The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(25)

Her smile fell away as if it’d never existed, leaving the drawn and exhausted woman in its wake. “Can I at least have that shower before you start your interrogation?”

He bristled at her hostility and welcomed it at the same time. It was better than the softer emotions that threatened at the sight of this woman in his home. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Cut the bullshit. You asked for my help. And I need information to be effective. Plus, we need to hammer out the last few details of the plan before Monday. We don’t have time to pussyfoot around the issue.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at a spot over his shoulder. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be downstairs.”

“Take thirty. I have some calls to make.” And she needed more than ten minutes to find her feet.

Sap.

Fuck off.

Frank stalked out of the room and downstairs, pointedly ignoring the sound of the shower being turned on. If he thought about it too hard, he’d picture Journey stripping out of her leggings and sweatshirt, picture the curve of her breasts and the way her hips drew his gaze to whatever tease of underwear she’d be wearing.

If he concentrated, he could still taste her on his tongue.

She’d welcome him if he walked back into that room, if only for the distraction he offered. Even after a single encounter, Frank knew what she liked. What she needed. He could give it to her now, could fuck her back to solid ground. All he had to do was turn around and walk back up the stairs, turn the knob, cross the bedroom floor.

“Shit.” He scrubbed a hand over his head. He fought himself back from the edge, inch by inch. Touching Journey now was even more unforgivable than doing it when she was several shots in. If—when—she was in his bed, she’d be there because she wanted to be. Because she wanted him—not because she was running from something.

He stormed into his office and shut the door. It still wasn’t enough distance between them, so Frank did the one thing guaranteed to get his goddamn head on straight.

He called Beckett King.

Thank fuck his friend answered almost immediately. “Hey, Frank.”

“I need a favor.”

Instantly, Beck’s tone changed. “Sure. What can I do for you?”

He paced to his desk and then to the window, mulling over all the things he couldn’t say without betraying some portion of Journey’s dilemma. She hadn’t sworn him to silence, but she very specifically hadn’t gone to anyone else in her family with her problem—including her cousin. “Is Samara around?”

Beck didn’t answer for a long moment. Probably wondering why I didn’t call Samara directly. “She’s in the office.”

“You mind putting her on the line?”

Another pause, shorter this time. “Give me a few.” Rustling came across the line as if Beck had stood and was walking out of his office and down the hall. Beck cleared his throat. “Are you in trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” It wasn’t Elliott Bancroft that worried Frank. No matter how dangerous Elliott was, he was just a single man. The Bancroft family, on the other hand, added a multitude of complications. Frank didn’t make a habit of disappearing people. It was messy business, and he knew all too well how the law would work against a black man, no matter how wealthy, if there was any hint of illegal acts. Sometimes even if there weren’t hints. What happened today had him reconsidering that policy.

Journey wasn’t just a woman worried about losing her job because of her father.

No, she was in danger.

The problem was, Frank didn’t know what kind of danger. He had no parameters for what to expect, and he could no longer trust himself to act rationally where Journey King was concerned. He’d more than proven that today alone.

“What can I help you with, Frank?” Samara Mallick’s voice on the phone was slightly tinny, indicating she was on speaker. Good. It meant he could convey his information to both of them at the same time.

“If I were to tell you Journey’s father is back in town…”

All the warmth in Samara’s voice disappeared. “Elliott Bancroft is scum, and nothing good can come of him being in Houston.”

He already knew that, but her response confirmed what he’d suspected—whatever abuse Journey had suffered, Samara didn’t know about it. It hamstrung him. Saying anything more put him at risk of alienating Journey, and if he pissed her off too much, she’d end their deal and try to muddle through things on her own. He had no doubt that she’d figure something out eventually, but she’d suffer harm in the process.

Harm he could prevent.

“She’s with me this weekend, but you might want to give her a call on Monday.” He hung up in the middle of Samara’s sharp question and tossed his phone onto his desk. Maybe Samara could get something out of Journey now, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Still, it would be good for her to have contact with her friend. He could see the walls going up around her as she tried to isolate herself to deal with this mess. Samara was busy enough with her own shit that she might not have noticed if someone didn’t bring her attention to it—at least not right away. Frank merely corrected that.

And maybe pigs will fly.





Chapter Seven



Journey turned the shower as hot as it would go and stepped beneath the spray. She closed her eyes and let the scalding water beat against her back, pounding away the last of her shakes. For now. She was in over her head. No reason for that realization to be such a damn surprise, but Journey had fabricated a level of strength over the years that was just that—fabrication. Worse, she’d believed the fiction she’d spun around herself. Both the bad and the good.