Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (16 page)

Havana offers the first
line to Emma, extending a glass straw into the space between them with a
precise manner that will not be rushed. She isn't breathing as she accepts. But
she isn't shaking either as she fields his direct attention.
 

“Thank you,” she says
just above a whisper.

She holds her delicate
curls out of the way over one shoulder as she has done a million times. As she
leans forward, the delicious dip in the front of her dress falls forward to
reveal just a hint of those barely legal breasts.
 

Seth focuses instead on
the line she takes, the smooth way she takes it all, then tilts her head back
to let it slide down her throat. She makes a little face, unavoidable, and he
thinks of when he did the same thing, all that time ago. This is the stuff that
makes you feel like you'll vomit even as you lose feeling in a good portion of
your body.

Havana is quite open
about watching her technique, so she gives him a tiny smile, just a glimpse of
the demure facade she has crafted her entire life. He laughs, wolfish and like
the night itself, strewn across cooling sand and heady green. He sends Seth a
wry smile and says “She is your creature indeed.”
 

He motions for Emma to
give the next to Seth.

Seth answers with his
own predatory smile, and nods his appreciation to the older man. He doesn't
hesitate, doesn't give himself time to think of how he hasn't done blow since
the night they killed Mikie.
 

The stuff is like fire
in his veins, instant and consuming, and his body comes to life in a dangerous
way. He takes a long breath as his heart starts to race.

The house girl returns
as Seth hands the straw back. She begins arranging their drinks on the table,
never speaking or looking them in the eye. Havana ignores her and takes his
line. He puts the stuff away as they sip their rum. He lifts his glass, and
says, “To the new Morgan

Empire.”

Seth's stomach pits into
confusion as the pure coke battles his fortitude. He doesn't show it, though,
as he clinks his glass and tips back the iced liquor. He can't taste it.
 

Part of him wants to
watch Emma's every move, just to see how she's handling the stunning beast that
is Havana, but Seth knows that paying her so much attention in this situation
could only translate to his not trusting her to perform. And from a respectable
court member, any internal tension must always remain inside. To show any
division now would show weakness, and he can't afford to appear weak. So he
keeps his focus trained on his feline host.

To his pleasure and his
fear, his move works. Havana's eyes are hot upon him. He sets down his drink,
and smooths the front of his shirt in hopes that it will also soothe his
nerves. Havana continues, “My condolences on your brother and your uncle.”

Seth's jaw fights to
grind, and his gut twists. He hopes his eyes are as flat as they feel, and he
says, “It just goes to show that everyone must earn their place, blood or not.
That's something I learned here.”

The smile on Havana's
lips shifts into something dry, and he lets the silence linger as he searches
Seth for . . . something. Seth can't tell if Havana finds what he seeks, but
the kingpin looks away, back to the drawer. His movements are an urbane call to
an older time, Gabriel Morgan's days, as he extracts a gold cigarette case and
clicks it open. He offers first to Seth, who politely declines.

When Havana reaches the
case toward Emma, she moves as if pulled by invisible strings. Her movements
are ballet as she daintily accepts with a quiet, “Thank you.”

The smile returns to
Havana's lips as he lifts his lighter into the space to her. She dips the end
of the smoke into the flame as though she's done it a million times. Seth's
eyes widen despite his every effort not to show the surprise that wracks his
composure. Emma doesn't smoke. He's never seen her smoke, and she's performing
like a veteran. Just like Caleb.
 

He clears his throat as
his nasal cavity drains a little. He makes a tiny grimace, hoping the other two
are wrapped in the moment enough not to notice. He feels like Emma has punched
him in the stomach. She gives him a sidelong glance, accompanied by a smirk to
rival his best as she pulls on the filter.

He's earned this
retaliation. Every bit of it. Yet he can hardly believe that she'd choose now
to lobby her attack, and prove that she's earned the place he just mentioned.
Of course she will prove that she can perform under pressure; failure is never
an option for her. It runs in the family. He retreats into his rum for a moment
of collectivity.

Havana lights his
cigarette and his gaze gravitates back to Seth, and he says, “So tell me, what
is so important that you left your budding empire a thousand miles behind you
to see me?”

Thank fuck
, thinks Seth,
business
.
Business is always easier. His calm falls like flowers on the Buddha in Rama's
office. He says, “It's actually in attempt to expedite a profitable venture
that I come.”
 

He catches the lift in
Havana's right eyebrow.
 

“It turns out that my
uncle had some plans that would redirect some of the family's assets, while
conveniently getting me killed under your roof.”

Havana takes a long draw
on his cigarette. Emma taps her ash into the crystal ashtray.

The tiny movement makes
momentous waves in the tension that builds among the three of them. Seth takes
a slow sip.

“Go on,” says Havana.

“Upon review of the
plan, I believe we can revise it so that it's still beneficial for everyone
involved. I'm here to present that idea to you.”

Again, that sharp
calculation returns to Havana's expression. Momentarily, Seth feels like
somehow this man will draw out all the darkness that plagues his thoughts. He
stands his ground, careful to stay his expression from hardening in
determination to keep his shit together.
 

Havana taps his ash and
says, “You are a king now among your people. You do not need permission from me
on issues within your empire.”

Emma’s cool demeanor
stutters, and she stiffens in Seth's peripheral. She doesn't gasp, but her
breath stops. He can feel the tension growing in her. So he says, “I consider
it a courtesy to inform you that I'd like to do something that will traffic
large amounts of your product, and will involve a third syndicate.”

Havana takes the first
drink of his rum. His expression is unreadable, but his attention is intensely
trained on Seth. His dark brown liquid stare is like an anchor to Seth's
muscles, and Seth must remind himself to keep his breath steady.
 

Finally, Havana
extinguishes his cigarette and says, “You are a soul blessed with wisdom and
finesse. A rare thing, so much so that I wonder if you're real.”
 

He reaches into the
drawer again and gets the mirror. He measuredly cuts out three more lines, and
all the while a rather more mischievous smile plays on his lips. He knows both
Seth and Emma are hanging on his words. This time, he hands the straw toward
Seth, simultaneously leveling that keen gaze on the Morgan son.
 

Havana continues, “But
every time I search your eyes for deceit, I only find honesty. You, Seth, are
the real deal.”

His accent is like a
foreign spice, and Seth finds his name sounds delicious wrapped in the Latin
cadence. The magnitude of the praise that has fallen from his mentor's lips
nearly stuns him to silence and inertia. He swallows thickly as he forces
himself to accept the gift.
 

His tone is low, steady,
almost foreign when he says, “I remember what you told me my last night here,
when I was seething against the sand and my pride was broken in my hands. You
said someday I'd thank you.” He lets his gaze drift down to the line he's about
to take. He says, “I understand that now. And I do.”

Heat is rampant in his
cheeks as he quashes the coke. His emotions have escalated to something like a
hurricane. The winds are heavy, and the waves are high. He softly closes his
eyes as the blow runs its ecstatic course into his bloodstream. The violin
drifts back to him, and for a moment he's sure he can feel the waves outside.
The vibrations of night bugs brush against him.

He turns to pass the
straw to Emma, and finds her totally enrapt with his momentary peace. She
covers it quickly, averts her eyes as she accepts. It is the same look she gave
him their last night on the beach—wonder at the shred of zen that he has found.
He let his guard down, broke his own rule that every setting is a stage, and to
always act like someone is watching. He slipped, and in doing so made a
stronger play than he could have conceived. She takes the rail, a ready
distraction.
 

Seth rolls his attention
back to Havana, whose smirk has turned devilish. He clears his line with easy
command. He sniffs a few times, lets the stuff seep. He drains his rum in the
next movement.
 

“Stand up, Seth.”

Seth's eyes widen, but
he doesn't hesitate. It takes every ounce of training to pace himself, instead
of falling over himself because he can't get up fast enough. There is no other
person on earth who makes him as nervous as this one. He leaves his hands
abandoned at his sides. Linen rustles against his upper body, and his jeans
hang precariously on his hips. He keeps his posture straight, chin up, proud as
Havana stands and approaches.
 

Seth can't move as the
older man bridges the gap with his hand, places his fingers under Seth's chin,
and brushes his cheekbone with the thumb. Havana says, “I see before me a man,
one who came to me as a boy. I see a rightful king. And I see an ally who has
earned his place. But where is the passion that drove you into my keep? Where
is your fire, Seth?”

Seth can't speak as the
storm takes his eyes. All the rage and pain and confusion radiates there, and
the words, like punch daggers to his lungs. Havana's smile is softer now, but
everpresent. There, now Seth looks like the hell-bent youth that first came
here, with his chin tilted up, just waiting for a drop of grace to fall to him.
Havana's thumb is slow against Seth's dampened skin. The humidity is like an
amplifier of all the emotions and hormones in the room. Havana's voice in so
nearly a whisper when he says, “The climb to the top is a tragic one, but let
me tell you this; no one will follow a cold king. Mind that you do not lose
your soul in an attempt to protect it.”

If Seth was unsure of
the raw hunger in Havana before, there's no mistaking it now. He has never
hidden his attraction to Seth, but he has never fully acted on it either. For
the moment, Seth has forgotten Emma, and New York, and the constant ache in his
shoulder. Havana's words are such a close echo of his own father's dying words
that his breath hitches in his chest. Again, he feels like he's been hit.
 

Havana pulls away.
“Unfortunately I have some more business to which I must attend before my night
is finished, so I have to take my leave. Anything you could possibly need will
be provided. You are welcome in my home. I will look over the folder of
information you have brought me, and we will meet again for lunch
tomorrow.”
 

He turns to Emma, who
stands. He kisses both her cheeks, and says, “It was most lovely to meet you,
Miss Morgan.”

“Thank you so much,” she
says. “You, as well.”

Then, just as quickly as
he appeared, the kingpin is gone, and Emma and Seth are left standing
awkwardly. Seth is still staring at the place where Havana was. Both of them
are well aware that Havana's last words are an echo of what Seth has already
heard from the people he cares about, that he can't shut down his emotions and
shove everyone out if he is to be an effective leader.
 

At length, Seth
mechanically sits down. His gaze falls to the mirror Havana left on the table,
and his expression waxes forlorn. Emma follows suit, sips at her rum, content
not to push him as he sorts through his thoughts.
 

A knock at the door
garners their attention, then a house girl enters. She says, “A party has
gathered in the bar. They request your presence, Mr. Morgan.”

Seth looks to Emma, who
is watching him, eyes still shrewdly calculating his emotional state. He shrugs
and grins. She knows the smile is to cover up his previous thoughts, but he
knows that to her, his smile is damn irresistible, and she smiles back.
 

“Let's go then,” she
says. “Introduce me to your friends.”

He glances at her, but
doesn't hold the contact, doesn't hold the grin either. He smooths his shirt as
he stands. “Let's go then,” he repeats.

Chapter
22.
Havana's Villa. November 19
^th

 
Cuba Is
Different
. The party is different, exotic and extravagant in a way that is
startling to her, and yet it reminds her of Caleb, when the golden prince would
relax with his division. It's loud and rough and lacks the pretentious display
that she finds so often in New York.
 

Seth is different. He's
drinking a margarita one of the Cubans shoved at him, a loose smile on his
lips. He has an arm around her shoulders as they sit in the center of
attention, a silent claim and not terribly subtle order for the Cubans to keep
their distance. But for all his easy smiles, she can feel the tension in him,
the way he almost vibrates with it as she sits next to him with her wine.
 

A man slips into the
room, the one who greeted them on the docks. Seth shifts next to her and she
slides a glance at him sidelong, watching as the tension curls tighter and a
grin appears.
 

Long and lean, that
golden sun kissed skin and tousled black hair, and eyes that give him away—no
matter how casually he weaves through the crowd, there is a shrewd, attentive
mind looking out of those chocolate brown eyes. Still, whoever this is, Seth is
genuinely pleased to see him. Emma shifts and sips her wine, watching the other
man from under her lowered lashes. He moves with a lithe grace, at home in this
place as he stalks through the gathered Cubans to drop into a chair across from
them. For a split-second, his dark gaze darts to Emma and she holds it,
startled by the intensity there before he looks away, smiling. “You've been busy
since you left us,
yuma
.”
 

Seth laughs, a low noise
that rumbles against her, and answers in easy rolling Spanish.

She shoots Seth a glare
that he ignores.
 

Irritation sparks in her
veins and she shifts, scooting away from him a little. The arm around her
shoulders tightens, a silent order as he continues talking in that rolling
language that is playing havoc on her senses.

So he is aware of her
then. The Cuban across from them laughs in response to Seth and she smirks.
Leans forward, away from her cousin. The Cuban's eyes slide to her, following
the motion as she stretches and puts her empty wine glass down. Her dress
shifts a little, the hint of cleavage deepening just a touch, and his eyes
skate over the enticing view before he looks back up into her bright blue eyes
and shy smile. His eyes widen a little.

Seth's hand is resting
at her waist now, and his fingers dig a little before he relaxes and releases
her.
 

“We haven't met,” Miguel
says, directing a grin at her. She offers a shy smile, a delicate flush rising
in her cheeks, and extends a hand.
 

“Emma Morgan.”
 

Miguel sends Seth a
quick look and she holds her smile as she hears him, his voice tight and almost
hostile. “My cousin and partner. Emma, this is Miguel, a good friend and
Havana's nephew.”
 

Miguel flashes a wide
smile and murmurs, “
Es un placer conocer
a una hermosa Morgan tales
.”

She lifts a lazy eyebrow
as she leans back and Miguel laughs, a low noise. “You never mentioned such a
beautiful cousin,
yuma
.”

Seth makes a low
displeased noise in his throat, and shoots back in Spanish, “
Hay muchas cosas que usted no ha mencionado,
sobrino
. Déjala en paz.”

Emma makes a face,
elbows Seth. “Stop that. We don’t all speak Spanish.”
 

There’s a beat of
silence, and then Miguel grins at her, slightly apologetic. “Well. Actually, we
do.”
 

Emma makes a tiny pout,
and reaches over to snatch Seth’s drink. He doesn’t object as she sips it—but
she can feel his gaze, always watchful as she leans back and tucks her legs
next to her Miguel watches the two for a long moment, and then produces a
blunt. “Smoke with me, Morgan.” There is a bite of authority in his voice that
snaps Emma’s eyes up, and she can feel the tension coiling in Seth. She smirks
and rises, drawing attention as she sways over to the Cuban prince. Miguel’s
gaze darts to Seth and back to Emma as she perches on his knee and loops an arm
around his neck. Behind her, she can hear Seth hissing her name, but she
ignores him.
 

Smiles at Miguel, all
the natural Morgan charm she rarely uses—the easy sex appeal she watched Caleb
wield so often—and Miguel’s attention narrows on her. He shifts, slipping
deeper into the chair so that she slides down his knee, and lands against his
chest. “What are you doing, princess?”
 

“Smoking,” she says, a
tease in her voice, and his eyebrows climb. She wiggles a lighter in front of
him, and he smirks. He glances past her, at Seth, and she sees indecision
flicker in

Miguel’s eyes, and
without turning, she says, “Seth, do you want to smoke with us?”
 

There’s a quiet shift,
and she finally looks back. Seth’s eyes are trained on her and she offers him a
quick, knowing smirk. He’s been quietly taunting her since they arrived, and
she allows herself—finally—to acknowledge just how angry she is. His eyes are
dark and hooded, but she can see the tension in him, and for a moment—a
split-second—she wonders if she is pushing him too hard.
 

A burst of Spanish and
laughter turns his head, and her expression hardens. She turns back to Miguel
and he holds up the blunt, a silent offering.
 
“She doesn’t smoke those,” Seth says behind her, and Miguel’s eyes widen
at the tone.

Emma knows why—that tone
is banked fury. That kind of barely checked violence is startling in this
setting.
 

Emma smirks and shifts
on his lap. Miguel eyes his friend for a moment, and then lifts the blunt,
pulling on it before tilting his head, almost meeting her lips as he blows a
steady stream of smoke. Emma’s hands are braced on his shoulders, and her nails
dig a little, a hint of pressure. Miguel’s eyes darken, and he drifts closer to
her for a heartbeat, before she giggles and pulls back. Miguel blinks, shaking
his head, and Emma sways on his lap and releases a sigh as he extends the blunt
to Seth. For a long moment, Seth stares, and Emma finally shifts away from
Miguel and stands on unsteady feet. “I need a drink,” she says softly, refusing
to meet Seth’s gaze.
 

Seth watches her trip
away from them and his gaze drops to the blunt, still in Miguel’s brown
fingers, smoking lightly.
 

It hasn’t been so long
since he taught her a lesson, played on her fascination with him, and now—he
stands abruptly and stalks to the door.
 

Rapid footsteps behind
him and Miguel catches his arm. “Seth. You’re angry.”
 

Seth shakes his head and
looks away from his friend. “What Emma does is her choice, Miguel.”

He glances back at her,
sitting at the bar with a margarita and two Cubans smiling at her, and his gut
twists furiously. He forces a smile for Miguel and nods at the door. “I’m going
to get some air.”