Beckett frowned. Cocoa’s was a high-end club that catered to Houston’s elite. They only served top shelf, all their employees were painfully beautiful, and the whole place was decorated like a speakeasy—or at least how the owners thought a speakeasy should look. “Not really your scene.”
“It is tonight.” He hung up.
He changed into a suit—Cocoa’s had a strict dress code and jeans didn’t fit into it. He hesitated. Frank liked his games, but he wasn’t into the pretentious bullshit any more than Beckett was.
Only one way to find out what’s up.
Thirty minutes later, he walked past the velvet rope—a velvet rope, for fuck’s sake—and into the low din of Cocoa’s. Throbbing music had the dance floor packed, the crowd moving in a slow writhe that gave the impression of an orgy in progress. The roped-off VIP section was on the other side of that mess. People lounged on the fainting chairs and couches, pretending that eyes didn’t follow every little movement they made as they waited for something resembling an invitation.
That was the other reason he hated this place. The club might pretend it catered to the elite, but its true clientele was the masses of social climbers who came here for the elite. Whether the aim was one night of bragging rights or some deeper game, if someone wanted a partner with more money than God, they had a good chance to find them at Cocoa’s.
He skirted the edge of the dance floor, pointedly ignoring several women who gave him blatant invitations. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied with a certain Indian woman, he wouldn’t be tempted.
Frank saw him coming and motioned to the pretty brunette manning the entrance to the VIP area. She stepped aside, and then he was just another lion prowling the cage while the crowd watched. You’re here for a reason. Get the info. Have a drink. Get the fuck out.
Beckett dropped onto the couch next to Frank. “Why here?”
“I have my reasons.” Frank sounded distracted, his attention on the dance floor. He could be looking at any one of the scantily clad women grinding to the throbbing beat. But this was Frank, which meant he had a specific one in mind—the woman who was probably the reason he’d set the meeting there to begin with. Finally, Frank shook his head and focused on Beckett. “I bought it last week.”
“Cocoa’s?” He looked around the room with new eyes. It wasn’t any more appealing than it had been before. “Why the hell would you—” He stopped short. Of course. What better way to gather information than from the elite who came there to drink themselves stupid? They were bound to spill secrets into the right set of ears. “You crafty bastard.”
“Man’s got to make a living.”
Beckett didn’t dignify that with a response. Frank had enough money that he wouldn’t have to work for the rest of his life—and that his theoretical grandchildren wouldn’t have to work for the rest of their lives. “What do you have for me?”
“You want to wait for a drink first?”
He tensed. “No, I don’t want a fucking drink. Just tell me the news.”
“Suit yourself.” Frank shrugged. “Your old man’s driver is enjoying a vacation in Brazil right now. He left the day Nathaniel died, and he’s been blowing enough money to turn heads down there.”
He was paid off.
Beckett didn’t know the man. He was someone Nathaniel had hired years ago, and one of his father’s conditions for a driver was complete silence. Be seen, not heard. Better yet, don’t be seen, either. He should have ordered the damn drink. “Who?”
“Not sure yet.” Frank flagged down the waitress, a blonde dressed in a black flapper dress that barely covered the essentials. “My friend here needs a double of whiskey on the rocks.”
“My pleasure.”
He waited for her to move away to lean forward. “Beck, there’s something else. Your old man had a meeting that night—a meeting with Lydia King.”
Chapter Five
You needed this. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Samara laughed and raised her martini. “You’re not wrong.” Her life was high stress on the best days, and the last forty-eight hours had hardly been that. She’d always had a very firm opinion of Beckett and Nathaniel King, and spending an hour in Beckett’s presence when they weren’t banging each other into oblivion was enough to start chipping away at everything she thought she knew. It left her feeling like she was wearing too-tight clothing with an itchy tag just beyond reach.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start ordering shots?” Journey stretched out long legs. She wore an impossibly short black jumper, which should have looked ridiculous, but she somehow managed to pull it off. Samara could never pinpoint if it was confidence or her model-proportioned body, or some combination of the two, but Journey could probably show up dressed from head to toe in a fuzzy pink bear suit and she’d still rock it.
“No shots. I have to work in the morning.” She should be working now, truth be told. “The proposal for the government lease—”
“Is up in seven days,” Journey finished. “I know. Between you and my mother, I could probably give you the exact amount of time left to submit the proposal, down to the minute.” Her hazel eyes went contemplative. “Maybe the second, too.”
“Don’t you dare. I already have enough stress without a literal countdown clock.” Samara sipped her drink. “I was out at Thistledown today. Lydia sent me to babysit Beckett. I don’t know what she thought he was going to do—burn it to the ground, maybe.”
Journey snorted. “If anyone’s going to do that, it’s my mother. I don’t know why she’s so damn bitter. Nathaniel and his father were dicks, sure, but that was thirty freaking years ago. She won. Kingdom Corp is the single biggest competitor Morningstar has. We own a third of the world’s leases for
