Samara pulled up in front of her childhood home, her heart heavy. Friday dinners were for her amma. The tiny two-bedroom house was clean and tidy on the inside, but anyone walking by could see the peeling paint and desperate need for a new roof. The obviously well-loved yard did nothing to elevate the first impression most people got as they walked past it on the street. Samara had offered to pay for the fixes, but her mother had shot her down so sternly that she hadn’t had the courage to offer again.
The building was about as far from Thistledown Villa as it could be and still be termed a house. Before today, that might have filled her with shame—and guilt for feeling shame—but after watching the raw memories play out over Beckett’s face, she was reminded forcibly just how lucky she was. Samara may never have met her father, but her amma’s love ensured that she’d never felt the lack. This little house might not be picture perfect or have been in her family for generations, but it was filled to the brim with happy memories. Even the bad times were never that bad, because no matter how often life kicked her, Samara’s amma never let her hope flicker.
The screen door had a tear in the bottom half that had been there since she was a kid. She’d always hated that tear, hated the lack of money it represented. It seemed such a petty thing to focus on now. She opened it and knocked.
Amma opened it almost immediately. “Samara, you’re here.” She enveloped her in a hug that almost took her off her feet despite the fact that her mother was a good six inches shorter than she was. The scent of sandalwood had her smiling despite the weight of the day. Home.
“Amma.” She hugged her back and frowned. “You’ve lost weight.”
“So have you.” Her amma clicked her tongue and pinched her arm. “Much more of that nonsense and you’ll be more shadow than girl. Come in, come in.”
She followed her amma into the little kitchen. “You didn’t have to cook for me. I’m more than capable of picking up takeout on the way here.” The protest was barely halfhearted. Takeout couldn’t compare to Amma’s cooking, and they both knew it.
“It’s not a chore when it’s done with love.” Her amma shot her a look. “And last time you offered to pick up dinner, you brought me raw fish and rice.”
Samara laughed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. “At least let me help you.”
“Absolutely not. Sit. How’s your work? Has that witch seen the error of her ways and found religion?”
“Amma, Lydia is not a witch.” She ran her fingers through her hair and absently started braiding a lock. “Things are going well. I’m personally handling the proposal for an important government contract—it’s a great opportunity. Lydia gave me that.”
Her amma huffed. “She didn’t give you anything. You worked for it. That’s not going to stop her from trying to make you over in her image.” She looked up from the samosas she was putting together and narrowed inky eyes identical to Samara’s. “Look at you. You walk like her, you talk like her, you dress like her.”
“Amma, please.” She tried and failed to rein in her irritation. They’d had this conversation more times than she could count, and she didn’t see this one going any differently than the hundreds before it. That wouldn’t stop her from trying, though. “There is nothing wrong with ambition.”
“Ambition is like salt—a little is a good thing, but too much ruins the meal.”
“I know.” It wasn’t Lydia King that her amma was opposed to—it was the world she moved in. Once upon a time, her amma had been on the same path Samara was on now. She’d come from India to attend McCombs School of Business on a full scholarship and had all the hallmarks of going places.
Until she met Samara’s father. Devansh Patel was rich and beautiful and charming, the youngest son of a local congressman. It had been a love affair for the ages—at least long enough for her amma to get pregnant and drop out of school, losing all her scholarships—and then Devansh unceremoniously dumped her, and his family’s lawyers had blocked any attempts to declare paternity.
Left with nothing of the future she’d thought she’d have, her amma ended up cleaning the houses of people like Samara’s father and the Kings to pay the bills.
All her life, Amma had supported her in every way she could. Samara wore secondhand clothes and never had money for school lunches, but she’d kept her eye on the prize. Even after a long day of backbreaking work, her amma would stay up late to help her with whatever schoolwork was giving her trouble. Anything for Samara. She wanted her daughter to shoot for the stars in a way she hadn’t been able to.
Just not this star.
“Enough of this. I don’t want to fight. Tell me what’s new in your life.”
Samara settled in and gave her amma a purified version of what she’d been up to. She kept the stories light and entertaining, and very carefully didn’t share any details that could be upsetting. It took more effort than normal, mostly because she was preoccupied with Beckett.
She rarely questioned Lydia. The woman was a genius when it came to business, more than proving she should have been named CEO of Morningstar Enterprise instead of Nathaniel. But this situation with Thistledown Villa didn’t sit well with Samara. It was obviously a footnote for Lydia—bragging rights—and it was just as obviously important to Beckett.
It’s not my business. My job is to follow orders and keep my head on straight—it’s not to get between the members of the King family.
Dinner passed pleasantly enough once they got all the bickering out of the way. Samara did the dishes despite Amma’s protests, and she slipped a couple hundred dollars into the cookie jar where her amma had stashed her savings. It was their little song and dance. They had their ridiculous pride in common, but the truth was that her amma needed money, and if she wouldn’t take it directly, Samara had no problem hiding it in places where it wouldn’t be found until she was safely out of the house.
Amma would find the money and they’d both pretend it was there all along and she’d miscounted it somewhere along the way. Unnecessarily complicated, maybe, but her amma had sacrificed everything to bring Samara into this world and ensure that she grew up in the best life possible considering their financial situation. A few hundred dollars here and there was the least she could do.
Samara made tea and they spent a pleasant couple of hours watching the Jeopardy! episodes her amma had recorded over the week.
Her phone buzzed next to her. She almost ignored it, but her best friend’s name came up. “Sorry, Amma.”
“Don’t worry, bachcha. Take your call. I’m on a roll.”
She smiled. “You are.” She’d never met anyone better at Jeopardy! If her amma hadn’t gotten pregnant and altered her entire life to accommodate her new role as a mother, she would have gone places and changed the world.
Guilt rose, choking her. There was no way to assuage it—over the years it’d become her constant companion within the four walls of this house. Her amma was the best of mothers. She loved Samara beyond all shadow of a doubt and never once let so much as a whisper of accusation pass her lips. If she blamed anyone for her life, it was Samara’s sperm donor rather than the baby she’d ended up with, but even that anger had faded over time.
Samara’s guilt wasn’t going anywhere, though.
It was almost a relief to step out of the room and take the call. “Hey.”
“Hey, what are you doing after you leave your mother’s?” It didn’t surprise her that Journey King knew where she was—everyone knew that Friday nights were for her amma. Even Lydia respected this unless it was an actual emergency, probably because it was the only boundary Samara ever put her foot down about. She moved a little deeper into the kitchen. “Work.”
“Wrong answer. We’re going out. We’ve been working crazy hours, and knowing my mother, that’s not going to be changing anytime soon. Take a break. Come have a drink with me. Dish about what the hell is going on with my estranged cousin.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Talking about Beckett would only bring up memories of what they’d been doing in Thistledown Villa today—both the good and the bad. Journey knew her too well for her to hide the truth, and her friend wouldn’t hesitate to pry every last detail out of her.
“It’s funny. Sometimes you talk, and my mother’s voice comes out.” Journey laughed. “Come on, Samara. I’m not above pulling the best-friend card and kidnapping you for the night if I have to.”
She wasn’t getting out of this, and the truth was that she needed the break and the reminder of what was really important in her life. Her amma. Her friend. Her job. Not Beckett. “I have to go home and change, but I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“See you then.” Journey hung up.
Samara turned and found her amma standing in the doorway, a sad expression on her face. “You’re playing with fire, bachcha.”
“Amma, we’ve talked about this. She’s my friend.” Journey might be Lydia’s oldest daughter, but their friendship had grown outside of work into something real and important to her.
She shook her head. “King blood is like Patel blood. You might feel like you’re one of them—they might even feel like you’re one of them—but that can change without warning. If something threatens them, they will close ranks like a shoal of fish, and you’ll be left on the outside for the circling sharks.”
Just like her amma had been.
“Amma—”
She grasped Samara’s shoulders, her weathered hands aged beyond her years by the cleaning chemicals she used. “I love you, bachcha. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Nothing can hurt me. I’m bulletproof.” An old joke, but this time it didn’t make her amma smile.
“You might think you are. You won’t realize your mistake until it’s too late.”
After he got back from Thistledown Villa, Beckett couldn’t stay in the apartment. The thought of being closed in by those four walls made his skin crawl. He spent a useless hour trying to wade through his father’s paperwork on the proposal, but the words kept running together as he flipped between thinking about how good Samara had felt in his arms…and what plan he could put together to get the house back.
It was no use.
He thought better on the move, so he changed into a pair of shorts and running shoes and headed out. It wasn’t late enough for either the foot traffic or the humidity to have thinned, but he welcomed the struggle each breath became as he started to run.
Houston had its ups and downs and the traffic was bad enough to make even the most even-tempered person crazy, but he loved how full of life it was. The Theater District’s restaurants were some of the best in the state—in his completely unbiased opinion—and he inhaled the tempting scents as he passed tables full of people eating before they headed to shows down the street.
He ran until his legs started to shake and his mind was finally blessedly clear. Between Samara and Thistledown Villa, he’d let himself get turned around. Ultimately, both could wait. He’d spend the day tomorrow in the office. The presentation to secure the government contract was next week, which meant that had to take priority over everything else.
Back in his condo, he showered, already feeling better, and sat down to pick through the proposal. It would secure majority oil rights in the Gulf of Mexico for the next ten years—rights Morningstar Enterprise had held for generations. The only other company that came close to edging his out was Lydia’s, and he’d be damned before he’d let that happen here. If he lost the bid, it would hardly be the end for the company, but it would hit them at a time when they didn’t need more uncertainty. If their shareholders thought for a second that they might crash, they’d abandon the company in droves, and that could potentially send them into a nosedive they might not make it out of.
It won’t happen. I won’t let it happen.
His phone rang, and he tensed at the sight of Frank’s name flashing across the screen. News about my father’s death. If there was one thing that would take priority over the company, it was that. “Hey, Frank.”
“You have time for another beer?”
Not good news, then. He glanced at the clock over his oven. It wasn’t early, but it was nowhere near late enough that he’d manage to sleep. “Careful, Frank. You keep asking me out and I might start to think you’re sweet on me.”
“Never that.” Faint noise in the background, as if he was walking down the street. “Meet me at Cocoa’s.”
Beckett frowned. Cocoa’s was a high-end club that catered to Houston’s elite. They only served top shelf, all their employees were painfully beautiful, and the whole place was decorated like a speakeasy—or at least how the owners thought a speakeasy should look. “Not really your scene.”
“It is tonight.” He hung up.
He changed into a suit—Cocoa’s had a strict dress code and jeans didn’t fit into it. He hesitated. Frank liked his games, but he wasn’t into the pretentious bullshit any more than Beckett was.
Only one way to find out what’s up.
Thirty minutes later, he walked past the velvet rope—a velvet rope, for fuck’s sake—and into the low din of Cocoa’s. Throbbing music had the dance floor packed, the crowd moving in a slow writhe that gave the impression of an orgy in progress. The roped-off VIP section was on the other side of that mess. People lounged on the fainting chairs and couches, pretending that eyes didn’t follow every little movement they made as they waited for something resembling an invitation.
That was the other reason he hated this place. The club might pretend it catered to the elite, but its true clientele was the masses of social climbers who came here for the elite. Whether the aim was one night of bragging rights or some deeper game, if someone wanted a partner with more money than God, they had a good chance to find them at Cocoa’s.
He skirted the edge of the dance floor, pointedly ignoring several women who gave him blatant invitations. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied with a certain Indian woman, he wouldn’t be tempted.
Frank saw him coming and motioned to the pretty brunette manning the entrance to the VIP area. She stepped aside, and then he was just another lion prowling the cage while the crowd watched. You’re here for a reason. Get the info. Have a drink. Get the fuck out.
Beckett dropped onto the couch next to Frank. “Why here?”
“I have my reasons.” Frank sounded distracted, his attention on the dance floor. He could be looking at any one of the scantily clad women grinding to the throbbing beat. But this was Frank, which meant he had a specific one in mind—the woman who was probably the reason he’d set the meeting there to begin with. Finally, Frank shook his head and focused on Beckett. “I bought it last week.”
“Cocoa’s?” He looked around the room with new eyes. It wasn’t any more appealing than it had been before. “Why the hell would you—” He stopped short. Of course. What better way to gather information than from the elite who came there to drink themselves stupid? They were bound to spill secrets into the right set of ears. “You crafty bastard.”
“Man’s got to make a living.”
Beckett didn’t dignify that with a response. Frank had enough money that he wouldn’t have to work for the rest of his life—and that his theoretical grandchildren wouldn’t have to work for the rest of their lives. “What do you have for me?”
“You want to wait for a drink first?”
He tensed. “No, I don’t want a fucking drink. Just tell me the news.”
“Suit yourself.” Frank shrugged. “Your old man’s driver is enjoying a vacation in Brazil right now. He left the day Nathaniel died, and he’s been blowing enough money to turn heads down there.”
He was paid off.
Beckett didn’t know the man. He was someone Nathaniel had hired years ago, and one of his father’s conditions for a driver was complete silence. Be seen, not heard. Better yet, don’t be seen, either. He should have ordered the damn drink. “Who?”
“Not sure yet.” Frank flagged down the waitress, a blonde dressed in a black flapper dress that barely covered the essentials. “My friend here needs a double of whiskey on the rocks.”
“My pleasure.”
He waited for her to move away to lean forward. “Beck, there’s something else. Your old man had a meeting that night—a meeting with Lydia King.”