King's

  KING’S

  The KING Trilogy

  Book One

  Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  OTHER WORK BY MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF:

  KING FOR A DAY, (Book 2, The King Trilogy)

  FATE BOOK (a New Adult Novel)

  The Accidentally Yours Series

  Accidentally in Love with…a God?

  Accidentally Married to…a Vampire?

  Sun God Seeks…Surrogate?

  Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella)

  Vampires Need Not…Apply?

  Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella)

  Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale) AUGUST 2014

  COMING JULY 2014

  Happy Pants Café (a Contemporary Romance Series)

  COMING LATE 2014

  KING OF ME (Book 3, the King Trilogy)

  FATE BOOK 2 (a New Adult Novel)

  Cover Design by EarthlyCharms.com

  Formatting by WriteIntoPrint.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author: mimi@mimijean.net

  ISBN-10: 0990304892

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9903048-9-0

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedicated to my Street Team: For giving me something to laugh about or drool over every day. You kinky f***ing ladies rock!

  Ale, Ally, Amy, Ann, Annette, Ashlee, Ashley H., Ashley L., Bethany, Blythe, Bridget, Cathy S., Cathy S. L., Ces, Christina, Courtney, Dalitza, Dy, Farah, Hannah, Helen, Hida, Ingrid, Ixtzel, Janna, Jean, Jennifer B., Jennifer D, Jessa (our leader!), Jodian (~ ~ ~farmerunicorns), Kassie B., Kim K., Kim M., Kim M. (again), Kirsty, Leah, Lindsay, Mai Ling, Mary, Marybell, Michaela, Nadine, Nikki, Reagan, Shana-kay, Shasta, Sofia, Sonya, Terri, Tina, Vicki (woof!), Vickie, and…deep breath, can’t believe I made it to the end of the list…Wanda!

  CHAPTER ONE

  San Francisco. Present Day. 5:57 P.M.

  I squirmed in my tight gray pencil-skirt from behind the antique desk and forced myself to look away.

  Three minutes to go.

  But I didn’t need a clock to tell me that. I knew it. My stomach knew it. And the sweat trickling down the small of my back beneath my fitted white blouse knew it.

  Focus on something else, Mia.

  I glanced at the drizzle of rain collecting outside on the office window, but I couldn’t see past the film of dirt. Even if I could, I wouldn’t see clouds or the long-overdue rain. I would only see him. Or, really, the mental ghost of his tailored black suit, jet black hair, and pale gray eyes powering through me from the darkened doorway, cautioning me not to speak. That was how he greeted me each evening before he walked directly to his private office and shut the door, leaving behind a subtle trail of delicious cologne. There would be no other exchange between us. His cologne. My nose. Oh yes, I almost forgot. The phone calls.

  At exactly 6:02 p.m., he would call my desk, a mere five feet from his door, and say in that deep, mesmerizing voice that sent prickly chills to my bones, “That will be all, Miss Turner.”

  Those five feet felt like a thousand miles of scorching desert. One I dared not cross. Because while some people might be fooled by the exquisite lines of his handsome face or by his European arrogance that reeked of old money, I was not. I saw right through that rapturous smile. He was a cruel, sadistic son of a bitch. That was the only explanation as to why he kept me waiting like this, day after agonizing day, forcing me to swallow back my bile while the clock ticked away, all sense of hope dying with every breath I took.

  I glanced at the clock once again.

  One minute to go.

  I continued reminding myself that I had to be strong this time—no getting tongue-tied or woozy—and demand what was mine. We had a deal. I wanted his help, he wanted…well, me. As his assistant. Only I just sat there like his personal museum piece. 6:00 a.m. to 6:02 p.m. Six days a week. On the sixth floor.

  The devil likes sixes, I thought, so why wouldn’t this guy?

  What my new employer didn’t like, however, were questions. “Just do, Miss Turner. Just do,” he’d say.

  “But do what?” I would ask.

  Then he’d laugh, causing deep creases to form on both sides of his wickedly beautiful mouth. “As you are told, Miss Turner. As you are told,” he’d say while his hypnotic, cold gaze said something else: I own you now. Don’t you ever fucking forget it.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe he did own me. I didn’t know anymore. I just knew that I’d given up regretting the choice I’d made on that horrible, dark and rainy night when I’d come to him, crawling on hands and knees, praying he’d be the miracle I needed. But from the first moment he saw me, he was like a shark that tasted blood. Only, it was my desperation and weakness that had him salivating. And the things he did to me over this very desk I now sat at…Oh Lord, I can’t bear to think about it. I should have turned around and run when I had the chance. Instead, I told myself that whatever it took, whatever the price, it was worth it. If he were the goddamned devil himself, it didn’t matter. Just as long as he helped me.

  But that was three long weeks ago, and my decision to make a deal with this evil man had bought me nothing but more time to think. Mostly about my fears. Fears I now knew inside and out. Fears that pecked away at the flesh of my soul like hell’s vultures while I sat in a giant empty loft that no one ever visited, with a phone that never rang. Except when he called.

  The clock on the wall struck six. The witching hour.

  My gaze focused on the doorway, and I willed my unsteady nerves not to feel, not to be awestruck by the tall, supremely masculine figure I expected to find.

  Empty.

  I glanced down at my wristwatch, then back at the doorway. Where was he? I pulled a sharpened pencil from the holder—the only other thing on my desk aside from the phone and lamp—and began flicking the unused eraser against my palm.

  6:01. My pulse accelerated.

  He’d never been late. Not once. Had the evil bastard skipped town without holding up his end of the bargain? It’s not like there was anything in this office he couldn’t leave behind: two desks, two chairs, and two brass lamps. No computers. No mail. No clients. It was unsettling.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered. We had a deal.

  I stared at the goddamned door, willing the sharp angles of his cheeks and his square, broad shoulders to darken it.

  Nothing.

  I glanced one last time at the clock.

  6:02.

  The phone on my lonely desk rang, jolting me in my chair.

  Crap.

  My hand shook as I reached for it. “He—hello?”

  “It is time, Miss Turner.”

  “King?�
��

  “No. It’s your fucking fairy godmother, Miss Turner. And your wish has been granted.”

  I was speechless. Not because of what he said, but because his voice had such a crippling effect on me. In a million years, I’d never be able to articulate how he so rigidly divided my mind from my body. Hate and desire. My two halves sickened by each other.

  “Miss Turner?”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  “As usual, Miss Turner, I find myself questioning the value of our arrangement. One would expect his assistant to possess the ability to speak, at the very fucking least.”

  I wanted to tell him that he was the devil. The goddamned devil. Instead, I eked out two tiny words. Two words that I instantly despised myself for saying. They were weak. They were submissive. They were the last things on my mind, yet I said them anyway. “Thank you.”

  He laughed, sounding all too pleased. “Be at the airport with your passport in two hours. I’ll email you the itinerary.”

  I wanted to ask where we were going, but knew better; he didn’t like questions, and he was giving me what I wanted: help. At least, I hoped.

  “And Miss Turner?” he added.

  “Ye—yes?”

  “Pack light. None of those fucking useless heels. Where we’re going, you’ll only need your wits. Anything else is just dead weight.”

  The phone clicked.

  “King?”

  The angry sound of a busy signal poured through the receiver.

  Once again, I found myself wondering who I’d gotten myself mixed up with.

  He’s the man who can find anything, Mia. Anything. For a price.

  If that was the case, would he find the one thing in this world I couldn’t live without that had been taken from me?

  I’d never know if I didn’t go.

  ~ ~ ~

  Four Weeks Earlier. San Francisco.

  “Honey, you look a little…pale,” said my mother. Her powder-blue eyes, eyes much like my own, narrowed with suspicion from across my breakfast table. “You’re not coming down with that flu, are you? It’s going around.”

  “Fall is always the worst time of year,” added my father, a retired school principal who now spent his days playing golf, fishing, and talking about random, meaningless crap he saw on the news. “They have fifteen new strains already. Fifteen. And none of them are covered by the flu shot.”

  “Makes me wonder why we get one every year,” my mother commented as she took a bite of her bagel, our usual Sunday brunch. Although they lived only five blocks away on Nob Hill in a renovated Victorian that had been in the family for over a hundred years, we didn’t see each other much. My advertising job as a Global Campaign Manager kept me on the road a lot.

  “Yeah. Makes you wonder,” I added absently, sipping my coffee, a cold sweat building on my brow.

  My father went on to talk about the fascinating process for deciding which viruses were picked to be the lucky winners each year or something like that. I stopped listening after the first ten words because my mind was preoccupied with something unimaginably horrific that I’d learned only three minutes prior to my parents’ arrival. Something that would devastate them like it had just devastated me.

  Kidnapped…How am I going to tell my parents?

  You’re not. This can’t be real.

  Besides, who would want to take Justin? My baby brother was the nicest guy on the planet. Ever. He was the sort of person who’d pick up worms off the sidewalk after a good rain and put them somewhere safe.

  Who would want to harm him? Justin, of all people?

  It wasn’t like Justin and his team were digging up gold treasures down in Mexico; they were excavating ancient pots and plates—crap like that. I remember how excited he was when he’d found a pre-Hispanic button. But were those worth his life?

  He’s not dead, Mia. Not yet.

  “Honey?” my mother asked. “Mia.” She snapped her fingers and then looked at my father. “I think that blonde hair has gotten to her head.”

  I’d just had my wavy locks colored and then cut into a shoulder-length A-line bob the week before. It was practically the same shade I’d always had, just with a few highlights. The woman at the salon told me it would make my blue eyes pop. Not true. But I remember telling Justin about it. That was the last time we spoke.

  Fuck. How? How can this be happening?

  I blinked and lifted my head. “I’m going to Mexico to see Justin for a few weeks.”

  “Oh.” My mom’s opportunistic eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful! You haven’t had a vacation in years. But I thought you were due in New York tomorrow.”

  “Change of plans,” I explained. “Spur of the moment thing. Completely forgot to tell you.”

  “Fantastic!” she said. “I’ll run home and bring you the care package I was about to mail off. I got him all of his favorite seaweed treats and those socks he loves. You have room in your luggage, right?”

  I nodded and faked a smile. “Sure. Plenty of room.”

  My father was silent for a few moments. “Mia, I know you’re a world traveler, one of those jet-setters…”

  Jet-setter? Did people even use that term anymore? I didn’t know.

  “But,” he continued, “you should be careful. That place is dangerous. All those bandidos kidnapping people. And do you have any idea how many murders there are every year?”

  Over thirty-one thousand. At least, that’s what the Internet said. In any case, was Justin now one of them? Or did he fall into that other category? The narcos kidnapped people all the time to supplement their incomes.

  “Oh, honey,” my mother swatted my father’s arm, “don’t scare Mia. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Besides, she’ll be with Justin. Won’t you, honey?” Justin was twenty-five, a year younger than me, but he was a big guy, just like my dad.

  “Sure. I’ll be with him the entire time,” I lied.

  My father leaned back in the chair, disapproval flickering in his green eyes, the same color eyes as Justin’s. I wanted to scream. “Just be careful, Mia.”

  I took a breath, barely able to hold my composure. “I’ll be fine, Dad. I promise.” But I wouldn’t be fine, and neither would they.

  “Oh! I wish I could go with you! I’m dying to see Palenque.” My mother paused. “You’ll be back in time for my birthday, right? We’re having a crab feed right on the pier.”

  I smiled and grabbed her hand. “Wouldn’t miss it, Mom.”

  But that would become just another lie in a string of many to come, because our lives would never be the same.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I’d received the phone call from the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City informing me that my brother and his team had been kidnapped from their archaeological dig site near Palenque, I had the distinct impression I was being sold a barrel of bullshit. After all, I was in advertising. I could smell bullshit from a mile away. The woman from the embassy assured me that the local police were doing everything they could to find the people who’d taken the team, but when she insisted there was no need for me to come to Mexico, my mind tripped. I felt like she was trying to keep me away. That’s why I had to go.

  After I got rid of my parents with some excuse of needing to run errands before the trip, I rang back the embassy. I couldn’t remember her name, but I’d never forget her sticky sweet, bullshit voice. When I told her I was coming to Mexico to see her, she immediately pushed back.

  “I can’t just stay here doing nothing,” I told her.

  “Ma’am, we realize how traumatic this must be, but we advise the families of victims to stay home and focus on supporting each other. Let us work with the Mexican authorities.”

  “He’s my brother, and I’m not asking permission. I will be involved.”

  There was a long pause, then a crackle on the other end of the phone. Was she eating a snack? “If you choose to come, we cannot stop you.” She crunched down on whatever she was eating. “We simply ask that you do not
impede the investigation.”

  Why would I want to impede anyone from finding my brother?

  “Just tell me who to ask for when I get there,” I said.

  I heard the sound of more crunching. Heartless bitch.

  “You can ask for me, Jamie Henshaw.”

  I scribbled down her name, holding back a terrible scream. “Fine. Got it. Please call my cell if you hear anything else.” I knew she wouldn’t, but I asked anyway.

  “Will do.” Crunch. “And again, our deepest sympathies.”

  “Why? He’s not dead.” I hung up the phone and swallowed the icy blizzard of rage threatening to undo me. But I had to keep my head straight. I was no good to anyone if I lost it.

  I opened up my laptop and booked the first available morning flight to Mexico City. Though Justin had disappeared from the south of Mexico, just outside Palenque in the state of Chiapas, I would stop at the embassy first, gather up any details and then continue on, so I could meet with the local authorities. I could only hope my high school Spanish would get me by.

  The next evening, I arrived in Mexico City, and as soon as I passed Immigration and Customs, I grabbed a cab and left a message for the cracker-eating bitch. I let her know I was staying a few blocks from the embassy off the Paseo de la Reforma, so I’d see her first thing in the morning. I then checked into my room, ready to pass out. It was already ten o’clock at night, and I hadn’t eaten in almost a day, but that didn’t stop me from hitting the mini-bar. My nerves called for something strong. Whiskey.

  I kicked off my red patent leather heels, plopped down on the sofa chair, pounded down a shot, then opened my laptop. Some might think me callous and uncaring, but at a time like this, checking work email was the only thing helping me hold the line. My sanity teetered on the precipice of self-destruction and hysteria. But I refused to allow my imagination to gain a foothold, because I knew the only thing it had to offer were images of Justin screaming as his throat was slit or he was beaten with a lead pipe. The people in this country who made it a business to steal human beings for profit were no strangers to torture and violence. I remember once flipping the channels when I’d been in Buenos Aires on a business trip for a global launch of a new perfume line. (That was my specialty, high-end fragrance campaigns.) But I’d never forget the images on the evening news. Bodies lit on fire, dangling from an overpass in Mexico City. I spoke enough Spanish to understand that they’d been victims of a kidnapping, but their families either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the ransom.