Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (7 page)

Seth steps up beside
Rama to share the view of the beauty of up-state New York. He says, “Good.
Because I believe we'll be closing within the week.”

Chapter 10.
Bamboo. New York City, October 14
^th

She
Hasn't Been To Bamboo In Months
——hasn't seen Rama in an informal setting since
before she left for Santa Lucia. Stepping out of her Bentley as Dom holds the
door, she inhales the street air, and finds comfort in the sound of music and
laughing people. Some of the tension that's been creeping into her since she
stepped off the plane eases.
 

She’s dressed down, in
skinny jeans and half-boots and a thin black sweater against the cool fall
evening. Her red-gold curls are down, and her eyes are wide and nervous. Here,
more than anywhere, she is not a queen or a supplicant—she is just a girl.
 

Except that she is
flanked by Dom as she approaches the club, and the line is watching her, and
she has never been just a girl.
 

The bouncer, a big Asian
she vaguely recognizes, grins at her, exposing even white teeth.

“Princess. It's good to
see you.”

Dom is stiff and wary at
her side, but she ignores him
and
the
bouncer’s greeting, lifting an eyebrow as the bouncer raises the velvet rope.
"Upstairs or his office?"
 

The bouncer murmurs
something into his headset and then looks up. “He asked you to meet him at the
bar.”

Dom touches her arm, a
wary caution, and Emma glances at him. “I'm fine,” she says, and there is a
silent order in those words. Then she steps into the club.
 

There are new girls
here, swaying on the dance floor and chattering at each other in their fluid
language. They give her smirking looks, secure in their tiny kingdom and
attentive dates. A slow smile turns her lips and they, one at a time, look
away.
 

Emma dismisses the
whores as she walks to the bar. A girl is there, her gaze wary.
 
“Vodka tonic, please,” she says. The girl
nods, and Emma turns to face the dance floor. It’s a busy night—the place is
packed in that way that clubs always seem to be, flirting with the line of not
enough and too much. It’s too crowded for her to find Rama, and she sighs.
 

She’s seen him, of
course. At the airport, and Morgan Estates. But those were formal situations.
Seth has seen the prince more than she has, and that rankles, even as she's
been grateful for the buffer.

Seth said he didn’t
care—that she was free to see the foreign prince, so long as she was careful.
But with music pounding in her veins, and the rattle of glasses and ice behind
her, she doesn’t want to be careful.

His arms come around
her, and she twists in his embrace to stare at him. Liquid black eyes and a
lazy smile that belies the heat in his gaze. The silk of his button-down
tickles her palms.
 

“You are here,” he
murmurs.
 

Nerves tickle in her
belly and she shrugs, turning to take the vodka from the watching bartender.
She sips it as she faces Rama again.
 

“You asked me to
come.”
 

Hunger and a deeper
emotion that she refuses to name flickers in his eyes, and then he looks away.
Kai has appeared from nowhere and she grins at the big bodyguard. He gives her
a rare smile.
 

“Your car is
ready.”
 

Emma goes still and
slides a look at Rama. He’s rubbing his wrist, almost nervous.

“Come with me.”
 

For a moment, fear wraps
around her. There are too many people who want her dead, and he is foreign.
Then he steps toward her, wraps her tighter in his embrace, dipping down to
nuzzle

her neck.
 
“Please,
mali
,”
he breaths against her skin. “Don’t make me beg.”
 

She smirks. “Would you?”

Rama’s expression is
utterly serious when he straightens and claims her hand. “For you, Emma? There
is very little I would not do.”
 

She follows as he pulls
her through the club, trailed by their bodyguards. There is a limo waiting, and
Rama opens the door. Dom ducks to look inside and then nods, waiting as Emma
slides into the dark interior. A short second later, and Rama slips in next to
her. There is a soft thud as the bodyguards take the front seat, and then the
privacy glass is raised.
 

As they pull into
traffic, Emma stares at Rama. It’s been a long time since they’ve been alone.
She doesn’t know what to expect from him, this pimp who loves her. How can you
be a queen when you want someone so badly?
 

She glances out her
window, and in the reflection of the city lights, she can see him staring at
her.
 
“Quit,” she murmurs.
 

“Why? Does it make you
uncomfortable?” There is curiosity and amusement in his voice that pisses her
off.
 

“You’re a king, for
fuck’s sake. Not a love-struck fool.”
 

Rama laughs, and leans
back against the leather seat. Against her best wishes, she finds her gaze
drawn to him, to the skin exposed at the v of his shirt.
 

“The two are not mutually
exclusive, Emma. Seth loved, didn’t he?”
 

“And it got him shot!”
she snarls.

He tilts his head. “You
see it as a weakness.”
 

There it is. The truth
she’s been trying to avoid. The reason she’s refused to be alone with him until
now. Her lips thin, but she doesn’t answer Rama.
 

He reaches for the
champagne, pouring a glass that he passes to her, and then one for himself.
Every move is smooth and feline. Everything is a study in seduction—and she
can’t help but remember sex with him.
 

Finally, he leans back
and says, “Seth loves you. And you love him.”
 

She stiffens, anger
filling her eyes. “That’s different. You know that.”
 

“No,
mali
. It’s not. Seth killed for you, and
would gladly do it again.”
 

“Mikie would have died
even if he hadn’t shot at me.”
 

“Maybe. Maybe not. We
won’t know, will we? Seth pulled the trigger when it would save you. Just like
you did to save him.”
 

“What are you saying?”
she snaps, looking away.
 

He doesn’t answer, and
eventually, she looks back. He’s watching her with a patient smile. “Love is
not a weakness,
mali.
What Nicolette
did was not because of love.”
 

She doesn’t answer as he
lifts the glass and swallows the champagne. She watches his throat work, and
the way the expensive drink clings to his lips.
 

She doesn’t want to
talk. Doesn’t want to think about the woman she killed, or why—or that staring
at him, all she can think of is a knife in her back. She doesn’t want to do
anything but surrender thought and choice for a few hours, and let this strange
man and his amazing hands take her places she hadn’t realized were possible.
She leans into him, and hunger lights his eyes. His breath stirs her hair,
brushes against her lips as he murmurs.
 
“Not yet,
mail
. We’re
here.”
 

The car isn’t moving. On
either side, the car is flanked by the bodyguards, and she flushes, sitting up.
Rama curses, and reaches for her. He moves fast, tugging her against him and
kissing her, hard and thorough, before she can process what he’s doing. Then
she makes a pleased little noise in her throat, and pulls him closer, nibbling
at his lips.
 

Rama breathes a Thai
curse, and pulls away and she makes a low hungry noise, anger flaring over the
desire unspooling in her belly. “Wait.”

“I don’t want to.”
 

“We have an
appointment,” he says, and without giving her time to respond, he shoves open
her door and nudges her toward it.
 

Glaring, she lets Dom
help her out of the car, into the waiting night. She straightens and smooths
her sweater, shoving aside the lingering arousal as she takes in the dark
street and people moving around her.

Emma eyes the
storefront. It’s brightly lit and clean, with an ornate sign.
 

“Why are we at a tattoo
shop?”
 

Rama smirks at her, and
wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her into the shop. There are a few
people being inked in the booths, and a couple of giggling girls eyeing the
flash on the walls.
 

Rama ignores them and
the front counter, and strides to the third stall from the back. A tiny Thai
girl sits there, reading a magazine and picking at a piece of fried chicken.
Emma stiffens at the sight of the other girl, especially when she looks up and
her bored expression shifts to eager pleasure. She chatters something at him,
and Rama leans down to kiss her cheek.

“Emma, this is
Choi.”
 

“Your girlfriend?” Choi
says, eyeing Emma with barely disguised dislike. Dom shifts slightly and Emma
stiffens. Rama says something sharply in Thai, and the tattoo artist blinks, a
startled expression falling over her face.
 

He rolls ups his sleeve
and Emma leans against the half wall. “What are you getting?” she asks,
curiously.
 

Rama laughs softly, an
unexpected flush crawling up his cheeks. “It’s a surprise.”
 

Emma stares, fascinated,
and he blows a kiss as Choi busies herself preparing the inkpots and stencil.
Emma looks around.
 

She has never been to a
tattoo shop. Ink, in the Morgan family, means something. Means you belong and
serve. There is, in the back of her mind, a niggling desire to sit down and
stretch her arm out for the needle, but it's dismissed quickly.
 

Seth would hate it.

Behind her, the machine
buzzes to life and Rama hisses, a sharp noise between his teeth that sounds
erotic, somehow. She glances back at him, at Choi bent over his wrist. She's
chattering in Thai and Rama says, voice sharp, “English.”
 

Choi frowns up at Emma.
Irritation sparks in the princess and she steps back toward the little booth.
Rama's eyes are lazy as he watches her, the way she moves sleek and
predatory
 

“Is there a problem with
me being here?” she’s asks, soft and almost demure. Almost. The artist’s gaze
darts up to her and she shivers, shaking her head. Whatever she sees in the
Morgan princess, her sulking fades.
 

“Finish the piece,
Choi,”” Rama says, watching Emma. “I have plans for the lady tonight.”

The heat in his eyes brings
to mind the nights she spent in his bed, and the kiss that did nothing but stir
her hunger. She turns away, sitting on the low leather couch and scrolling
through some old messages as she waits.
 

She closes her eyes,
letting the soft murmur of voices, the start and stop of the tattoo machine
wash over her. The air is heavy with the scent of ink and sweat, undercut with
the distinct scent she associates with Dom: gun cleaner and wet leather.
 

She's half asleep when
she hears Rama speak, his voice like a warm blanket.
 

“Thank you, Choi. It is
perfect.”

“You know I could be
killed for that piece,” she says.
 

“Not so long as you
carry my mark,” he answers easily. There's the sound of tape and crinkle of
plastic and then footsteps. Emma sits up on the couch, blinking sleepily. The
new piece, on the inside of his left wrist, is covered.
 
She frowns. “I don't even get to see
it?”
 

Rama pulls her to her
feet. “Not yet,
mali
.”

He murmurs something to
Kai and the older man inclines his head.
 

Outside, he pulls her in
front of him, holding her against the front of his body with hands tucked into
her pockets. She leans into his warmth, the scent of him wrapping around
her.
 
“I have reservations, for dinner,”
he says into her hair.
 

She twists her neck to
look at him. “Do we have to go?”

His eyes heat instantly,
and she smirks, pushing back against him, finding him hard. “We could get
something, go to my place.”
 

The offer is more than
the casual request she makes it seem, and from the sudden tension in his body,
he knows it. “Are you sure?” he asks.
 

She cranes her neck back
and he leans down, taking the tactic offering and kissing her softly. Against
his lips, she whispers, “Quit talking and call the car.”