“What’s up?”
“Thanks for finding Walter for me.” He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, the lot seemed just as empty as it had been when he arrived.
“Check your glove box.”
Frowning, he obeyed and huffed out a laugh. “How the hell did you manage to get his hotel key?” It was in a sleeve with the room number written neatly on it.
“A gentleman never tells.”
He slipped the key into his wallet. “I’m going to owe you my soul at this point, but I have one last favor.”
“We’re friends, Beck. You’d do the same for me if our situations were reversed.”
He would, but he didn’t like the ominous tone in Frank’s voice. “Everything good?”
“Yeah.” And that was that. “What’s the favor?”
“Can you put someone on Samara? Lydia’s pulling her in unexpectedly this morning for an emergency meeting or some shit, but it doesn’t feel right to me. I think she knows about us and she’s going to try to use it to try to leverage some kind of benefit.”
“Sounds like her.”
Samara doesn’t think so. Or she thinks she can handle herself. That was the problem, though—Samara could handle herself in most situations. But she still didn’t quite believe the kind of evil bullshit his aunt could bring to the table. He still barely believed it and Beckett had been targeted repeatedly. “That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll handle it personally, Beck.”
Now was the time when he should have said it wasn’t necessary for Frank to be the one to keep Samara safe, but he couldn’t deny the relief that cascaded through him at the offer. “I appreciate it.”
“You heading for Trissel?”
“Yeah, leaving now.”
“Good luck.”
That was really all there was to say about it. “You, too.” He turned on the car.
Beckett hesitated, considering. He scrolled through his contacts to one he’d called maybe once in living memory. Calling Anderson King was a risk. He knew his cousin by reputation more than anything else, and by all accounts he had been raised just like Beckett—to be cold and ruthless and do whatever was necessary to protect the King name and his company.
And yet.
He pressed the call button. This would play out according to Beckett’s plans, and that meant he needed Anderson in town.
The man himself answered, sounding irritated. “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me.”
Guess we’re not acting the loving family. It was almost a relief. Lydia played the family card when it suited her, but it didn’t mean anything coming from her mouth. “It’s in everyone’s best interest if you’re back in Houston today.”
Anderson paused. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a declaration of intent.” He hung up. They could circle round and round for hours and it wouldn’t prompt his cousin into action. Thinking he needed to be back in Houston to negate a threat? His ass would be on the next plane out of DC.
There was a threat. It just wasn’t leveled at Anderson.
It was aimed completely at Lydia.
Satisfied he’d gotten the appropriate pieces in motion, he backed out of the space. Beckett searched the cars in the lot as he drove through it, but there was no one there. Must have been imagining things.
He couldn’t afford to ignore any possibility that he was being followed, so he took a circular route through the city, cutting back and forth across downtown until he hopped on the freeway heading east. Best he could tell, no cars had made the journey with him, but he still kept one eye on the rearview as he followed Frank’s instructions to the place where Walter had chosen to hole up.
The chic hotel wasn’t quite inside the city limits, but it was close enough to the Gulf to list it as one of the main attractions. Its claim to fame, though, was the spa it boasted with a list of services longer than Beckett’s arm. The same spa where Lydia goes for those appointments Samara makes her.
He walked through the lobby with purpose and no one bothered him as he took the elevator up to Walter’s floor. A quick look down the hall found it empty, and he strode to the door and let himself in, closing it quietly behind him and throwing the deadbolt.
A groan from the bed had him striding over and yanking the covers off the man. Walter Trissel cursed and covered his face with his forearm. He opened one eye and then shot up in bed and crab-walked backward until he hit the headboard. “What the hell are you doing here? You can’t just come into my room like this!”
Beckett grabbed a chair and swung it around so he could straddle it. “Morning, Walter. It’s time you and I had a nice little chat.”
Despite her bravado, nerves fluttered in Samara’s stomach as she walked down the hallway to Lydia’s office. She’d picked a pair of slacks and a simple blouse with sensible shoes. Being paranoid. Beckett has me thinking I’m going to have to run for my life, which is just crazy.
Isn’t it?
She could feel his note where she’d folded it carefully and put it in her pocket. We’ll talk tonight. —Beck. It was short, but it gave her hope all the same. Hope that they could find a way through this. Together. She didn’t want a man to sweep in and demand that she rely solely on him and bow to his will—not even Beckett. Samara trusted her instincts.
Right now, her instincts were hollering that this might be a huge mistake.
She forced a smile onto her face and opened the door to Lydia’s office. The woman herself sat behind the large desk, her red-nailed hands steepled in front of her equally red lips. Journey occupied one of the two chairs opposite the desk, so Samara strode
