Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (2 page)

She stares at him for a
loaded second, then stalks away toward the house. He lets her leave. She is
angry—and she will need that anger. He wonders, vaguely, if it’s true. If he
and Caleb had trusted her from the beginning, if they had not protected her so
much—would it have come down to the bloody end? And if he had just trusted
Caleb to be the big brother rather than doubting his every move, would his big
brother still be here?
  

He shakes his head,
hard. He can’t think like that. Caleb is dead and avenged. There is no use
looking back. Not when it can’t be changed, and the one family left to him is
furious. He huffs an aggravated sigh, and drops the joint into the sand—an
offering to the old god of his exile, the same ocean that kept his heart for so
long.
  

When he had so adamantly
decided he was ready to rule, he had also been ill-prepared for the softer,
more subtle points of that position. A king should not beg—should not follow
after another. But it is different when it is your queen.

Chapter 2.
Bamboo. New York City. September 26th
 

Rama
Stares At The Coded Message
in his hand. He knew it was coming. He's been hearing the
speculation on the street for days. But holding it in his hands is a whole
different thing. He draws on his cigarette and reads the words again.

His phone rings—the one
only three people have the number to—and he reaches for it with lazy grace.
“Hello?” he says, softly, edged with violence.
 

There’s a long moment of
silence, and then, “You're upset,” she says. “Why?”
 

There is a moment when
he considers telling her the truth. Instead, he says, his accent thickening, “I
want you home.”
 

She doesn't respond
immediately. When she does, her voice has changed, become cool and remote.
"We leave in an hour. I've been where I'm needed.”

Anger spikes in him, but
he shoves it down. As much as he loves her, Emma still is uncomfortable with
declarations. They are too much, too similar to Nicolette and her betrayal. She
won't speak of it—has refused to each time he's broached the subject—but he
knows her, better than she’s comfortable with.
 

He knows what she's
afraid of.
 

His finger rubs the skin
on his wrist, still bare, and sighs. "He's not the only one who needs
you.”

A moment of palpable
aggravation strings across the phone line, and her voice is sharp when she
says, “Any word on my mother?”

Somehow he expected her
to ignore his quiet honesty. His eyes go to the letter again.

“Nothing. Whatever
connections she has are damn solid. There hasn't been a peep of her around
town. None of my people or your people can find her.”

There's a stretch of
strained silence, then Emma spits, “That
bitch
.”

He sighs again, and the
paper crinkles under his tightening grip. He says, “The Olivers are angry,
mali.
Some of their soldiers attacked
your docks operation. Your board is furious.

Something has to
change.” He hesitates. “Have you told Seth how bad it is?”
 

“No,” she says
immediately. “He doesn’t need that yet.”
 

“Does he know there's a
hit on you?”
 

He didn’t mean to put it
out there that angrily, that bluntly, and he can feel the shock resounding
across the line. His chest squeezes, like there's a vice around it. How can he
fix this? He can't take it back, can't sugar coat it for her. She'd hate him
for it if he did. The moments that tick by are so slow, so heavy with anticipation.
How will she take it.

“They took out a
hit?”
 

Her voice is
high-pitched, a little shaky, definitely forced. He silently berates himself
for putting it out there like that, an hour before she will board a private jet
and be captive for most of the day, left to mull over all the implications of
the news.

He stares blankly at his
desk top, and says, “We don't know where it's coming from, but the contract is
confirmed.”

“What are you saying?”
she asks, and he can imagine the bewildered, helpless look on her face – and
the way her vulnerability will piss her off. He wants to be there for her, to
hold her and kiss away her distress. If she'd even let him close.

He says, “I'm saying it
might be the Olivers, or it might not.”

The silence yawns around
him, and he suddenly wishes he were anywhere but his small, orderly office –
too small right now, for sure. He can relate perfectly to the anger the breeds
from helplessness. What can he do to comfort her when she's in another
hemisphere.
 

She's quiet for so long
that he believes she hung up. Then, in a whisper, she says, “My mother.”

He bites down on the
storm of emotion that trails her realization, and quietly, he answers, “That
was my thought.”

He hears her breathing,
strained and fast. He would demolish a city if it meant he could be there for
her just now, but she chose Seth. “I have to go,” she says, and her voice is
just a shell.

The anger returns to
him, that she would dismiss him now, even as he does her dirty work. The way
she sounds so sad is the only thing that stays his temper. His Buddhist roots
lend him a moment of grace, and he pushes away the rage with a long and silent
breath. Finally, he says, “I love you,
mali
.”
The line goes dead.

He lowers the phone in
slow motion, soul raw and stinging from her rejection.
 

A glimmer of violence
echoes through him, in which he wants to smash the phone against his office
wall, but his eyes have fallen on the Buddha in the corner. The statue stares
serenely, calling to a deeply imbedded spirituality, and he finds he is already
calming down. Time, space, these things he can give her. If he has anything,
it's the patience of a monk.

Chapter 3.
Over the Atlantic. September 26th
 

Seth's
Eyes Are The Only
parts of him that move as a burst of turbulence shakes the
private jet.
  

His gaze slips from the
spectacular view to Emma's hands as she grips the little table between them and
curses under her breath. She hasn't said much since they left the secret beach
haven that has kept them safely removed from the very real, and very dangerous,
world that waits for them back home. She's been a quiet mass of nerves and
temper. He can't blame her; not even he has had a hit on him.

He shifts his attention
back to the tufts of clouds that pass below them, aware that she takes an
aggravated sip of her mimosa——her third. He's barely touched his first, a fact
that he might almost believe she has missed in her quiet fury. Except that he
knows better——it's just that now there is something more important weighing on
her than fussing over him.
  

Already, he misses the
sound of the ocean.

The stewardess hovers
close to check on them, a Mexican girl who Seth is certain is a model hired to
play a stewardess for her earthy beauty, and the fact that she's barely older
than Emma. He hasn't missed the intrigue in the eyes of their attendant, or the
disdain——he dares call it jealousy—with which Emma has reacted to her. Now he
hears his cousin snap, “We're
fine.
”

He allows a smirk. Caleb
would be proud of the glorious way she has donned the Morgan attitude. In his
peripheral, he sees her snatch her drink from the still-rattling table. Her
hand pauses in its pursuit to her mouth, and she glares at him.
  

“What's so fucking
funny?” she asks.

The heat in her tone is
intense, and it claws at the edges of an old irritation reminiscent of
adolescent brotherhood.
 
He says, “You
sound like Caleb.”

She makes a noise in her
throat that would have been a quick response if he had said anything else. Her
features flatten and she follows through on the drink. He holds on to the tiny
smile until it starts to taste bitter, then he lets it fade. She kills the
mimosa, sets the empty glass on the table a bit harder than necessary. Then he
adds, “Must be a ginger thing.”

She pointedly looks out her
own window, and says, “That's nice, Seth.
 
But there happen to be a lot of details about our landing that have to
work perfectly, you know, if you want to be covert about the whole thing.”

He feels the amusement
creep against him again. He doesn't allow the smile, though. He asks, “Tinney
is picking us up, right?”

She huffs. “Yes, I've
told you that several times.”

“Then the details will
be fine,” he says.
  

He can all but feel the
anger that rises in her at his seeming lackadaisical approach; he feels her
like heat in his own cheeks. She knows he is goading her. She arranged their
return home without him, whether it be because she didn't want him to stress or
for some other reason, and he let her do it. It's good for her to get every
ounce of experience she can as quickly as she can. Never mind that her sudden
need for control has given him time to concentrate on other matters.
  

“
Fine
?” she asks, and her tone is near murderous.

For a long moment, he
merely stares out the window, like she didn't speak at all. She broods into the
space between, forcing long, even breaths. Her eyes are narrowed, venomous. It
almost isn't fair of him to make such easy jabs, but she acts so much like his
brother these days that he can guess where the holes in her armor are. He
lazily reaches into the shoulder bag in the floor at his feet. She sharply eyes
the brown folder he pulls out. Finally, he straightens his posture and turns to
her. He drops the folder onto the table, which makes their glasses shake. His
expression is stone, serious and void of any clue of what he feels inside.
  

He says, “These are my
picks for the new board of directors. I need you to look over them, because if
we're doing this together, we both need to agree on everyone. I need your picks
within the next few days. Once we're safely in New York, word will be out real
fucking quick.”

Now her eyes grow wide.
As he had hoped, her anger turns to steam that fuels the gears in her mind. She
says, “We can manage a week if we're careful before word gets out.”

He lifts his eyebrows
just the slightest bit, and takes a steady breath. “No,” he says, “we can't.
I'm going straight to Remi Oliver's office when we land.”

“
What?”
she cries. “You've got to be fucking kidding me, Seth.
 
He'll kill you!”

“In his bank's office?
Use your head, Em. He's not going to shed blood in his business,” Seth says in
a tone admonishing enough that her eyes narrow again?
 
He adds, “He makes a lot of money off of our
family. I'm not convinced he's willing to lose that. We've got a lot to do in a
fast kind of way and that would be a bit easier if there's not someone waiting
around every corner to kill you.”

She blinks, does it
again, and bites her lip as tears well in her eyes. He wants to wrap her in a
hug and calm the anxiety that's so painfully obvious on her face, but she has
to learn to control it. He does let his eyes soften. Of course he knows what's
bothering her; he can at least let her know that she's not suffering alone. He
says, “Please don't argue with me on this, Emma.” Still, she's battling the
tears that want so badly to fall, so she just nods. He softly says, “Thank
you.” And he thinks that maybe if those at the top would say that a little more
often, they wouldn't have to kill one another all the time.

“Now,” he continues,
“since time is of the essence, we need to work out the details of the brothel
venture as soon as possible, and we need to close on the resorts that we’re
using to absorb the new capital. Our lawyers are in talks for that. But we'll
need to have some serious meetings with Rama and make sure he’s on board with
what we’ve come up with.”

Like another verbal
punch to her gut, the name of her lover makes her look away. Having not so long
ago watched the love of his life get shot in the throat, he can understand her
conflict regarding the Thai. Again, she must bear the weight of her decision to
court another family's rank. He doesn't want to think about betrayal any more
than she does, so he continues.

“We can't green light
any of this until I take it to Havana—otherwise we're dead anyway. And I won't
go to the top until we have a plan that is airtight. Also, I have a meeting
scheduled Monday morning with the police commissioner. He needs to know that
our company's philanthropy will continue. It's possible that our contributions
may increase, depending on how he reacts to dealing with someone half his age.
If there are adjustments in our projections, you will have them by the
afternoon.”

Her eyes wander back to
him, wider now, but drying. She won't ask him when and how he managed to
organize all of this without her noticing. Will she let herself understand why
he is wielding his information this way? Can she understand that he has let her
take off with no training wheels or safety net, and plunge headlong into
syndicate business—from an acceptable distance? Can she see that even though he
let her, he is the king, and he can't afford to take a quiet backseat on family
matters?
 

Sure, it will infuriate
her that though she has believed she was protecting him from all those gruesome
details of life back home, he has quietly kept in touch with his head of
security. He has remained abreast of her decisions and commands. Will she
finally realize that she needs his experience, that he's not just being a prick
with all his lessons and guidance?
 
This
is a precarious game he plays.
  

“There's one more thing
you need to know,” he says, and he waits for the suspicion to shine in her
attentive gaze. “It was Vera who helped me put together the pieces of Caleb's
life.”

The change in Emma's
expression is violent, as all her features harden and the corners of her lips
turn down. It feels like fire when she says, “What the fuck, Seth? That tramp
reporter
?”

He makes a shell of a
dry laugh. Why do the women in his life hate Vera so much? “Yeah,” he says.
“Turns out Caleb did the exact same thing to find out about Rama.”
And to find me.

Emma shakes her head in
the only denial she can manage, and her brow creases like she wants to cry
again. She doesn't have to say it, all this time he has kept this information
from her. So he says, “I'm telling you now. I'm also telling you that her
amnesty from our family remains.”

“Why?” Emma spits. “How
can you protect someone like that, who could bring us down so easily?”

Seth sighs his frustration,
the tension that always accompanies the mention of goddamned Vera Rohan. How
many times has he had this argument? He looks back to the stunning blue beyond
the oval window, and says, “If she wanted to bring us down, she could have a
long time ago, and without my contribution. She doesn't want that.”

Emma scoffs, asks, “How
do you know?”

“Because she's in love
with me,” says Seth quietly.

“Yeah, well we saw how
that went with Nicolette,” Emma says with huff.

Seth's eyes flash back
to Emma's, and so does all the fierce turmoil that has been gone for the past
month. His regard is so stormy that she is stunned into silence. She swallows
dryly. Rather than suffer his own wrath, he forces himself to look away.
Mechanically, he again digs into the bag by his seat. He withdraws a cigarette
case and clicks it open. Inside is a single joint, a masterpiece he paid the
houseboy to roll before they left. He fishes a lighter from the bag, and sparks
the smoke, a perk of owning the plane.
  

Almost instantly, the
tension in his muscles eases, and the ever-present ache in his left shoulder
soothes a little. He reminds himself what he did so many times on that lost
beach, that his anger is better used when controlled and channeled. This is not
the place.
  

He takes several quick
tokes, holds in the smoke as he reaches across the table and ashes in Emma's
empty glass. Rather than focus on how skinny and pale his fingers are, he
reclaims her attention as he lets loose his hit. He nods toward the joint. Her
expression crinkles as she undoubtedly searches her soul. Several slow moments
tick by, and she releases a much quieter breath. She accepts the joint without
a word. Neither of them can know they're both thinking of their first night in
the Hamptons, after the board meeting that had been the beginning of the end.

She had convinced him to
smoke with her. He had actually laughed that night.
  

Her hits are longer,
more spaced out, and she lets her eyes crawl over him on their way back to her
tiny window. He ignores her blatant attention, and lets his eyes follow hers.
The clouds are fat and happy, so pure white as they march into the distance.
The jet's engines just purr. She says, “I'll have my board picks to you by
Monday, and a meeting with Rama scheduled by tomorrow.”

Maybe, he thinks, just
maybe she can understand how he misses the southern hemisphere so much.

The knitting across her
brow has eased, and the smoke and silence drifts between them.

He had hoped the weed
would calm her down, and it did, and with her calm comes her defenses. She's
about to raise a wall between them, but as it usually does, his speed gains him
the advantage.

“I know you're scared,
Em,” he says softly.

She bristles, refuses to
look at him when she passes the smoke. He leans forward, the sling inhibiting
him, threatening to ignite his temper. Not now. Instead of taking the joint,
his fingers close around Emma's hand. Her eyes snap to him, and he squeezes.

“We're going to find
Beth, and I'm going to stop this shit with Remi.”

The usual softening in
her to his quiet charm never comes, instead her eyes harden. She jerks her hand
away, and says, “You think Remi is really going to negotiate with you? When
he's already put a hit on me?”

Her voice shakes, and
her tone is vicious. She's cornered, and – yes – scared. He sighs.

“We don't know that Remi
bought the contract.”

She laughs, bordering on
hysterical. She's losing her calm, and for once, he can be a rock for her. He
waits, silently watching her, giving her a little space. Her eyes are wide when
she looks back at him, and she says, “If it's not him, then it's my mother. My
own mother, who no one can seem to locate.”

“We're going to find
her,” says Seth in a low, steady tone that she has heard before, the tone he
used that night when Nicolette’s betrayal came to light.

Her big blue eyes fall
to the table top, and she passes the joint. He accepts, avoiding contact with
her fingers. He takes a hit and relaxes back against his chair, sprawling as
best he can with one arm confined. He blows smoke at the ceiling, and says, “I
won't let anything happen to you.”