett. Lydia would have been furious if she caught me, and she might have fired me on the spot, but it’s not like she’d shove me out a window.”
He wasn’t so sure. He’d had certain beliefs about his aunt since as long as he could remember, and it never would have occurred to him that she was capable of murder until his father died and so many strings connected her back to what might have happened that night. “There were no drugs found in my father’s system, but that doesn’t mean he chose to drink that much.”
“Wait a minute—you think she actually orchestrated that entire night?”
“My father’s driver was paid off. He’s currently somewhere in Brazil as best I can tell. Even with the guy gone, Nathaniel had three others who worked as backup to accommodate his schedule at any given time. My father drank often enough that his being shit-housed wouldn’t raise red flags, but his not having a driver does. She was at the restaurant that night—I have pictures proving it. How hard would it be to ensure he got behind the wheel? If it’s not murder, strictly speaking, it’s still criminal.”
Samara poked at her food. “Okay, I’m not saying she’s not capable of doing something like that. She wasn’t where her schedule said she should be that night.”
“Wasn’t she?” He zoomed in on the night of his father’s death and flipped the phone around to show Samara.
She frowned. “The spa appointments are there, but so is one with…N.G.”
“Nathaniel George King—my father’s full name.”
“She lied.” She didn’t sound surprised, exactly, but definitely perturbed. “Okay, let’s say this played out exactly like you described. I still can’t picture Lydia sneaking into your building to set a fire, or breaking into your condo with a bucket of pigs’ blood.”
He couldn’t, either, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. “Then she hired someone else to do it.”
Samara took several bites and he followed suit. They ate, both lost in their own thoughts, until she set down her fork and turned to face him. “What happens now?”
“Now I find Walter Trissel and see what he knows.” At her questioning look, he explained. “This all goes back to the changing of the will. The only two people who definitely know what happened with it are my father and Walter. If Lydia managed to manipulate my father into giving her Thistledown Villa, then she used Walter Trissel to do it.”
“That makes sense. There’s a thread that runs through all this, so if you find it, you can trace it back to her.”
He forced a smile. “You almost sound like you believe me.”
“Well, it’s getting impossible to ignore. I don’t know that Lydia’s personally responsible for every bit of this, but she’s definitely the one gaining the most from it.” She pressed her lips together. “What’s her endgame?”
“I imagine she’s got alibis for every single attack against me.”
She motioned for him to continue. Beckett leaned back against her couch and sighed. “She tried to buy Morningstar from me.”
“She had to know you wouldn’t take that offer.”
“I’m sure she did. She’s not stupid.” He stared at her bookshelves, not liking the direction of his thoughts. “I don’t know what happens to Morningstar if I die.”
“Beckett.”
He shifted closer and put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m just musing. I have a will set up, but it mostly concerns my trust fund and Thistledown, the latter of which is a nonissue at the moment. The company is set up differently. Normally, it would be up to the board to determine a new CEO and distribute shares from there, but Morningstar is ultimately a King operation. It has its own procedures when it comes to how the family works.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’d have to consult our friend Walter Trissel, but it’s entirely possible that if I die without an heir, the company reverts back to the nearest King—either to Lydia or Anderson, her oldest child.”
She blanched. “If that’s not motive for murder, I don’t know what is.”