The Kingmaker (All the King's Men, #1)(18)

“The black girl is gorgeous,” David says, smacking his lips like he’s famished. “She stood up a minute ago, and her ass is like an eighth wonder. Dibs on that one.”

We all chuckle, and Hans clinks his beer glass to David’s.

“What say you, Kingsman?” Hans asks, his Dutch lilt more pronounced with each round of drinks. “Which one are you trying your luck with?”

Sometimes, I still don’t answer right away when someone calls me by “Kingsman.” It’s not a lie. It’s at least my middle name. All the men of my family share that middle name. Somehow, one of my ancestors a few generations ago got it in his head that we descended from Welsh princes. They immigrated to America as miners, and gravitated to the west with the gold rush. They got lucky. Struck gold in California and then lucky again with “black gold” later in Texas. Texas kings, they started calling themselves, and the middle name was born.

“I’m looking for all the king’s men,” my mother would yell, her playful voice carrying across the shiny hardwood floors and up the stairs of our Dallas ranch when she chased Owen and me for hide and seek.



A familiar ache settles in my chest. I haven’t seen my mother in a year. David invited me to spend Christmas with his family, and the summer before I stayed here in Holland for studies. I’m in a strange land, a sojourner with no home and no family. At least, not one that claims me any longer. That house where my brother and I played is no longer mine. Hell, even the name isn’t. No one has called me by Cade in four years. I’ve made a completely separate life for myself in another world, and if the Atlantic didn’t separate me from Warren Cade, our last fight did.

With my back and elbows propped against the lip of the bar, I take a draw of my beer, promising myself Maker’s Mark on the next round.

“For God’s sake, Kingsman.” Oliver laughs. “Stop counting the hairs on your arse and choose your pretty poison. Which girl will it be?”

“I haven’t even looked,” I admit.

“Aw, come on,” Hans says. “We need you to choose the one you want because we all know you’ll have your pick. They all go for you. Surprised that dick of yours hasn’t fallen off.”

Not exactly accurate, but the Dutch women have been good to me. I turn on my stool so I can see to the other side of the bar. The four women seem to be having a great time without us, laughing, clinking glasses and yelling proost every few seconds. I see the blonde, David’s pretty brown-skinned girl, and a cute brunette, but it’s the one with hair so dark it’s black under the lights that snares my attention. A dramatic slant of cheekbone, thick black brows, straight, bold nose. Her face is a collection of features that dare you to look away.

There’s something . . . familiar about her. I don’t know her because I’d never forget a woman who looked like this. But it’s more than how familiar she looks to me—it’s the way I feel when I look at her that is familiar. I scour my memory for anything that would tease it out, and then she laughs at something one of her friends says. She tips her head back so that river of hair falls behind her, and her laughter—warm, rich, throaty—grabs me from across the room.

And I know. Hell, I’d know her anywhere.

She’s older. Four years older to be exact, but she looks much the same, and her laugh captivates me exactly as it did in that holding cell. For the first time in years, the thrill of the chase rears. The promise of catching drags me on my feet.

“The one with the black hair,” I say, not waiting for my friends, but taking the first step toward an old temptation that is no longer off-limits. “That one’s mine.”





8





Lennix





“Oh, dear Lord.” Kimba slides the words from the corner of her mouth, her stare fixed over my shoulder. “Don’t look now, ladies, but there is a fine pack of wolves headed right for us.”

I don’t even bother looking up from my glass.

“What did you say this drink is called, Aya?” I ask, inspecting the amber liquid.

“It’s jenever,” Vivienne’s friend answers, her blue eyes bright and her skin flushed, pale hair falling around her pretty face. “Like Dutch gin.”

I take a cautious sip and grimace. Never a fan of gin, I wonder if I should have just ordered one of the tap beers.

“It’s good, no?” Aya asks, her smile hopeful.

No.

I don’t say it because I don’t want to insult her or any aspect of her country, which really is beautiful, within an hour of meeting each other.

“I could get used to it,” I settle on saying aloud.

“Seriously,” Kimba squeals and turns to face me, her eyes wide with excitement. “These hot guys are coming over.”

“No one’s that hot. Geez.” I laugh and take another sip of my drink, which tastes better the second time around. I lift my glass for another sip, but a dark rumble of a voice freezes my glass halfway to my mouth.

“Lennix Moon Hunter.”

I glance up and literally almost drop my glass. Like, I have to catch it with my other hand.

If you’d asked who was the very last person I’d expect to see in Amsterdam, or ever again, my answer would have been . . .