Like hell, I thought.
“Counteroffer,” Jameson interjected before I could reply. “If you answer our questions, I won’t tell Xander what you did.” He flopped down on a sofa next to Skye’s chaise. “I’m sure Nash has put two and two together. I figured it out quickly enough. But Xan? For all he knows, this is just another little trip of yours. I’d hate to have to tell him about your murderous impulses.”
“Jameson Winchester Hawthorne, I am your mother. I brought you into this world.” Skye reached for a nearby glass of champagne, and I noticed that there was a second glass beside it.
She wasn’t here alone.
“However,” she continued with a heavy sigh, “because I am in such a generous mood, I suppose I will answer a question or two.”
“Is Sheffield Grayson Gray’s father?” Jameson wasted no time.
Skye took a sip. “Not in any way that signifies.”
“Biologically,” Jameson pressed.
“If you must know,” Skye said, staring at him over the rim of her glass, “then, yes, technically Sheff is Grayson’s father. But what does a little biology matter? I’m the one who raised you all.”
Jameson snorted. “By some definitions.”
“Does Sheffield Grayson know that he has a son?” I asked, my mind full of Grayson, wondering what this would mean for him.
Skye gave an elegant little shrug. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“You never told him?” Jameson asked.
“Why would I?”
I stared at her. “You got pregnant on purpose.” Nash had told me as much.
“You were grieving,” Jameson said softly. “So was he.”
The softness seemed to get to Skye in a way that nothing else had. “Toby and I were so close. Sheff practically raised Colin. We understood each other, for a time.”
“For a time,” Jameson repeated. “Or for a night?”
“Honestly, Jamie, what does it matter?” Skye was getting impatient now. “You boys never wanted for anything. My father gave you the world. The staff spoiled you. You all had each other, and you had me. Why wasn’t that enough?”
“Because,” Jameson said, his voice rough, “we didn’t really have you.”
Skye set her glass down. “Don’t you dare rewrite history. What do you think it was like for me? Son after son—and every single one of you preferred my father.”
“They were children,” I said.
“Hawthornes are never children, darling,” Skye told me archly. “But let’s not argue. We’re family, Jamie, and family is so very important. Don’t you agree, Avery?”
Something about that question and the way she’d said it was deeply unsettling.
“In fact,” Skye continued, “I’m considering having another child. I’m young enough, still. Healthy. My sons have turned their backs on me. I deserve something of my own, don’t I?”
Something, I thought, my heart aching for Jameson. Not someone.
“You never told Sheffield Grayson that he had a son.” I returned to the issue at hand. The sooner I could get Jameson out of here, the better.
“Sheff knew who I was,” Skye said. “If he’d wanted to follow up, he could have. It was a test of sorts: If I didn’t matter enough to chase—then what use were they to me?”
They. I registered her word choice. She wasn’t just talking about Grayson’s father.
Skye leaned back against the chaise longue. “Frankly, I suspect that Sheff knows exactly what came of our time together.” She met Jameson’s eyes. “This family is prominent enough that any of the men I slept with would have to live under a rock not to know that they had a son.”
She was telling him that his father—whoever he was—knew.
“We’re done here,” I said, standing up. “Come on, Jameson.”
He didn’t move. I laid a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he reached up to touch my fingers. I let him. Jameson Hawthorne didn’t like being vulnerable. He didn’t like needing people any more than I did.
“Come on,” I told him again. We’d gotten what we came for: confirmation.
“Won’t you stay a bit longer?” Skye asked. “I’d love to introduce you to my new friend.”
“Your friend,” Jameson repeated, his eyes going to the second glass of champagne.
“Your little heiress knows him,” Skye said, taking a sip of champagne. She waited for that comment to land, waited for confusion to really sink in before she smiled and went for the jugular. “Your father is such a lovely man, Avery.”