Beckett spent a restless few hours in his condo in the city. He’d owned this place since he’d moved out after graduation, but these days he spent as many nights in hotel rooms around the world as he did in his own bed. He listened to the traffic outside his window and wished for the relative silence of Thistledown Villa. Not even the happy memories that haunted his childhood home would be enough to create a shelter in this storm. If anything, the empty, echoing halls would only make him feel worse, more alone than he already was.
The desire to go home just proved all the accusations his father had thrown at him over the years. Too soft. Too weak. Too goddamn stubborn. That makes two of us, old man.
But not old enough. Sixty was too young to die. There was no warning or slow decline of health. No chance for reconciliation. Despite what the rest of Houston thought, Beckett didn’t hate his father. They were just too different—or too similar, depending on who he asked. All Beckett ever wanted was some semblance of a relationship with the cold bastard, but any hint of softness had died alongside Beckett’s mother all those years ago.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to focus past his exhaustion and the first stirrings of something that might be grief. Or relief. The battle was over, for better or worse. There would be no more tense dinners that inevitably ended in fights about the future of Morningstar. No more awkward holidays that spotlighted the missing piece of their family and the loss of what could have been. No more trips for Beckett that were barely concealed excuses to get him the hell out of Texas, at least long enough for them to cool off about the argument of the month.
The future stretched before him, a single path forward that he was destined to walk alone.
What the hell were you even doing driving, let alone driving drunk?
He paced around the kitchen island for the fifth time, but his restless energy didn’t dissipate now any more than it had in the hours leading up to that moment. There were no answers there, and if answers did exist, they were in Thistledown Villa, currently forbidden to him. He could sneak in—he’d been sneaking out of that place since he was fifteen years old—but it would muddy the inevitable legal wars if he got caught and…
Fuck it.
He pulled on a new pair of jeans and a black T-shirt and headed for the parking garage. His old Harley had been to hell and back with him, but he’d kept it out of some perverse need to stick it to his old man. It didn’t make a lick of sense as he stood in the darkness, flipping the key from his palm and out and back again. Nathaniel had been a remote and harsh father, but that didn’t mean Beckett had been the easiest kid to deal with. He was as responsible for the times they butted heads as his father was.
His phone rang, dragging him from his thoughts. He yanked it from his pocket. “Yeah?”
“You back in town?”
Beckett closed his eyes. All he had to do was make his excuses, get on his motorcycle, and drive the forty minutes out of town to the mansion. Instead, he answered truthfully. “Yeah, I got back a few hours ago.”
“Want to go get a beer?” Frank Evans, his longtime friend, offered him a lifeline he hadn’t known he needed.
“Yeah.” It was even the truth. With one last look at his Harley, he pocketed his keys and headed for the elevator. “Usual place?”
“I’m already here.”
That surprised a laugh out of him. It felt good, almost cathartic. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
It only took him ten minutes to walk from his condo to the Salty Chihuahua, a tiny bar sandwiched between a Mexican restaurant and a high-end spa that catered specifically to pets. Inside, the theatrically dimmed lights gave hints of the vintage pinup posters plastered on the walls, and all the tables were adorned with fishnet-clad plastic legs instead of normal table legs. He veered around a group of drunk college kids and made his way back to the corner booth tucked near the door to the kitchen.
As expected, Frank lurked there. He’d managed to find a specifically dark shadow to sit in. Beckett never knew if the man did it on purpose, but he seemed to melt into the shadows the way some people always sought the sun. Combined with his fierce scowl and the height and body that would fit right in with any NFL player. No one fucked with Frank. Though, truth be told, that had as much to do with Frank’s money and influence in Houston as it had to do with his forbidding looks.
He slid a beer bottle over as Beckett sank into the opposite side of the booth. “Thanks, man.”
“How you holding up?”
He didn’t know how to answer that. Even though he’d known Frank damn near twenty years, they didn’t do the braiding-each-other’s-hair-and-whispering-secrets bullshit. That didn’t change the fact that, at the end of the day, Beckett trusted the man with his life. Their friendship had lasted despite life hauling them apart for months and sometimes years at a time. It never seemed to matter. When he needed him, Frank was there—and vice versa.
That still didn’t mean he wanted to unload all his emotional bullshit. “Fine.”
Frank snorted. “More like you’re not completely torn up the bastard is dead and that’s bothering you as much as being an orphan is.”
Orphan.
It felt like a dirty word, for all that it was the truth now—had been the truth, if not the reality, since Beckett’s mom died. God, could I get any more morose? Beckett drained half the beer in a single pull. “I’m fine, Frank. Not okay, but fine.” There was no damn reason he should feel like a ship without an anchor, drifting from wave to wave, no land in sight. Nathaniel King had been many things, but a safe harbor didn’t enter into the equation.
Beckett eyed his beer. “Tonight might be a whiskey night.” Even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t get shit-faced drunk no matter how much he wanted to. Work waited, and it was time sensitive. His conflicting feelings about his old man’s death would hold until he had the time and space to work through them. In the meantime, Morningstar needed him.
“You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. The thing I keep coming back to is that he was drunk behind the wheel. Where the hell was his driver? My old man hasn’t driven in decades, but he suddenly decided it was a good idea—and then promptly drove into a telephone pole? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Frank shrugged. “People do weird shit when they drink.”
He couldn’t argue that, and yet…Nathaniel King did drink, often and far too much, and he’d never made the choice to drive before. Beckett glared at his bottle. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he repeated.
Frank drank his beer and watched Beckett in the eerie way he did sometimes, as if he could read thoughts. His dark skin seemed to drink up the shadows around him, giving the impression of menace that wasn’t quite an illusion. “You want me to look into it?” Frank had his fingers in countless pies in the city. Officially, he was a real estate mogul, but he also dealt in information, though to what endgame Beckett had never quite figured out.
He hesitated. It might be that the very same guilt Frank accused him of feeling was driving this insistence that something was wrong. It was entirely possible—probable, even—that the night of his father’s death had played out exactly like everyone said. He could be sending Frank on a wild-goose chase that would only result in Beckett looking bad, no matter how discreet the search for answers was. The last thing he needed was for word to get out that the new CEO of Morningstar Enterprise was paranoid and full of conspiracy theories.
He took another pull from his beer, forcing himself to drink more slowly this time. But what if something fishy was going on? If he turned a blind eye and pushed forward without looking into things, he’d always wonder if he could have done more. If he could have found answers. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Consider it done.” Frank motioned for two more beers and sat back. “I hear you saw Samara.”
Beckett slumped down in the booth. “How the hell would you know that?” He glanced at his phone. “It was three hours ago. There were exactly two other people in the room, and I know for a fact that Samara isn’t running to you and telling tales.” For whatever reason, Frank seemed to enjoy needling Kingdom Corp whenever the opportunity arose. Since Beckett’s aunt held grudges like no one’s business, it had created a mutual animosity and ensured that none of her employees gladly dealt with Frank.
“Maybe that’s exactly what I have set up.”
He rolled his eyes and flipped his friend off. “For real, how did you know?”
“A guy I know was getting coffee across the street and saw her leave.” Frank grimaced. “It doesn’t sound as intimidating when put like that.”
“Trust me, you have the market cornered when it comes to intimidation.” He finished off his beer as the bartender sauntered up with another pair. She gave Frank a lingering look and put a little more swing into her walk as she headed back the way she’d come.
Frank didn’t look over once. “Nice dodge. Samara.”
Beckett could tell the man to drop it and Frank would—their unspoken rule—but Beckett found himself wanting to talk about something that wasn’t his old man. His feelings regarding Samara weren’t any less complicated, but they were still easier to deal with. “She was standing in for my aunt at the reading of my father’s will. That’s it.” That, and for a moment there in the hall, she’d given off definite vibes. She’d locked it down fast, but there was no denying the chemistry between them. Their single night together hadn’t even taken the edge off.
“That’s it.”
“You don’t have to sound so put out about it. I don’t know what you expected me to say.”
Frank crossed his arms over his chest. “Seems the two of you have unfinished business.”
“The only unfinished business we have is the upcoming government contract. Once I secure that, I won’t have to see her again.” Until the next time.
When Frank only raised his brows, Beckett growled. “What do you want me to say? I can barely stand to be in her presence without losing my fucking mind—and not in a pleasant way. We hooked up. It’s done. End of story.” He glanced at the clock again, and pushed to stand. “I’m out. I need some sleep before I face down the dragon tomorrow.”
“Good luck.” Now it was Frank’s turn to hesitate. “If you change your mind about wanting to talk…I’m here. If anyone knows about complicated relationships with parents, it’s me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He wouldn’t put them both through the agony of that conversation, though. If Beckett really wanted to purge his demons, he’d find a bottle or a shrink—or both, since he wasn’t willing to face down the latter without the former in hand. “Catch up with you later.”
He paused by the bar to pay for their drinks and headed out into the night. The sticky air clung to his exposed skin and he inhaled deeply, pulling it into his lungs as if the humidity was solid enough to keep him on his feet. He needed to sleep but his racing thoughts wouldn’t still, a hamster on its wheel, frantically spinning, spinning, spinning. He headed for the condo because there was nothing else left to do. He couldn’t wander the streets indefinitely, and if he was going to speak to his aunt in the morning, he couldn’t walk in there with bloodshot eyes and swaying on his feet. She was a predator, and she wouldn’t hesitate to capitalize on perceived weakness.
Beckett strode across the street, the emptiness of his condo looming. It shouldn’t matter that it’s empty now. It’s always been empty. He slowed and stopped, looking up at the building.
I’ve never been completely alone in the world before.
“Fuck,” he breathed and shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to focus on that bullshit. He wasn’t alone. He might be the last King in this particular family branch, but there were cousins. They despised him, but they existed. Beyond that, he had Morningstar.
That was the one thing that hadn’t changed with his father’s death. He’d always had Morningstar. He’d have to find someone to replace his role as closer and the main contact for all the business they conducted overseas, but in the end Beckett had been training to take over the business since he was a teenager. If there was nothing else he and his father could agree on, they could agree on that.
He pulled his phone out and started walking again. A quick check of the time showed it was well after two in the morning. It’s not a good idea…He stopped scrolling through his contacts and started at the name his thumb hovered over. Samara.
It was possible that he’d call, she’d answer, and she’d come to him and help dispel the hushed silence of his condo. She’d bring life into the cold rooms the same way she brought life and energy into every room she walked into. Even if they spent the next couple hours arguing and verbally sniping at each other, it would be better than walking through that door into the tomblike silence of his place.
With a sigh, Beckett shoved his phone back into his pocket. Not an option. If he didn’t want to broadcast any weaknesses to his aunt, calling her second-in-command to keep him company because he couldn’t bear to be alone was counterintuitive.
He would have to push through this without leaning on anyone.
There wasn’t anyone to lean on, anyway.
Beckett woke up disoriented. He reached for the nightstand, only to knock over a lamp that shouldn’t have been there. The events of the last few days rolled through him. His father dead. Losing Thistledown Villa. Samara. Frank. A couple hours of sleep hadn’t magically solved the problems niggling around in the back of his mind.
He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. There was no point in lying around and wondering what the hell his father had been thinking getting behind the wheel, let alone doing it drunk. Frank would ask questions on his side of things, but the thought of just sitting back and waiting left Beckett twitchy. He couldn’t drop everything to investigate a death that had already been ruled a drunk driving accident. Even if there was some question of foul play, there was Morningstar to think about. It needed someone at the helm, and with the clock ticking down to when he had to submit the proposal for renewing the government contract they’d held for decades, he didn’t have time to dick around just to assuage his own guilt.
But he still had to go see his aunt. She and his father might have loathed each other, but they were siblings. She was still family, even if it was a broken family that had no hopes of healing. It didn’t matter. Speaking to her was the right thing to do.
If in the process he managed to get an idea of what her company was offering to secure the lease for the oil in the Gulf, so much the better.
Beckett took a quick shower and chose his suit with care. At Morningstar, he preferred to keep it casual when dealing with in-house things, but outside of the company, perceptions mattered. Lydia King might technically be family, but she was still an inherited enemy. If there was someone capable of fixing those burned bridges, it wasn’t Beckett.
Satisfied he was as ready as he was going to be, he dialed Kingdom Corp. A few minutes and several transfers later, the phone connected to Lydia’s direct line.
She barely let it ring. “Beckett. What a lovely surprise.”
He highly doubted that. “We need to talk.” Now that he had some time and distance between the reading of the will and this call, he hoped against hope that he and his aunt could discuss things like reasonable adults. Over the years, she’d been just as ruthless and ambitious as his father was, but if they could put that shit aside for a little bit it would be really nice. He didn’t like the odds of that happening—he’d never managed to see eye-to-eye with Nathaniel, after all. It was possible she’d surprise him—unlikely, but possible.
“I’m very busy.”
So we’re going to play it like this. Normally, he’d go back and forth with a renitent client until they felt they were in control of the situation, but Lydia wasn’t a client. It might be seven in the morning, but he was already so fucking done with today. “Make time.”
Lydia paused. “I’ll create a window if you can be here in twenty.”
He didn’t have to ask where “here” was—Kingdom Corp offices. When Lydia had split from the family thirty years ago, she hadn’t gone far to create her own business—she’d bought a building two blocks away and proceeded to renovate it to be even more ostentatious than Morningstar Enterprise was. “I’ll fit you into my schedule.”
“You do that.” She hung up.
He took his time walking to the offices. He’d be late, but he wasn’t too worried about it—showing up out of breath and having run to make the absurd time Lydia set would put her in the power position for their talk. He couldn’t afford that. Beckett paused to look around the lobby. It was a classy white that was intimidating and distant—it conveyed the impression of money, but it wasn’t beating people over the head with their wealth.
The secretary outside Lydia’s office was tiny and dark, her curly hair cut short to her head. Like every other member of the staff he’d caught a glimpse of, she was painfully attractive. She stopped him with a sharp look. “Mrs. King will be with you shortly. Please take a seat.”
Another power play—just like his taking his time had been. Beckett sighed, already bored with the game. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He marched past her before she had a chance to push back her chair and shoved through the massive dark wood doors into Lydia’s office.
His aunt looked up from her computer, her mouth opened to deliver something cutting, without a doubt, but she stopped when she recognized him. “You’re late, Beckett.”
“You’re busy. I’m busy, too. Let’s get this over with.”
The sharp clip of the receptionist’s heels stopped right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder—she barely came up to his chest, but she looked ready to whoop his ass. “Shall I have him removed from the building, Mrs. King?”
“No, thank you. I have it from here.”
The receptionist nodded and shut the doors behind him, but not before sending another searing glare his way. Not making friends here, am I? He hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, but blatant hostility was unexpected. Then again, it shouldn’t be.
He dropped into one of the comfortable chairs across from Lydia’s desk. It put him low enough that she looked down at him from her current position, and he had no doubt that was intentional. Everything about this place was a power move. Speaking first was a sign of weakness, but he didn’t give two fucks. His gaze snagged on the ornate metal forged sign on the wall behind her desk. Kingdom Corp. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “How come you never took Elliott’s name? How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Some women choose to follow the archaic tradition of taking their husband’s name. I didn’t. Why be a Bancroft, when I was born a King?” She raised her eyebrows. “As for Elliott, he’s currently out of town, probably with one of his mistresses, but I’m sure he’ll be back when he needs more money to gamble with.”
The casual way she said it bespoke many years’ worth of acceptance, which didn’t jibe with the Lydia he knew by reputation. Beckett had intended to get right down to business, but now he hesitated. No point in asking why she didn’t divorce him. Elliott Bancroft was the second son of a family that rivaled the Kennedys for political pull. They’d generated one president, four senators, a governor, and were almost universally loved within Texas. Their support of Kingdom Corp gave the company certain freedoms that might go away if Lydia’s marriage to Elliott ended.
He never expected to feel pity for his aunt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” She said it almost gently. “You’ve spent your entire life in a gilded room as the favored son—the only son. You might be my nephew by blood, but you’re nothing more than a rival business associate.”
The lack of heat in her words struck him as much as the words themselves. To Lydia, he wasn’t family. He was just an obstacle in her way. Can’t afford to forget that. He sat back. “My father gave you Thistledown Villa.”
“It certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?”
He fully intended to fight her on that ownership, but it would have to wait for the time being. That house was his main link to his past—to the times when the good parts of his family outweighed the bad. Beckett loathed leaving that battle before it started, but he had to think of the people who worked for Morningstar. They were depending on him to ensure that they still had jobs in a year, two, more. Compared to that, his family home didn’t measure up, no matter the personal value it held for him. Some things couldn’t wait, though. “I need access to the house for a few hours.”
Lydia picked up an expensive-looking pen. “I don’t know that I’m inclined to give it to you.”
“Lydia, shelve the act for a few minutes. Most of the furniture in Thistledown Villa might be heirloom and go with the house, but there are things I’m entitled to. No court in this state is going to deny me that right and you know it.”
Her hazel eyes sharpened on him. She tapped the pen against her dark red lips. “What is it worth to you?”
Anger flared, hot and potent. He wanted to get in her face, to yell at her for being so fucking callous in the wake of his father’s death, about the fact that Beckett’s loss was twofold in both the house and his last remaining parent.
Beckett examined the office, partly to make Lydia sweat, and partly to give himself time. The room was decorated much the same way as the rest of the building’s interiors—white marble floors and massive windows. The only soft touches were the chair he currently sat on and its mate next to him, both a deep purple to match the basic coloring of the trio of photographs lining each wall on either side of the desk. He recognized different shots of the fields that composed most of the property around Thistledown Villa. During the spring, wildflowers bloomed there, turning it into something out of a fairy tale.
She grew up there, too. No matter how many years she’s been banned from the property, it’s obviously important to her.
He took a careful breath and released his anger. He wasn’t pissed at her so much as at the situation, and it would do well for him to remember that. “My father wants his ashes scattered at the property.”
She set the pen down and steepled her fingers. He searched her face for the slightest bit of thawing, but there was only a deep freeze he felt in his bones. “I can arrange for it. I’ll see that your belongings are returned to you as well.”
He met her gaze steadily, feeling like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. One flinch and it would go off. “With all due respect, Lydia, I can’t come up with a single reason to trust you with my father’s ashes.” Or with anything else important to me.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He pushed slowly to his feet. “You hated him, and while I don’t think that’s unfounded, I’m also going to honor his final wish. I’m asking your permission out of respect, but if you don’t give it, I’m going to see this done regardless.”
The only sign of her anger was a slight tightening around her eyes. The smile she gave him was as practiced as it was warm. “Of course you can scatter my darling brother’s ashes on the property. I’ll be sure to have someone waiting to ensure you don’t have any problems.”
“Generous of you, but that won’t be necessary.”
Lydia stood. She wore a perfectly tailored white pantsuit that molded to her lean form. “On the contrary, it’s entirely necessary.” She rounded the desk and leaned against it, the very picture of a successful businesswoman. “I’d like to make you an offer.”
This should be good. “I’m listening.”
“I’m more than happy to hand over Thistledown Villa and the accompanying land, along with a hefty amount of money—in exchange for Morningstar Enterprise.”
He stared, waiting for the punch line. When none came, Beckett shook his head. “I’m not selling you my company.”
Lydia sighed. “Beckett, stop reacting and think for a moment. Do you really want to be the CEO of that company? Up until this point you’ve been living the life of the unfettered, traveling and partying, and, while there was undoubtedly business in the mix, your focus was elsewhere. I don’t think you’ve stayed in Houston for more than a few months since you graduated college and took over the VP position for your father. Running Morningstar isn’t going to be fun. It’s going to be hard, thankless work.”
Beckett gritted his teeth. She would see his business travel as evidence that he wasn’t prepared. The truth was that Beckett had been helping run the company for years, though up until this point he and his father had divided things right down the center—Nathaniel took everything in Houston, and Beckett handled everything else. It had the dual purpose of letting him expand Morningstar’s reach while keeping them mostly apart over the years. Minimizing conflict.
Not that he expected Lydia to understand. By all accounts, she ruled her four children with an iron fist. “It’s a moot point what you believe. My father named me as CEO and willed me his shares—not you. Morningstar is mine, Lydia. It’s not for sale, and neither am I.”
“Beckett…” She considered him. “I know for a fact he kept you from the worst of what being a CEO of a company like this means. You’d be much happier finding some nice girl, having a handful of babies, and living off your trust fund.”
Guess the gloves are off. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. “Cute speech. Were you practicing that while my father’s body lay cold in the morgue until I made it back from Beijing to identify him? He always said you were a—” He cut himself off before finishing the sentence. There was no damn point. This whole meeting had been a waste of time.
“A what? A harpy. A bitch.”
He forced himself not to flinch. Beckett shook his head. “I would never call you any of those things.” His dislike of her might be growing by the second, but there had to be lines.
She gave him a viper’s smile, as if she could hear his thoughts. “Morals won’t get you anywhere in this business, Beckett.”
“Yeah, well, I like being able to sleep at night. See you around, Lydia.” Beckett walked through the door and shut it softly behind him. He took the elevator down to the main floor and headed out onto the street, his thoughts whirling. She hadn’t wasted a single second before trying to pounce on Morningstar. There were plenty of cold people in this business—it was essentially a requirement—but this went above and beyond cold.
Lydia King wasn’t cold. She was fucking subzero.