King's Passion (3 page)

“You're welcome to stay. Just tell the bartender I said that the drinks are on the house tonight.” He stepped around her and then threaded through the crowd when she grabbed him by his trim waist.

“Is that it?”

“Did you need anything else?” he asked benignly.

“Hey, Eamon.” A woman walked behind him and gave his firm butt a good squeeze.

He turned his head in time to see Hayley, one of his waitresses, sashay away. “Hey, I require dinner and a few
drinks before I allow a woman to have her way with me.” He laughed.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Hayley teased and continued to navigate her way through the crowd with her tray of drinks.

Laughing, Eamon turned back toward Charelle whose face was twisted in annoyance.

“Well, no wonder you've been M.I.A., you've already moved on to the next trick.”

Unfazed and, quite frankly, bored by Charelle's penchant for drama, Eamon folded his arms. “You do realize that you just called yourself a trick, right?”

“No. I'm calling you a flea-infested, roaming dog.”

“Then you were smart to leave me when you did,” he agreed. No matter what she said, he was not going to indulge her by fighting. What was the point? Hayley meant nothing to him. It was harmless flirtation between good friends and not out of the ordinary for colleagues who worked in their type of establishment. “It was good seeing you again, Charelle.”

Making a clean break this time, Eamon finally maneuvered the rest of the way through the club to his private sanctuary: the office. “Shut the door behind you,” he instructed and then opted for the leather couch instead of the executive chair behind his desk.

“Yes, boss. Right away, boss,” Jeremy joked before closing the door behind him. In doing so, he lowered the volume at least fifty percent from the loud music bumping in the club.

“All right,” Eamon said, stretching back on the couch and kicking up his feet. “Lay it on me. What's so important that it takes both of you to fly in to talk to me?”

His younger brothers looked at each other again as if
waging a silent battle as to which one of them should drop the bomb.

“You guys are really trying my patience,” he warned. “Spill it.”

Xavier sucked in a deep breath. “It's Quentin.”

Dropping his head back, Eamon groaned. “I should've known. What has he done now—tear up the Atlanta club again?” he asked, referring to a drunken brawl Q had gotten into about six months back.

“No. It's nothing like that,” Xavier rushed.

“But?”
Eamon asked. “Why do I hear a ‘but' coming?”

“
But
…he's driving me—”

“Us,” Jeremy corrected and then nodded for Xavier to finish.

“Yes. He's driving
us
crazy. We thought—”

“Actually it was Xavier's idea,” Jeremy cut in again and then rolled his hand at Xavier. “Go ahead. Tell him
your
idea.”

Xavier looked like he was two seconds from going for Jeremy's jugular.

“Anyway,” Xavier said, cutting his eyes back to Eamon. “We were thinking that he could come out here and work with you for a little while. This is our biggest club. Surely there's plenty for him to do around here.”

Eamon was already springing back up from the couch before Xavier could finish his sentence. “No. No. And, oh hell no!”

Jeremy slapped his hand against his forehead. “C'mon, Eamon. It's your turn. He's already spent time at our clubs, drinking and chasing women. It's like having a kid around that we have to babysit twenty-four hours a day.”

“So when you say put him to work you meant that in the loosest terms possible, right?”

Xavier sighed. He and Quentin were actually best friends though Eamon never understood why. They couldn't be more opposite than the North and South Poles.

“I don't understand,” Eamon said. “Why do we have to do anything? Quentin is a silent partner. Kick him to the curb and tell him to take a trip or something?”

Xavier raked his fingers across his finely shaved head. “Well…let's just say that he's going through a little emotional crisis at the moment.”

Eamon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He has a broken heart,” Jeremy answered. “And it's bad.”

“Real bad,” Xavier agreed, nodding. “Sterling married the woman Q thinks he was in love with.”

“Quentin is always in love,” Eamon dismissed. “Give him a couple of weeks and he'll be fine.”

“It's been six months,” Xavier said.

“It's getting worse not better,” Jeremy added.

“And what am I supposed to do? Babysit? Does it looks like I have time to babysit a cousin I don't even like?”

“You mean the same cousin that has made us all rich?” Xavier asked.

Here comes the guilt.
“No.”

“Just for a little while,” Xavier continued. “He's excommunicated himself from his family.”

“No.”

“He's a broken man. We're all he has,” Jeremy added. “Just keep him for a couple of months and then you can send him back to…Xavier in Atlanta.”

“Me?” Xavier turned. “What about you? You're his cousin, too.”

“I just had him.”

Eamon and Xavier stared at Jeremy.

“Fine.” He tossed his hands. “He stays out here with
Eamon first, then Xavier and then me. We'll just keep him in rotation until he gets back onto his feet again.” Jeremy glanced around. “Deal?”

Xavier smiled. “Deal.”

They looked toward Eamon.

“I don't believe this.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to get ahead of the stress headache that was coming his way.

“Is that a yes?” Xavier asked.

“All right. All right. I'll do it.”

Xavier clapped his hands. “Great! He's staying at the Bellagio.”

“What?”

“C'mon, Jeremy. Let's hit the road before we miss our flights.”

Before Eamon could get another word out, his brothers damn near disappeared like a couple of ghosts. One thing was clear. He'd been set up…again.

I
n the penthouse suite in the Waldorf Astoria hotel, Victoria Gregory stood looking as regal as a queen in her Versace French-vanilla-and-gold empire wedding gown. The sweetheart neckline, gold Cinderella tiara and Harry Winston diamonds dripping from her ears, neck and wrist were the result of hours of deliberation by a committee of family and friends. The wedding planner, location, caterer, florist, musicians and guest list had all been handled with Victoria's usual meticulous eye for detail. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the sky was a crisp blue without a single cloud in sight.

“A perfect day for a wedding,” she finally said wistfully, taking in the scenery one last time. After that, she drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders and then whipped around toward her five bridesmaids. “Are you absolutely positive that they missed their flights? Maybe the limousine
driver was late and missed them? They probably took a cab or something.”

Her twin cousins, Grace and Iris, cut a strange look toward each other that instantly piqued Victoria's hackles a few more inches.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice lowering to a lethal level. If Victoria was known for anything, it most certainly was for her quick temper. It was something that she had inherited from her father and she made no apologies for it. “Tell me,” she snapped with a stomp of her foot.

Lolita, another cousin of hers on her mother's side of the family, cleared her throat since it was obvious that the twins were too afraid to speak. “We called Cole's cell phone a few minutes ago.”

Victoria didn't like the smirk that crept across Lolita's face. “And?”

“And…after threatening him within an inch of his life, he gave us some slurred statement about how he didn't think that Marcus was going to make it.” Lolita's smirk continued curling up until it reached the corners of her mouth. “Sorry.”

Victoria's hands balled at her sides while the room around her started turning a vibrant shade of red. “What do you mean he's not going to make it?” she hissed. “I have over three hundred guests waiting downstairs.”

In sync, Grace and Iris stepped back while Lolita's eyes sparkled with mischief.

This wasn't the first time Victoria regretted asking her cousin-slash-arch nemesis to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, but after her mother pleaded and begged, she gave in. Since then, the heifer had been like a steel thorn in her butt. She bitched and complained and seriously thought that she had a vote on every aspect of the wedding. Every
time Victoria came close to catching a case, her mother would step in and reel her back down to earth.

Still smiling, Lolita shrugged her shoulders. “I could go down there and tell everyone that Marcus has just dumped you.”

The twins gasped.

“I'm sure that they'll understand,” Lolita added. “Lord knows I do.”

Before the bitch could bat her faux mink eyelashes, Victoria launched and snatched the girl's lace-front wig clean off her head, exposing her thin edges and mini afro-puff of hair underneath.

The twins jumped back.

Lolita screamed and then clutched at her unkempt natural hair.

Satisfied, mainly because it was a hideous wig in the first place, Victoria threw it down and proceeded to stomp on it.

Lolita finally stopped her long wail and spat, “You bitch,” before launching toward the bride herself.

Two seconds before, the twins recognized the look in Lolita's eyes and finally found the courage to jump into the mix before it got too ugly. The result was them landing right where they didn't want to be: in the middle. Lolita's arms spun like a windmill trying to get to the bride while Victoria's hard fist was landing some pretty good blows on contact. A second later, all four of them fell into a heap on the floor.

The door to the suite flew open and, after a momentary gasp to take in the situation, a stream of women rushed into the room and struggled to pull them apart.

“Enough! Enough! Enough!”

Celya Gregory's strength never ceased to surprise Victoria. Before she knew it, she was peeled away from the
girls, but she was still pissed at her cousin's determination to ruin her wedding day. Who does that?

The team of family and friends helped them all to their feet, but Victoria and Lolita continued to stare each other down.

“Oh, some of the beads fell off your dress,” Ceyla fretted while she checked her daughter over.

Aunt Brenda settled her hands on her hips. “What on earth is going on? Have you two lost your minds?” Her head swung from Victoria to Lolita, but then her face twisted into a frown. “Child, what on earth happened to your head?”

Lolita thrust an acrylic-tipped finger toward Victoria and started shaking it. “She did it! Crazy bitch! No wonder Marcus doesn't want to marry you. If I was him, I'd run like hell, too.”

Victoria's temper shot back up and she was once again in the launching mode. “Let me at her!”

This time the army of women caught her and pulled her back.

Her deranged cousin laughed as she swooped over and snatched her wig from off the floor. “I guess things don't always turn out the way we plan, do they, cuz?”

Lolita's mother, Fiona, snickered as well, but then grabbed her daughter's arm and pulled her toward the door. “C'mon. Let's go.” Before they reached the door, she also added, “I guess it's a good thing that we didn't waste any money, buying a gift.”

They laughed like a pair of hyenas and then slipped out of the room.

Clenching her teeth together, Victoria's gaze shifted to her mother. “Gee. I'm so glad you talked me into inviting those two.”

Celya's cafe-latte complexion pinkened as she exhaled a long breath. “I'm sorry, baby. I'd hoped…”

Victoria shook her head and then turned away from her mother. She wasn't in the mood to rehash the strained relationship of her mother's older and crazy sister who couldn't deal with her own petty jealousy. Everyone could see the truth, but her mother generally saw or wanted to see the best in everyone.

It was an annoying habit that Victoria was happy that she didn't inherit. “Someone get me a phone.”

“Sweetheart, what did Lolita mean about Marcus not wanting to marry you? Where is he?”

All eyes turned toward her. “I don't know, Mother. She probably made it up. Lord knows she's evil enough. All I do know is that he's
not
here.”

Everyone's eyes shifted away.

Victoria resisted the urge to scream and instead turned around and stormed from the living room suite and to the elegant master bedroom with her torn chapel train sweeping the floor behind her.

“Oh wait, sweetheart. Your train.” Her mother fretted behind her.

Victoria continued her steady march away from everyone's gazes. They probably couldn't wait until she was out of sight anyway so they could start calling and texting everyone that she had just been dumped at the altar. “Dumped!
Me?
I don't believe this.”

“Well have you tried to call him?”

She sucked in a breath and rolled her eyes. “That's why I'm looking for a phone, Mother.” Victoria grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and speed-dialed Marcus. On the first ring, she impatiently tapped her foot. On the second, she was pacing the room. By the third, she was
mentally threatening to kill her tenuous fiancé if he
didn't
answer his damn phone.

“This is Marcus. I'm sorry but I can't come to the phone right now. But if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”
BEEP!

“Marcus Lawrence Henderson, I don't know where you are, but I know that you
better
be on your way to our wedding.” She turned her back toward her mother and then added in a low hiss, “I swear. If you embarrass me today, there's not a rock on God's green earth that you'll be able to hide under. Get your butt here. Now!” She disconnected the call but still felt the need to stomp, scream or hit something.

“All right now, sweetheart,” her mother said, coming up behind her and wrapping her arm around her waist. “Calm down. I'm sure that everything will be all right. He and the boys probably just hung out a little too late at their silly bachelor party.”

Victoria's eyes rolled back so far that she could almost see behind her. “I know Kent is behind this.”

Her mother sighed but didn't refute the comment. That was enough to make Victoria feel like she was on the right track. Kent Bryce had been doggedly pursuing her hand since college. Not because he loved her, but because he wanted to position himself with her billionaire father and his successful investment company. She wasn't a fool. She saw straight through Kent and all his lame attempts to woo her. So when she pivoted and selected Marcus Henderson, a simple paper pusher out of account receivables, as an attempt to spur his calculated affection, Kent proved to be quite adept and positioned himself to become Marcus's new best friend.

Marcus, being a shy man, didn't know what to make of his rise in social standing and popularity and was
snookered into Kent and Victoria's chess game before he ever knew what had happened. Relentless, Kent beat out Marc's own brother for the position of best man and was primarily responsible for this harebrained idea of having the bachelor party out in Las Vegas.

Victoria protested the idea, but she was seen as feebly trying to prevent the groom from his one rite of passage. Her father even poo-pooed her concerns and said that she was just being paranoid. So here she was, waiting for the groom along with all of New York's elite society.

Victoria took another deep breath while the fear of becoming a laughingstock rose like a tidal wave. Marcus wasn't much of a party man. He didn't drink or indulge in anything crazy. All of that played a part in her selecting him as her husband in the first place. Sure. She would've liked to have done this the old-fashioned way. You met someone, there's a connection, you fall in love and then you walk down the aisle. In Victoria's world that was just a fantasy sponsored by the fairy-tale spinners out of Hollywood. In her short thirty-two years, she had found one constant in life: people only liked her for her family's money and prestige.

She was irrelevant.

Her father, Mondell Gregory, made his fortune in hedge funds and this year cracked the top twenty on Forbes's list of richest Americans. A worthy accomplishment to be sure, but it resulted in her having a rather difficult upbringing. When you can't trust those around you because you suspect their intentions had nothing to do with you, but everything to do with them trying to boost their social standing, it leads to a rather lonely existence. So she built a wall around her heart and protected herself the best way she could. As a result, she had little patience for fools and it could be argued that she was a little anal and controlling.

It was the best way to avoid getting hurt.

When Victoria attended prep school, she was dubbed the poor little rich girl because she isolated herself from the crowd. By the time she was in college, she was the ice queen—and the loneliest person in the world. The years that followed didn't improve much. She'd become an investor herself and was rich in her own right. She had plenty of acquaintances, but no real friends. She just learned how to play the game. Smile and pretend she was happy during long, tedious society events. Men did find her attractive. After all, she did have her mother's long legs and coke-bottle curves. But after a while, those same men would show their true hand and start talking more about her father than about her.

Again, she was irrelevant.

Now, despite all her careful planning and maneuvering, she was about to be left standing at the proverbial altar. Turning, Victoria walked over to the bed and plopped down. All she could do was just sit, wait…and pray for a miracle.

Forever an optimist, Celya stayed next to her side and insisted. “Everything is going to be all right. You'll see.” She smiled and squeezed her daughter's shoulders.

Despite her struggle not to succumb, a tear skipped down Victoria's face.

So much for that damn brick wall.