“Put it down,” Grayson finished calmly. He reached inside his suit jacket and removed his wallet. Opening it, he began to slip out bills. Not tens or twenties—hundreds. Staying in the black-card suite came with the expectation that one would be an excellent tipper. “Your brother isn’t coming back.” Grayson did not enjoy being cruel, but bribe, threaten, buy out—that was the Hawthorne way. “And even if he did come back, there’s no money left for him to give you.”
There were eight bills sticking out of the wallet now. In a single move, Grayson withdrew all of them and folded the bills in half over his thumb. His target stared at the money. Good. Kim brought her gaze to his. Better.
“I know,” Grayson said softly, “that your brother hated my family. He didn’t want me. We met only once, and he made that quite clear.”
Sometimes, after you backed a person into a corner, the best way to ensure they took the out you offered was to show just a flash of humanity—enough to make them think that maybe the two of you didn’t have to be enemies, but not enough that they forgot who was in change.
Grayson held the money out to his aunt. Kim skittered forward and snatched it from his hands. “Take the damn box,” she said, her voice gravelly, “and get out.”
CHAPTER 71
GRAYSON
Savannah drove in silence, and the rest of them rode the same way until Xander, who was sitting in the front passenger seat with the reassembled puzzle box on his lap, couldn’t take the quiet anymore. “Knock, knock.” He rapped against the box’s lid.
“Who’s there?” Gigi chimed from the back seat.
“Scone.”
“Scone who?”
“As it turns out, it’s surprisingly difficult to make up knock-knock jokes on the spot.” Xander paused. “Wait! I’ve got it! Knock, knock!” He rapped on the box again.
“Don’t break anything,” Savannah ordered without ever taking her eyes off the road.
“Generally speaking,” Xander responded, “I excel at dealing with things—and people—that need to be handled with care. And on that note…” He turned to glance back at Grayson. “Jamie didn’t answer when I called. His phone didn’t even ring. And it appears that Oren and his team may have lost track of our dynamic duo.”
Grayson allowed his eyes to narrow. “Oren doesn’t lose track of Avery.”
“It’s not so much that Oren doesn’t know where she is,” Xander admitted, “as it seems to be that he has been forbidden from following her. Curiouser and curiouser, am I right?”
Grayson recognized an attempt at distraction when he saw one.
“Who’s Oren?” Gigi took the bait—but not for long. “And while I’m asking questions, Grayson, what do you think Dad meant by that whole ‘Hawthornes are going to get theirs’ thing?”
That question tread dangerously close to the reason that Grayson was here, the reason that he was already sorting through possible maneuvers to get that box away from Gigi and Savannah for long enough to open it and do damage control on whatever was inside. No matter how much he hated having to betray them all over again.
Whether you want to do something, Grayson, is immaterial to whether or not it needs to be done.
“I have some thoughts to share with the class,” Xander volunteered, cheerfully diving on the live bomb of Gigi’s question. “A lot of people hated our grandfather. It was kind of his thing—that and painstakingly creating the perfect heirs even though he always intended to disinherit us. Those were really his two things.”
Grayson followed up Xander’s buoyant, stream-of-consciousness reply with one of his own. “Based on the only conversation I ever had with our father, I have reason to believe that I was conceived because Sheffield Grayson hated my grandfather. Sleeping with his daughter, getting her pregnant, abandoning her—and me…” Grayson swallowed. “That was the Hawthornes getting theirs.”
Sometimes, the easiest way to lie was to tell the truth.
“Then why did he keep all of those pictures of you?” Gigi asked.
Why even have them taken? That question crept into Grayson’s conscious mind from where it had been circling in his subconscious.
“Forget the photographs,” Savannah said curtly. “And our aunt. We need to focus on—”
“Sorry to interject, darlin’,” Nash cut in. “But we have a problem.”
Grayson turned his head toward the window on Nash’s side and took in the scene at the Grayson household. There were cars in the driveway, cars on the street. Black, unmarked.
FBI. Grayson’s initial read was confirmed the instant he saw the men in suits on the driveway.
“Savannah, put the car in park here.” The order was out of Grayson’s mouth before he’d even finalized the thought. They were still two houses away—outside the circumference of any search warrant. “Good,” Grayson said, when Savannah did as she was told. “Now climb into the back seat. Xander—”
“Driver’s seat,” Xander replied automatically. “Got it.”
Grayson looked to Nash. “Can you squeeze up front without getting out of the car?”
Nash took off his cowboy hat and eyed the space over the center console.
“Nash is remarkably flexible,” Xander called back. “I have faith.”
Savannah still hadn’t unbuckled. “Why would I—”
“Just do as I say,” Grayson told her, and it occurred to him, when she went very still, that he might have sounded like their father.
Savannah unbuckled and started scooting back over the center console.
One very cramped game of musical chairs later, Grayson continued issuing orders. “Nash, make sure the puzzle box stays out of view. Find something to throw over it.”
Nash considered his options, then stripped off his worn white T-shirt. “If anyone asks, I’ll tell ’em I run hot.”
Gigi blinked several times, as if the sight of Nash Hawthorne shirtless had broken her brain.
“Get out of the car,” Grayson told her with a gentle nudge. “Savannah and I will follow. Xander will wave and drive off. Savannah, do not under any circumstances volunteer the information that this is your car. And if you are specifically asked—about the car, about anything else—feign outrage. No answers. Gigi—”
“Trust me, my sister isn’t going to be feigning outrage,” Gigi said cheerfully. “We all have to play to our strengths, am I right? Luckily, I am still highly caffeinated, and I can get drunk just thinking about mimosas.” She closed her eyes. “Mimosas,” she whispered, and then she opened them. “The guys in suits won’t know what hit them.”
CHAPTER 72
GRAYSON
Savannah and Juliet Grayson?” An FBI agent intercepted the three of them at the end of the driveway.
“She goes by Gigi,” Savannah replied. “Not Juliet.”
Cool tone, nonanswer, Grayson thought. Well done, Savannah.
“We’ll need you two to stay out here while we finish our search.” Mr. FBI didn’t so much as try to soften that statement with a smile. “May I ask who just dropped you off?”
“You may not,” Grayson said, looking past the agent. That was another of Tobias Hawthorne’s many tricks for seizing control. Sometimes, staring a person down did nothing but give them power. And why would a Hawthorne ever do that? “I assume,” Grayson continued, “that the lady of the house has a copy of the warrant?”
That wasn’t really a question. It was a signal to the agent: Grayson was the type of person capable of reading the fine print—and enforcing it.
“And who are you?” the FBI agent asked, his eyes narrowing.
Grayson looked past him again, as if this entire encounter were quite boring. “A person under no legal obligation to answer your questions at this time.” Grayson’s visual search finally hit on the person he’d been looking for: Acacia. She was standing in between the fountain and the portico, flanked by agents herself.
“Mom!” Gigi practically leapt forward. The agent who had been questioning Grayson stepped in front of her. When Gigi attempted to dodge around him, he grabbed her arm.
“Remove your hand from my sister’s body,” Savannah said. “Now.” That now was impressive. It should have been effective. Coming from Grayson, it would have been.
But in response to his sister’s demand, the agent just held up his free hand. “Let’s all just calm down here,” he said, like Savannah was hysterical
Grayson let his gaze travel to the man’s face. “She sounded perfectly calm to me.”
“Look, kid—”