King's Treasure (Oil Kings Book 3) Read online

  “And Lexington will be there.”

  “Lex?”

  “You remember him, of course.”

  Chief tried to throw me in Lex’s path like I was the rare sapphire that Lex couldn’t live without. It didn’t help that Lex was interested and constantly flirted with me. A man like Chief was the last guy I wanted to marry. Brady and I had joked about getting married to throw Chief off his game, but Chief had left me alone the last few months.

  I should’ve known. He loved Lex. A wonderful addition to the firm. He was in military intelligence, you know. He comes from a good family. In Chief speak, that meant Lex’s family had money. Unlike me, Lex probably had his own money.

  And he had all the arrogance to show for it. I didn’t want a husband like my sister Em’s. Chief had set her up with another guy just like Lex, who happened to be just like Chief. He thought lightning could strike twice, but the last thing I wanted was a stilted marriage like Em’s, one that paralleled my parents’ way too close for comfort.

  Em was a housewife, like Mother. She spent her days managing the house staff, planning soirees, and volunteering at any prestigious event that’d make her and her husband, Carter, look good. Mother had her own money, but Chief was in charge of the finances. Em was dependent on the allowance Carter gave her.

  Was it wrong to try for more than that? As often as I got smacked down, it seemed like it.

  “I remember Lex, but—”

  “Sapphire. I’m flying to Vegas to bail you and your friend out—again. It’s time you grow up. You’ll be at lunch tomorrow and you’ll talk to Lex, and when we return home, you’ll work for me.”

  “Only until I get on my feet,” I said sullenly.

  “Sure.”

  My teeth ground together. He didn’t think I could do it. The call ended and I filled Brady in on what Chief had said.

  He whistled. “Tough blow.” His grin spread wide. “Until then, I’m partying in Vegas on Abbot money.”

  I rolled my eyes. As tempting as that was, I had to prove Chief wrong. I was one more screwup away from being kicked out. I couldn’t waste time. “I think I might look for a job or something.”

  “We’re in Vegas, baby. It’s Valentine’s Day. Let’s party.”

  Brady was an opportunistic playboy. I avoided men like Chief but somehow ended up with guys like Brady. Somewhere between Peter Pan syndrome and commitment-phobe. That was the spectrum of men in my life.

  But I wasn’t here to date. I had the rest of the afternoon and the evening to prove Chief wrong. He thought I’d give up, marry Lex, and have little babies with buzz cuts who’d grow up and work at Abbot Security.

  I wasn’t that girl.

  The Venetian dominated this block and spelled out love with its windows, as if the whole city was on the Chief’s side. While I waited for him to transfer money to my account, I would have to do something drastic to show him who I really was.

  It was a good thing I hadn’t told Chief what I was trying to do. Finding a career-advancing job in one afternoon in a city I didn’t live in and hadn’t planned on job hunting in wasn’t my best idea. But there I was, wandering down the Strip back to my hotel.

  Brady had messaged me and told me not to disturb his room because he had a guest. The guy worked fast. Good thing I had my own room in the suite. I’d have to fire up my laptop and keep searching.

  My feet hurt. My head ached. And I was desperate.

  A group of people dancing behind a woman holding a sign blocked my path. I slowed. I was close to my hotel. Which also meant I was close to the hotel I was supposed to have had the meeting of my career in. How awesome to get stalled at the scene of my latest failure in life.

  Instead of pitching a project I was passionate about, I was going to meet Gentry King and impress him with my ability to take notes for Chief. I’d done so much research, dammit! When I learned that oil companies hired environmentalists, I’d been over the moon. Finally, I could work with a company where I did more than make a slide show telling their employees to recycle and turn their lights off.

  King Oil didn’t just talk about pro-climate business practices, they modeled them. King Oil headquarters was LEED certified. They hired companies that captured natural gas instead of flaring it into the atmosphere. They invested in alternative energy projects, and they adopted energy-efficient practices. I could be part of major change instead of saving a few square feet in the landfill by using a refillable water bottle, all in an industry that had a reputation for resisting any green practices. It would be a huge ego boost after the way my parents had tried to talk me out of my environmental science degree.

  But I’d be sitting on the sidelines taking notes. On paper. Then, Chief would want a copy typed up. And more copies made and distributed.

  I watched the group ahead of me. It was a walking tour of the Strip. The gaggle of women had stepped out of a ’60s catalog, with gauzy shirts that revealed more than they covered, and bell bottoms more up to date than their vintage counterparts. Beneath their flower crowns, some of the women had long, frizzy hair that resembled mine. I’d finally let mine out of its tight bun, and if I hadn’t flat ironed it this morning, it’d frizz just like that.

  They danced and twirled, their arms held to the sky as they laughed and giggled. It was like a Valley Girl’s reenactment of Woodstock. A little too much peace and love, not enough knowledge about the whys.

  One had her flip-flops in her hand, braver than I was to walk barefoot on the concrete. Two others were hanging on each other, nuzzling necks and sneaking kisses. Of the two guys in the group, one had his mouth smashed on another flower girl’s throat, but they somehow managed to keep up with the group.

  The barefoot one waved to a passing man, who gave them a wide arc and shoved his hands in his pockets like he was afraid they’d grab him and incorporate him. “Your energy is bright, my friend.”

  He shot her an incredulous look and rushed past.

  That was how my family saw me. Naively idealistic. Young and innocent and incapable, like a floppy-eared puppy. At home, I dressed like them. My family looked at me like that tourist had responded to news that his energy was bright.

  Movement on the outer edges of the group only fueled my irritation. I was stranded in Vegas unemployed and struggling to be independent of my parents’ money. It was bad enough my father would arrive shortly to witness me at my worst. And there were these tourists being followed by a photographer, no doubt capturing their most cringeworthy moments too. Like Chief, this photographer would make an example of how their best intentions weren’t enough for the “real world.”

  He crouched, his camera aimed at the group blessing their way down the Strip. He brushed shaggy, dark brown hair off his forehead as he shoved a large camera to his eye. His folded legs were long and his biceps flexed through his hemp hoodie. His wide chest was on display, thanks to the camera bag slung low over his torso. Faded blue jeans hugged his thighs and broke over cowboy boots.

  Just some dude taking pictures of beautiful women? No. I didn’t know much about camera equipment, but the one he held looked serious. The lens was as big as a pomelo. He crouched, twisting himself into a pretzel to get the right angle. He was no amateur.

  His half smile and the way his eyes narrowed on the group resembled the cynical grins of the older tourists passing by.

  Protectiveness rose. Was he going to do some puff-piece making fun of the people here? That was how everyone in my life saw me, how they rolled their eyes when I inquired about the free-range status of the eggs I ate, or the pesticides used to grow the fruits and vegetables in the juice I drank. This man was going to immortalize that derision in photographs for others to make fun of.

  My heart raced. No one from the group had noticed him, and if they did, they wouldn’t care. I cared. I cared way too deeply and that had always gotten me in trouble. I didn’t know how this would play out, but I had to stop it. I was in danger of acting before thinking, a crime my parents too often accused
me of, but I’d run him out of Vegas before I let him make this crowd feel small.

  Xander

  I refocused and took another shot, the neon lights around us filtering down onto the men and women dancing their way down the Strip. I caught two with their hands in the air, one in a skirt that twirled around her ankles, her flip-flops held high in the air like an offering to the gods of Vegas. Highlights in her hair caught the reds and yellows of the glowing signs lining the sidewalk, giving her an ethereal quality.

  “Praise Mother Earth,” one of the women called over the tour guide’s fact-dispensing speech.

  Those people stood out among the other tourists roaming the night. Valentine’s Day in Vegas. For a day all about spreading love, people here were surprisingly isolated. Couples walked hand in hand, or somehow even closer, absorbed in each other and oblivious to the spectacle around them. Some singles walked by too, hands tucked into their pockets, gazes never meeting. But everyone, coupled up or single or giggling in a group, kept firmly in their bubbles. Maybe they were avoiding their family like me. Maybe they had a birthday in two days that was a milestone for all the wrong reasons. Maybe they’d made excuses like I had to get out of a family dinner and sink into some blissful anonymity.

  I didn’t know what they were thinking, but those hippie tourists felt different. They didn’t ignore the people around them. They weren’t oblivious. They were ignored or ridiculed in return, but they persevered, their self-confidence winning every time.

  Their free love for the world made me forget about the questions Dad had peppered me with and the way I’d avoided answering them. He asked about Grams’s persistent hounding, about what my twenty-ninth birthday meant, and about my much more successful siblings.

  I’d ditched my brother’s anniversary dinner, changed clothes, and grabbed my camera. The city was full of inspiration. I should be able to get a few pictures that reaffirmed my life’s decision. Then this group had danced by and I’d wanted some of their unfettered happiness. I wanted to capture it in my lens and somehow take some for myself, to forget that I was two days away from being noncompliant with my trust fund.

  I clenched my jaw and snapped a few more shots. There was a couple making out like they were going to meld into the same person. I didn’t focus on them—it seemed too intrusive, but I could include their desire in my pictures. My mind worked over various angles and how to utilize the shadows from the man-made lighting. My pulse thrummed. I hadn’t had the drive to take pictures for years. A big issue for a photojournalist. Well, a wannabe photojournalist no one wanted to buy stories from.

  What had Mama always said? Don’t assume a hobby makes good business. You have to be good at business first, and be damn sure that half the appeal of your hobby isn’t that it makes you forget about business.

  When I was a kid, I had no clue what Mama meant, but I got it now. The hustle of trying to make money from my photos had sucked a lot of the joy out of taking them.

  But something about this wild and free group that gave zero shits about what everyone thought of them prancing down the Strip made me want to focus that energy through my lens and see if I could absorb it.

  My phone was going crazy but I left it tucked into my pocket. If it were my brothers, I couldn’t trust that they weren’t trying to lure me into Grams’s web just to be dicks. If it was my dad, I’d rather continue avoiding him and the insinuations that I’d been freeloading all over the world for the last ten years.

  It didn’t help that Dad was kinda right, but I was also trying to make my mark. As it was, people only listened to me when they realized who my father was. Even then, they didn’t listen for long. Big Oil meant evil in most of the circles I tried to sell my work.

  I’d started using a pseudonym, but that was like starting over. My middle name and Mama’s maiden name didn’t open doors like my real name, but it didn’t get those doors slammed in my face as often as my real name did.

  My phone finally went silent. My family should be used to my voicemail. I changed the aperture on my camera and refocused.

  “You think that’s funny?” A voice as smooth as warm brandy washed over me. I didn’t look at the speaker. I didn’t have to—my mind filled in the pieces. A strong woman. Formidable. Determined and gorgeous. Dad had always said I was half in a fantasy world, and I was willing to stay there a little longer and listen to the mystery woman talk.

  I lowered my camera and scanned the group. They were moving farther away and taking my inspiration with them. Would I ever get it back? “What do I think is funny?”

  “Young people trying to make the world a better place. Take your hack fluff piece and go find a real story.”

  Hack fluff piece. She thought I was a journalist? The irony was, I hadn’t made the jump to legitimate professional, but she was upset thinking I was someone I tried hard to be. Mystery Woman took me more seriously than my own family did.

  I kept my gaze forward, my camera loose in my hands, and remained squatting, enjoying the hostility in her tone. I shouldn’t egg her on, but I couldn’t help it. “I’d have to figure out how they were helping the world before I had any material for an article.”

  “They obviously care about the earth.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re helping it.”

  She sputtered and I chuckled.

  “Relax. My camera is a judgment-free zone. They made me want to take a picture, so here I am, taking a picture.”

  “You aren’t a journalist?”

  “Photojournalist.”

  “But you aren’t doing a piece on them?”

  “If I were, I’d have to interview them first. They could be a bachelorette party for all I know. I’m mostly interested in how their energy makes me feel, not how much alcohol they’ve had.” I released my camera to hang from its strap around my neck and finally looked up.

  Damn. The voice hadn’t prepared me for the face. Glittering, deep blue eyes flared wide when our gazes met. Her golden-blond hair hung over one shoulder, catching the glow of the neon light, giving her a soft halo that was at odds with her sharp suit and heels.

  I rose, using the movement to look her over. She was too fine to look away. Her posture went from rigid to unsure. She kept her arms crossed but stepped back. I tensed with the desire to close the distance. Something about this woman told me that I wouldn’t come across another like her, and I wanted to make the moment last. But I towered over her a few inches. I refused to intimidate her by crowding her.

  She glanced at the tourists. One of them was blowing kisses to everyone who passed and telling them to treat the earth as if it were as precious as their iPhone. “So, you’re not making fun of them?”

  “No. I happened to be in the area and had my camera. Do you know who they are?” I’d ask if she was with them, but her outfit was the opposite of theirs. I could picture it though. This woman with bare feet, traipsing in and around people, her long hair free and streaming behind her.

  I had a good imagination. Besides her hair, she was dressed for power, not saving the environment.

  “No. But I like their vibe and I know it’s one a lot of people make fun of.” Her gaze flicked around. Other than the tourists wandering farther away, she and I were alone on the sidewalk.

  I took the camera from around my neck and flicked a few buttons, pulling one of my photos up on the display. It was okay for an on-the-go picture, but not one of my best. I didn’t know what my best was anymore.

  If I’d finished my degree, maybe I’d have more insight instead of just guessing.

  If I’d finished college, maybe I’d have a job that’d allow me to upgrade my equipment.

  The woman’s stunning blue eyes turned molten when she viewed the picture. The way I adjusted the shutter speed made the lights twinkle, casting a surreal glow onto the crowd. They looked like wood nymphs trying to heal Sin City.

  Those lush pink lips of hers parted. “That’s really good.”

  “Glad you think so.” I’d like to b
e more enthused, but all I could see was how much the final image fell short of my vision. I needed a better camera, but that wouldn’t happen for a long time.

  She looked up from the display. “Who do you work for?”

  “I freelance, but not a lot of people are looking to do features on the denizens of Las Vegas.”

  Her lips curved into a smile. “Maybe they’d find Hollywood tourists more interesting?”

  I chuckled. How unexpected. She’d been ready to rip me a new one, but she’d taken the change of tone in stride. “I could try it the next time I swing through California.”

  Except I was itching to leave the country again. I’d used some of my dwindling funds to come back for my brother’s anniversary celebration. I had enough to leave again, but it was exhausting. Ten years of roaming the world to make a name for myself and I was just . . . tired.

  Maybe that was what made me keep talking. “I like to do articles that link different communities around the world. How we’re alike, and how we’re different in our similarities.”

  She tilted her head, her expression prompting me to say more. Not just a we’re going to humor the middle kid for a minute before we brush him off look, but valid curiosity. No one had been interested in my photography since Mama had died.

  I flicked through the pictures to shots of Red Rock Canyon I’d taken earlier. “These aren’t exotic, but it gives you a taste of what I do. For instance, I was in Sri Lanka not too long ago. They have rock formations, like Sigiriya Fortress and Dambulla’s caves, that are tourist attractions, similar to Red Rock Canyon. So, maybe I’d do a story on how rock formations make up the backbone of some important tourist stuff.”