The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(92)

He glanced at her, his lips quirking up. “I’m prepared to be convinced.”

“Ooooh, in that case—I can make an excellent argument.” Her ears popped and she frowned. “Are we about to fall out of the sky?”

“Faith, Duchess.” He guided them down to a tiny little island just off the coast. It barely had room for the runway Frank used to bring them to ground, but she caught sight of a house through the trees. He pulled the plane to a stop and worked some magic to kill the engine and get the door open. “Come on.” He claimed her hand the second they hit the ground, and tugged her along a well-manicured path toward the house.

Journey stared. It was a little bungalow that was no less fancy for its relative size. Spanish tile spread out around one side, showcasing an outdoor patio area around a gorgeous abstract fountain. Frank bypassed the house and took another path that led them to the beach. He stopped just short of the sand. “I know the water doesn’t exactly hold happy memories for you…but I thought it was time to start making new ones.”

The scene before her looked like something out of a romance novel. Two lounge chairs sat on either side of a low table laid out with all her favorite foods, an oversized umbrella keeping the worst of the sun off them. “Wow.” She couldn’t keep a stupid grin off her face. “Just…wow, Frank. I love it.”

“I love you.” He pulled her into his arms and laced his fingers through her hair. “Did you pick that dress just to torture me? How the fuck did you think I’d get through a meal without ripping it off you?”

She laughed against his mouth. “That’s kind of the idea.” Journey ducked out of his arms and pulled the dress over her head. She walked naked to the lounge chair and draped it over the back. A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Frank hadn’t moved from his spot. “You said you want to give me some better memories.”

“Yeah.” The word was so low, it was a growl.

Every muscle in her body clenched at the promise written all over his face. “I’ve never had sex in the ocean.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He stalked to her and scooped her into his arms. He waded into the water and shifted her so she could wrap her legs around his waist. The expression on his face—love, desire, tenderness—made her so happy, it hurt. “We have a lot of years ahead of us, Duchess, and I plan to fill them with the happiest of memories.” Frank kissed her. “Starting now.”





Don’t miss The LAST KING, the first book in the King series, by New York Times bestselling author Katee Robert, available now.


See the next page for an excerpt.





Chapter One

Six months later



Beckett King was a monumental pain in the ass.

The man was a force of nature, and he never did what Samara expected, which made it impossible to counter his moves.

Probably shouldn’t have slept with him, then.

Shut up.

There was no point in stalling further. Samara had a job to do, and the longer she took to do it, the later her night would run. She smoothed down her pencil skirt, bolstered her defenses, and marched through his office door before she could talk herself out of it.

Beckett himself sat on a small couch rather than behind the shiny desk, his head in his hands. His dark hair was longer than she’d seen it last, and he wore a faded gray T-shirt and jeans, looking completely out of place in the sleek, pristine office. His broad shoulders rose and fell in what must have been a deep sigh.

If Samara didn’t dislike him so much, she might almost feel sorry for him.

She shifted, her heel clicking against the marble floor, and Beckett raised his head. He caught sight of her and stood, his expression guarded, his mouth tight.

“Are you here on behalf of my aunt?” he asked. “She really hates my father so much she sends someone else for the reading of his will?”

Samara considered half a dozen responses and discarded all of them. Tonight, at least, she could keep control of her tongue. “I’m sorry about your father.”

He snorted. “It was no secret there wasn’t a whole lot of love lost between us.” And yet the exhausted lines of his face showed that no matter what he said, he cared that his father was dead. It was there in the permanent frown pulling down the edges of his lips, and in the barely banked fury of his chocolate brown eyes.

He sighed again. “If Lydia doesn’t want to be here herself, fine. We might as well get this started.” He stalked to his desk and pushed a button. “Walter, Lydia’s…” He glanced up at her with smoldering eyes. “…representative is here.”

A few seconds later, a thin man opened the door she’d just walked through and shuffled his way to the desk. He wore an ill-fitting suit and looked about thirty seconds from passing out right where he stood. His pale blue gaze landed on her, his eyes too large in his narrow face. “Ms. Mallick. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but the circumstances are hardly that.”

“Mr. Trissel. It’s nice to see you again.” Empty, meaningless words. So much of her job required her to spill white lies and smooth ruffled feathers, and Samara was usually damn good at figuring out what a person needed and leveraging it to get what she wanted.

Or what her boss, Lydia King, wanted.