“And I have meetings,” Avery replied firmly. Clearly, she wasn’t planning to change her plans because of the paparazzi. Oren was too smart to ask her to.
“I could distract them,” Jameson offered devilishly. Trouble was a specialty of his.
“I appreciate the offer,” Avery murmured, stopping on her way inside to brush her lips lightly and teasingly against his. “But no.”
The kiss was brief. Too brief. Jameson watched her go. Oren followed. Eventually, Xander went to take a shower. Jameson stayed on the terrace, taking in the view, letting a decadent, buttery croissant melt on his tongue, bit by bit, as he tried not to think about how quiet it was, how still.
And then Grayson reappeared, a suitcase in hand. “I have to go.”
“Go where?” Jameson said immediately. Being challenged was good for Grayson’s god complex, and challenging him was rarely boring. “And why?”
“I have some personal business to attend to.”
“Since when do you have personal business?” Jameson was officially intrigued.
Grayson didn’t dignify that question with a response. He just turned and began to walk back through the flat. Jameson went to follow, but then his phone buzzed—Oren.
He’s with Avery. Jameson came to an immediate standstill and answered. “Problem?” he asked the bodyguard.
“Not on my end. Avery’s fine. But one of my men just intercepted the porter.” As Oren made his report, Grayson’s retreating form disappeared from Jameson’s view. “It appears the porter has a delivery. For you.”
In the hall, the porter held out a silver tray. On the tray sat a single card.
Jameson cocked his head to the side. “What is this?”
The porter’s eyes were bright. “It appears to be a card, sir. A calling card.”
His curiosity piqued, Jameson reached for the card, grabbing it between his middle and index fingers—a magician’s hold, like he might make it disappear. The moment his gaze landed on the words embossed on the card, the rest of the world faded away.
The front of the card bore a name and an address. Ian Johnstone-Jameson. 9 King’s Gate Terrace. Jameson flipped the card over. In handwritten scrawl, he found no instructions, only a time. 2 PM.
CHAPTER 7
JAMESON
Hours later, Jameson ducked out of the flat, with Nash, Xander, and the security team none the wiser. As for the British paparazzi, they weren’t used to tracking Hawthornes. Jameson arrived at 9 King’s Gate Terrace fashionably late and alone.
If you want to play, Ian Johnstone-Jameson, I’ll play. Not because he needed or wanted or longed for a father, the way he had as a kid, but because these days, doing something to keep his mind occupied always felt less dangerous than doing nothing.
The building was white and vast, stretching up five stories and running the length of the block, luxury flat after luxury flat, an embassy or two mixed among them. The area was posh. Exclusive. Before Jameson could press his finger to the call button, security strode down the walk. One guard for several units.
“May I help you, sir?” The man’s tone suggested that no, indeed he could not.
But Jameson wasn’t a Hawthorne for nothing. “I was invited. Number nine.”
“I was unaware that he was in residence.” The man’s reply was smooth, but his eyes were sharp. Jameson brandished the card. “Ah,” the man said, taking it from him. “I see.”
Two minutes later, Jameson was standing in the entry of a flat that made the Hawthorne London abode look modest. White marble inlaid with a glistening black B marked a foyer that seemed to stretch back forever, cutting all the way through the flat. Glass doors offered an undisturbed view of the impeccable artwork lining the stark-white hall all the way down.
Ian Johnstone-Jameson pushed through one of those glass doors.
This family is prominent enough, Jameson could hear his mother saying mockingly, that any of the men I slept with would have to live under a rock not to know that they had a son.
The man striding toward him now was mid-forties with thick brown hair kept just long enough that he couldn’t pass for your typical CEO or politician. There was something achingly familiar about his features—definitely not his nose or jaw, but the shape and color of his eyes, the curl of his lips. The amusement.
“I had heard that there was some resemblance,” Ian commented in an accent as posh as his address. He cocked his head slightly to one side in a habitual motion Jameson recognized all too well. “Would you like a tour?”