The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(48)



“No.” He paused. “I’m not going to take him out into the Gulf and toss him off that fucking boat of his. Yet. But I want you out of this. Stay there until I deal with him.”

Fat chance of that. She hadn’t been thinking back in Houston—just reacting. Her first instinct was to get Frank somewhere safe and out of her father’s reach. That didn’t mean they were going to stay safely tucked away while someone else fought her battles—again. “I’m coming home in a couple days,” she said gently. “I’m not sitting this one out.”

Anderson sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to get you to stay out there.”

“There’s not. I’m sorry I left so unexpectedly, but…” She glanced at the car, not the least bit surprised to find Frank’s gaze on her. “They could have killed him. Because of his connection to me. That makes him my responsibility.” It didn’t matter that Frank wouldn’t agree. It was the damn truth.

“Some other time, we’re going to talk about the fact that you’re dating Frank fucking Evans and didn’t bother to tell me.” The sound of a door opening and closing in the background. “I have to go put out some fires.”

“I’m still taking my meetings for the week via conference call.”

“I thought you were taking vacation days.” His voice warmed, and she could perfectly picture his smile. “Make sure you get out to the beach while you’re up there. Might as well take what enjoyment you can before you come back to this shit show.”

She laughed softly. “It’s February.”

“Still.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Call if you need anything.”

“Same goes for you.” She waited for him to hang up and then turned back to look at the eyesore that was their Hamptons house. Oh, it was a study in perfect lines and expensive taste, from the grounds unfurling on either side of the looping driveway to the perfectly manicured landscaping on the back side of the house that led down to the perfect private beach. Inside was even more luxurious, every piece handpicked by her mother. It was just…too much. She had so many good memories here, but it was hard to forget that she was King first and everything else dead last when faced with the physical representation of her family’s absurd wealth and history.

Journey checked her watch. She had an hour before her last meeting of the day, and she fully expected some kind of contact from her father once he discovered that she’d used the company jet without asking permission.

Frank climbed out of the car and moved around to the trunk to grab their luggage. One look from him told her not to bother offering to help. Why would she? He wasn’t just a man. He was Frank fucking Evans the Untouchable. A man who didn’t need help from someone like Journey.

And, damn it, that stung.

She pressed her lips together and focused on following Frank up the front steps of the house. Her adrenaline high had worn off sometime in the last hour or so, and she needed a few minutes to center herself and figure out what happened next. As soon as Frank had time to do the same, there would be yet another battle over the fact that she’d had the audacity to mislead him in order to protect him.

At least she could look forward to that argument. The man might infuriate her more often than not, but going round after round with Frank gave her equal parts enjoyment and frustration—at least before the events that brought Elliott Bancroft to Houston. She wanted that back, wanted to meet him on equal ground instead of being this quivering, weak thing that she’d become.

I don’t know how to do this.

Stop overthinking. It never did a damn bit of good anyway.

Frank opened the door and raised an eyebrow. “Secure.”

“Give me a little credit. I called the service we use to keep this property maintained and asked them to freshen up the place before we landed.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Did you think I just keep a car at the airport indefinitely?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past the Kings.” The comment held no heat, though. He stepped into the house, leaving Journey to follow him.

She pointed to the bottom of the stairs. “Leave the suitcase there.” Journey didn’t wait to see if he’d follow her command. She just strode past him and down the wide hallway leading deeper into the house. She’d left detailed instructions with the staff—she didn’t want anyone here for the duration of their stay. The company that maintained the house and property were known for their utmost discretion, but it would be all too easy for Elliott to slide into the spot left by Lydia and take over their loyalty.

The kitchen was her favorite part of the house. It was stupidly oversized—just like everything else—but the white-on-white color scheme, combined with massive windows that overlooked the ocean, created a calming effect. One of the windows could be opened garage door–style so food could be served directly from the kitchen to the outdoor lounge and let in the ocean breeze. Journey bypassed it and pulled open the fridge and freezer. “Good.”

She felt more than heard Frank come to stand at her back. He didn’t touch her, but with the cold blast of air from the fridge, she fancied she could feel the heat rising from his body. “I’m going to get food started. Why don’t you go upstairs to the office and start working through the couple dozen phone calls we both know you’re dying to make?”

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