Branford’s voice grew quiet as he looked out at the view, out at the ocean and the storm on the horizon. “If his true paternity became known, lives would be ruined, his and his mother’s among them. I cannot allow that to happen.” He turned from the window and brought the full force of his gaze back to Jameson. “Do you understand?”
“I do. Some secrets are best forgotten.” Jameson thought about the words he’d written on his scroll, about the way that night in Prague had gnawed at him for weeks, the way he’d fought and fought with himself, resisting the urge to tell—not because he didn’t trust Avery, but because he didn’t trust himself.
Jameson Hawthorne had been raised to solve puzzles and take unfathomable risks, to push boundaries and cross lines if that was what it took to win. But for once, the voice that Jameson heard in the back of his head wasn’t the old man’s.
It was Branford’s. I call it honor.
“I believe Vantage is in good hands,” Branford said beside him. “My mother… she would approve.”
“I’m not looking for anyone’s approval,” Jameson said, and somehow, for the first time ever, that felt true.
CHAPTER 89
JAMESON
Back downstairs, Jameson found Rohan and Zella on opposite sides of the foyer, waiting for them.
“Family business all sorted?” Zella asked. She slid her gaze from Branford to Jameson. “I didn’t read your secret, by the way.”
Jameson’s gut said that wasn’t a bluff. Probably. “You still owe me,” he told her. “Your Grace.”
“I always pay my debts,” she replied. “Boy.”
“That boy beat both of you.” Rohan pushed off the wall and strolled forward. “The Proprietor will be disappointed. He tries to hide it, but you were clearly his favorite this year, Duchess.”
Zella smiled at Rohan. “I won what I set out to win, and I doubt the Proprietor will be that disappointed. Honestly, I think he made me a player this year just to prepare me for next year.”
Rohan’s expression didn’t darken or shift, but Jameson felt a change come over him. “Next year?” the Factotum said lightly. “Counting on another invitation to the Game?”
Zella walked toward Rohan, never taking her eyes from his. “Next year,” she said. “I’ll be planning and running it. The Proprietor has already promised as much.” She didn’t stop walking until her body was even with his, and then she turned her head to the side. “Surely you didn’t think you were his only possible heir, Rohan. If there’s one thing the man loves, it’s competition.”
“You won.” Those were the first words out of Avery’s mouth the second she saw him—a statement, not a question. “Tell me everything.”
Jameson’s lips curved into a lopsided smile. “Where do you want me to start, Heiress? The seventy keys, the bell tower, the moment I altruistically chose to save a life and lose, or the instant I knew how to win?”
Avery lifted her head, angling her lips up toward his. “I said everything.”
He kissed her the way he would have if she’d been there the moment he’d won—all the adrenaline, the wild beating of his heart, the need to keep that feeling going, the need to make her feel it, too.
Her body fit perfectly against his, hard in places, soft in others. He wanted her the way he’d always wanted her, the way that fire wants to burn. This time, the kiss came laden with memories—the way their bodies knew each other, the way they knew each other, the many, many times when the only thing in his life that felt right was this.
Jameson forced his lips away from hers—but barely. “You got yourself disqualified for me, Heiress.”
“This was your game, Jameson. Not mine.”
“You burned my secret.” He looked at her eyes. There were rings of colors there, more shades of brown and gold and green than plain “hazel” eyes had a right to. “You didn’t read what I wrote. You could have, but you didn’t.”
“It was your secret,” she said simply. “Not mine.”
Jameson closed his eyes. Before, he hadn’t trusted himself to tell her. But now? “Say the word, Heiress.” Tahiti. “Say it and—”
“I don’t need to know.” Avery’s voice was steady. “If what you need is for me not to know, then I don’t need to.”
Jameson brought his lips to hers again and murmured a single word. “Liar.”
Beside them, Oren cleared his throat. Loudly. “Cell signal’s back,” he announced. “I have your phone, Jameson, courtesy of Rohan.”
“He was blocking calls before,” Avery clarified. Jameson heard what she didn’t say: I’m not lying about not needing to know. I’m pretending. There’s a difference. And if what you need is for me to keep pretending, Hawthorne—I will.
Jameson felt a lump rising in his throat, a single sentence burned in his mind still. An H, the word is, the letters v and e.
Not today, Jameson told himself. Today, he was going to savor his win, savor her. But soon.
“I know you’ve transferred most of the foreign properties over to the foundation,” he murmured, “but what are your thoughts on Scottish castles?”
Vantage was his—and based on Avery’s expression, he had a feeling he was going to like her thoughts on Scottish castles very much.
But before she could make good on the promise in her eyes, Jameson’s phone buzzed, as voicemails, texts, and missed calls came through on a delay. He stared at the most recent, a text. From Grayson, he realized.
911.
CHAPTER 90
GRAYSON
When Grayson arrived at the gates of Hawthorne House, he got out of his hired car and sent the driver on his way. It was a long walk to the House—and an even longer one to the tree house.
Or what was left of it, anyway.
Grayson stared up at the havoc he and Jameson had wreaked after Emily died. Slipping off his suit jacket and laying it over a low-hanging branch, he began to climb. Most of the walkways between the trees had been destroyed. Only one of the soaring towers remained intact. The main body of the house had angry, gaping holes.
Grayson made his way from a series of branches to one of the slides and climbed in through a window.
“Peek-a-boo!” Xander jumped down from the rafters. “And welcome home. Your nine-one-one was bare on details, so I took the liberty of extrapolating a bit.”
Grayson eyed his brother, then scanned the tree house. Xander “extrapolating” was rarely a good thing. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Grayson said. The reason for that nine-one-one. What happened after you and Nash left Phoenix.
“So don’t talk,” Nash called from down below. Without another word to Grayson, he hauled a series of brown paper grocery bags up into the tree house, handing them off to Xander.
“You heard from Jamie yet?” Nash asked.
Xander raised a hand. “I have. He and Avery are on their way back. ETA tomorrow morning.”
Nash swiveled his gaze back to Grayson. “Guess that means we’re having ourselves a little slumber party out here first.”
Jameson made it back just as they were waking up the next morning. Like Nash, he, too, had come prepared. Unlike Nash, Jameson didn’t make the rest of them wait to find out what was in his bag.
The first thing he took out was a massive water bottle. A massive, empty water bottle. The next three things out of the bag were ketchup, a gallon of milk, and a liter of root beer.
Grayson saw where this was going almost immediately—and so did Xander, who gleefully adopted an announcer’s voice. “It’s time,” he boomed, “for that standby Hawthorne classic… Drink or Dare!”
Ten minutes later, the empty water bottle was very full—and a disturbing shade of milky brown.
“I’ll go first,” Xander volunteered. “Jamie, I dare you to tell us the absolute most banana pants thing that happened while you were in England.”
“Met my father. Won a castle. Saved a duchess from certain death. Not in that order.” Jameson leaned back against the wall of the tree house, pretending—as the rest of them had all night—that it was still fully intact.
“Which one of those explains your face?” Nash asked Jameson. The bruises and swelling clearly suggested that their brother had been in one hell of a fight.
“Some faces need no explanation,” Jameson replied. He gestured to his own. “Work of art. And now it’s my turn. Nash.” The gleam in Jamie’s eyes was downright wicked. “I dare you to eat your hat.”