His aunt looked up from her computer, her mouth opened to deliver something cutting, without a doubt, but she stopped when she recognized him. “You’re late, Beckett.”
“You’re busy. I’m busy, too. Let’s get this over with.”
The sharp clip of the receptionist’s heels stopped right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder—she barely came up to his chest, but she looked ready to whoop his ass. “Shall I have him removed from the building, Mrs. King?”
“No, thank you. I have it from here.”
The receptionist nodded and shut the doors behind him, but not before sending another searing glare his way. Not making friends here, am I? He hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, but blatant hostility was unexpected. Then again, it shouldn’t be.
He dropped into one of the comfortable chairs across from Lydia’s desk. It put him low enough that she looked down at him from her current position, and he had no doubt that was intentional. Everything about this place was a power move. Speaking first was a sign of weakness, but he didn’t give two fucks. His gaze snagged on the ornate metal forged sign on the wall behind her desk. Kingdom Corp. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “How come you never took Elliott’s name? How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Some women choose to follow the archaic tradition of taking their husband’s name. I didn’t. Why be a Bancroft, when I was born a King?” She raised her eyebrows. “As for Elliott, he’s currently out of town, probably with one of his mistresses, but I’m sure he’ll be back when he needs more money to gamble with.”
The casual way she said it bespoke many years’ worth of acceptance, which didn’t jibe with the Lydia he knew by reputation. Beckett had intended to get right down to business, but now he hesitated. No point in asking why she didn’t divorce him. Elliott Bancroft was the second son of a family that rivaled the Kennedys for political pull. They’d generated one president, four senators, a governor, and were almost universally loved within Texas. Their support of Kingdom Corp gave the company certain freedoms that might go away if Lydia’s marriage to Elliott ended.
He never expected to feel pity for his aunt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” She said it almost gently. “You’ve spent your entire life in a gilded room as the favored son—the only son. You might be my nephew by blood, but you’re nothing more than a rival business associate.”
The lack of heat in her words struck him as much as the words themselves. To Lydia, he wasn’t family. He was just an obstacle in her way. Can’t afford to forget that. He sat back. “My father gave you Thistledown Villa.”
“It certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?”
He fully intended to fight her on that ownership, but it would have to wait for the time being. That house was his main link to his past—to the times when the good parts of his family outweighed the bad. Beckett loathed leaving that battle before it started, but he had to think of the people who worked for Morningstar. They were depending on him to ensure that they still had jobs in a year, two, more. Compared to that, his family home didn’t measure up, no matter the personal value it held for him. Some things couldn’t wait, though. “I need access to the house for a few hours.”
Lydia picked up an expensive-looking pen. “I don’t know that I’m inclined to give it to you.”
“Lydia, shelve the act for a few minutes. Most of the furniture in Thistledown Villa might be heirloom and go with the house, but there are things I’m entitled to. No court in this state is going to deny me that right and you know it.”
Her hazel eyes sharpened on him. She tapped the pen against her dark red lips. “What is it worth to you?”
Anger flared, hot and potent. He wanted to get in her face, to yell at her for being so fucking callous in the wake of his father’s death, about the fact that Beckett’s loss was twofold in both the house and his last remaining parent.
Beckett examined the office, partly to make Lydia sweat, and partly to give himself time. The room was decorated much the same way as the rest of the building’s interiors—white marble floors and massive windows. The only soft touches were the chair he currently sat on and its mate next to him, both a deep purple to match the basic coloring of the trio of photographs lining each wall on either side of the desk. He recognized different shots of the fields that composed most of the property around Thistledown Villa. During the spring, wildflowers bloomed there, turning it into something out of a fairy tale.
She grew up there, too. No matter how many years she’s been banned from the property, it’s obviously important to her.
He took a careful breath and released his anger. He wasn’t pissed at her so much as at the situation, and it would do well for him to remember that. “My father wants his ashes scattered at the property.”
She set the pen down and steepled her fingers. He searched her face for the slightest bit of thawing, but there was only a deep freeze he felt in his bones. “I can arrange for it. I’ll see that your belongings are returned to you as well.”
He met her gaze steadily, feeling like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. One flinch and it would go off. “With all due respect, Lydia, I can’t come up with a single reason to trust you with my father’s ashes.” Or with
