Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter 12.
Lower Manhattan. October 25
^th
 

Seth
Leans Back On The Door
of his Bentley as he waits for Vera to emerge from her townhouse.
His hands are tucked in the pockets of his tux pants, and—as is always true
when he's wearing a tux—he wants to rip off the bowtie more than anything.
Still, all in all, he has amused himself with the current situation.
 

It's the night of the
annual police gala, the one where the city's wealthy gather and make
contributions to New York's fine law enforcement. It's an event his family has
been attending for years. He’s attended with Nicolette, in the past. This year,
he's taking a new date. This year, he's taking Vera.

Emma threw a fit when he
told her he was taking Vera to the Gala, haughtily informed him that should
would not be seen with a reporter, and refused to be budged on the issue. Even
Tinney had frowned disapprovingly. And Vera had been thoroughly convinced for
the first ten minutes after he asked to her to go that he was being mean, that
he was fucking with her.
 
He grins,
reading the text messages again.

Vera
: Who do you need dirt
on now?

Seth
: No dirt, just a
question for you.

 
Vera
:
Just a question. That’s rich, coming from you. Glad to see you're back on this
continent.

 
Seth
:
What are you doing Saturday night?

 
Vera
:
…...Oh I don't know, I think I have an appointment to fuck my editor for
frontpage space.

 
Seth
:
Come to the Gala with me.

 
Vera
:
…...

Seth
: I know you want to say
yes.

 
Vera
:
…..

Seth
: I'll pick you up at
seven.

 
Vera
:
Seth Morgan, I do not have time for you to fuck with me. This is not a very
funny joke. How dare you, after I helped you out.

 
Seth
:
It's not a joke.
 

 
Vera
:
You're such an asshole.

 
Seth
:
Seven sharp.

It's 7:05, and his grin
widens when her door finally opens. She's stunning—as expected— in a long,
fitting gown, a dark green, one-shouldered designer thing that accentuates the
lines of her collarbone. Her fiery hair is pinned up on one side, and falls
over her bare shoulder in a cascade of big curls. She pauses for just a moment
when she sees him, waiting there to open her door.
 

Not his driver, but the
king of New York himself.
 

Her eyes flit over him,
no doubt catching his grin and his easy sexiness. He knows what he does to
her.
 

He opens the car door
when she approaches, and she leans in to feather a kiss on his cheek before she
climbs in. He smells her perfume, Cashmere, always, and his gut stirs at the
memories that follow her. When he gets in the other door and the car rolls away
from the curb, she says, “You really were serious.”

Her surprise is genuine,
and she's not shy about watching him. She’s never been scared of him or felt
outclassed by him, a fact that has kept her in a very unique position in his
life. She has never been one to veil her interest in him, interest that lies
mostly in the firecracker way they fuck. His amusement remains firm in his
grin, and he says, “I see you got dressed in case.”

A sarcastic smile takes
her as well. She says, “Oh, you know, I figured if you didn't show, I could
just con my way in anyway. What security guard doesn't love a good blow job?”

“For one of yours, the
commissioner himself would let you in.”

She pauses again,
glances at him. She's not used to his light-hearted teasing, or such honesty.
He fields her attention, reaches over and pinches her upper arm.
 

“What the hell?” she
blurts, pulling away from the tiny pain as though it's significant.

“You looked like you
don't believe this is real. This is not a dream,” he says, his smile all too
knowing against her continued surprise.

He flips open the
minibar, and retrieves a couple splits of champagne. As he makes work of
opening them and filling two glasses, she can only stare.
When she finally finds her voice, just as he hands her a flute,
she says, “Seriously, why me? At a public event? Have you lost your mind?”

This is the first time
they've seen each other since Seth's return to the states, and though she knew
he would eventually come to her, she never dreamed it would be like this. She
knows the darker days he's lived through lately, knows without having ever
asked that he was there when his girlfriend died. She knows that all the
stories surrounding the untimely demise of Michael Morgan and Nicolette Oliver
are bullshit. She knows because after years of digging up dirt on the Morgans
from the outside, she has finally been ushered into that deadly world by the
one who tried to protect her from it.
 

He holds the eye contact
and says, “Maybe I thought it was about time I finally took you on a proper
date.”

Her eyes fly wide. She
knows that this is a completely different world than it was just a few months
ago. Now, the whole empire is Seth's—well, his and his uptight cousin’s. In
this world, Seth can take whomever he likes to whatever event he likes, and
there's not a damn word anyone can say about it.

He adds, “Or maybe it's
about time you know what it feels like to be on the cover of your beloved
gossip rags.”

Her gaze narrows.
There's that prick. She can handle him better. So she says, “Then I guess it's
too early to fuck like animals in the backseat of this Bentley, huh?”

His smile fades the
tiniest bit, and he answers, “Yeah, maybe a bit early.” But his words don't
have the vive they had moments earlier. He takes a slow drink, and adds, “You
look great.”

A blush threatens her
cheeks, so she looks away, at the city creeping by, and says, “So do you. But
you know that.”

For the rest of the
ride, they're silent, and Vera is content to wrap an arm through his and leave
her hand resting on his forearm. If the intimacy is too much for him, he
doesn't show it, and he doesn't stop her.

As always, there's a
throng of reporters and photographers surrounding the red carpet that leads
into the gala. The driver lets Seth out first, and that's enough to garner the
attention of the horde. There never was a camera that didn't love Seth
Morgan.
 

Excitement ripples
through the crowd, and all the lenses turn toward the obscenely wealthy real
estate heir. His smile stays firmly in place as he makes a show of ambling
around the car to open Vera's door. He takes her hand to help her out into the
night, and the murmurs of the crowd get louder. The flashing bulbs double, and
Seth rests a hand on Vera's lower back as he leads her through the madness—so comfortably,
as though they've been on a thousand dates to a thousand galas.

Vera does her damnedest
to play it cool, to keep a smile like her nerves are not a riot in her gut.
She's only ever been on the other side of this coin, a reporter trying to get the
scoop. And, damn him, he’s right. They're going to be the biggest news in
tomorrow's gossip pages; she can tell by the rabid frenzy of the press. Some of
them know her, have probably worked with her, but she can't make out their
faces for all the lights. One of them gets brave, yells, “Who's your date,
Seth?”

Seth flashes that
million dollar smile, that suave, sure curve that could disarm the sovereign
Queen of England. All he says is, “Isn't she lovely?”
 
And he passes them by.

By the time they make it
inside, Vera can only see spots. Seth stays close by her side, hand on her back
as he smiles into the many greetings that plague their progress. Even the mayor
stops to shake the Morgan son's hand, and the old man manages to maintain his
smile as he recognizes Vera. He's not a fan of her work.
 

Her smile comes easier
after that, and her nerves calm. She reminds herself that though she is on the
arm of someone who far outreaches her socially, he is also the same man who
fucked her in a service hallway at this very same event some five years
previous.
 

How different it all is
now—she's here as a date. She's not working. She doesn't even want to work,
which is a rare thing for her. And the greatly coveted Seth Morgan is leading
her with his arm around her by choice. Not because he wants anything from her,
not because he is rebelling against anyone.

He snags two glasses of
champagne from a passing server, and hands one to her as he exchanges small
talk with a member of the city government. She marvels at his social facade,
his cool demeanor as countless policemen and women surround them, proudly
wearing their uniforms for the masses who have come to support them. This, she
thinks, this is how the Morgans stay out of the heat. It really is as simple as
buying the enemy.
 

The journalist in her
squirms to take notes, to start forming her generation's great exposé on the
corruption of New York's upper crust. But the woman in her balks at that
thought. She can never write that story, and not only because it would get her
killed, but because that would be the highest betrayal of Seth that she could
possibly contrive. For once, the woman beats the reporter, and she forces down
her muscle memory of fact-collecting and prioritizing her lede. The whole world
be damned. Tonight, Seth Morgan is hers.

“Mr. Morgan! And – eh –
Miss Rohan.”

It's the commissioner,
parting the crowd on his way to his new arrivals. Seth pulls away from Vera to
shake the older man's hand. The surprise at Seth’s date choice is quite obvious
on the commissioner’s face, and he leans in for a polite kiss on her cheek.
Again, he’s certainly no stranger to Vera Rohan’s tenacious reporting.
 

“Good to see you, sir,”
says Seth.
 

Sir? Vera is sure she's
never heard him use that word before. Spare nothing to impress a man who could
bring the Morgan Syndicate crumbling down.

“I wasn’t sure if we’d
see you tonight, I had heard you were out of the country,” says the
commissioner.

“I was, briefly. It's
been a . . . rough couple months,” Seth answers, his tone leaking raw grief
that he hasn’t shown her tonight. His honesty is heart-wrenching.
 

Vera only just barely
doesn't wince at the conviction in his tone, and now more than ever she wonders
where this realness comes from, when he has always only shown her a stone
facade, and acted like he couldn't feel anything but the touch of her skin. But
then, maybe watching your whole family and the love of your life get murdered
will destroy any facade.

“It was a damn shame to
hear of all that,” says the commissioner. “You have my sincerest condolences.
It was bad enough when your dad went. He was a good man.”

Seth's brow creases, and
the pain that flashes in his expression is very real. But the commissioner’s’
words are true. Everyone loved Gabriel Morgan—except the Marzetti family, and
they're all long dead by now.

 
“Thanks,” he manages to say without letting
his voice crack. He takes a sip of champagne as a tension break, and continues,
“My family has always been a big supporter of the efforts of your department. I
wanted to assure you that our support will continue.”

The commissioner smiles
at this, the big fat pig that he is, and says, “I did notice that your
enterprise's donation was sizable this year. We are most appreciative, and that
makes you a gold star donor.”

Vera covers her shocked
gasp with a fake sneeze. She mumbles an apology and tries to keep her eyes from
widening. Gold star membership is achieved when a contribution has at least six
zeroes behind the front number. She must remember to play dumb, but as she
watches the scene before her unfold. Seth is securing his empire, keeping the
peace with key players, fortifying his defenses.
 

If that is true, though,
what the hell is she doing here with him? How does she fall into his deadly
little chess game?

“As I said, it was always important to Dad, and I aim to honor
that wish of his. My uncle

. . . strayed from some
of the important responsibilities while I was studying abroad.”

Studying abroad? Vera
almost laughs. She knows enough about him to know that the only reason he has a
high school diploma is because he had a private tutor. Seth doesn't study. But
the story sounds pretty enough for a socialite.

“Well, that's all a
rather unfortunate part of the story, but you know that if you ever need anything,
don't hesitate to call my office. You kids enjoy the party.”