Trowbridge visibly resisted the urge to answer his phone. “What can I do for you, Grayson?”
First name now. Interesting choice. “Once you’ve been disbarred,” Grayson replied, gloves off, “not much.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Trowbridge told him. “They never even should have let you past the front desk.”
Grayson stared at the man for a moment, watching that vein throb, and then he said a string of numbers, one after another, evenly paced, no particular emphasis on any one digit. “That’s the account that the money from Acacia’s trust was transferred into. The records of the receiving bank in Singapore are, of course, nearly impossible to access.” Grayson gave the slightest of shrugs. “Nearly.”
Trowbridge was really sweating now, but when men like Trowbridge felt threatened, they blustered. “Are you suggesting you know where your father is?”
In response, Grayson recited another number. “That’s the combination to your safe,” he clarified helpfully.
“How dare you—”
“My brothers and I are fond of dares,” Grayson replied. “And foreign banks like the one you used—they’re awfully fond of billionaires.”
“You aren’t a billionaire,” Trowbridge spat. “You have nothing.”
“A Hawthorne,” Grayson replied coolly, “never has nothing.” He paused, the silence a knife to be wielded just so. “You’re thinking about everything you keep in that safe.”
“I’ll have you arrested.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Grayson told the man. “I’m sure that once the FBI realizes—if they haven’t already—that the entirety of Acacia Grayson’s inheritance has been restored to her trust, they won’t stop until they track down the party responsible.” Grayson held Trowbridge’s gaze in a way designed to hold him in place. “They’ll think it’s her husband at first, I’m sure…”
Trowbridge narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you mean your father?”
It was almost amusing, the way this man thought there were points to be won in this little back and forth. The way he didn’t realize—refused to realize—that he was done.
“My father,” Grayson agreed amiably. “I can’t say I have any affection for the man. But at least he—or whoever took Acacia’s money—had a sudden burst of conscience.” Grayson leaned forward, just slightly. “I hope for that person’s sake,” he said softly, “that they weren’t sloppy.”
There was an art to saying things without saying them. Things like I know you took the money. And the FBI will know that soon, too.
“You’re done,” Trowbridge blustered. “If you think your name will protect you…”
“I don’t need protection,” Grayson said simply. “It wasn’t my safe. Those weren’t my accounts.”
Trowbridge’s phone buzzed again.
Grayson continued blithely, “I certainly didn’t send those emails.”
There it was—the bob of his opponent’s Adam’s apple. “What emails?” Trowbridge demanded.
Grayson didn’t reply. He glanced pointedly at court number seven. “You’ll have to let me know if the judge still wants to play next week.”
Within the week, said the promise beneath that seemingly innocuous sentence, no one will be willing to risk a connection with you.
Grayson turned to leave.
“He didn’t deserve her!” Trowbridge wasn’t yelling so much as vibrating with fury. “She should have listened to me.”
“On the day of her mother’s funeral?” Grayson didn’t even bother turning back to face the man. “Or years earlier when she said that the two of you would be better as friends? Or maybe more recently, when you set Savannah up to think that in seven short months, she would be in a position to solve her family’s problems?”
Protect them.
“Acacia was never going to let Savannah do that,” Trowbridge snapped.
Grayson still refused to turn around. “Acacia would say yes to you first,” he said quietly. “That was the plan, was it not?”
Trowbridge was incensed now, bordering on apoplectic. “You arrogant, spoiled, cocksure—”
“Brother,” Grayson finished. “The word you’re looking for is brother.” Now, he looked back. “No one hurts my family.”
Whatever Gigi and Savannah thought of him now, he would protect them.