Jameson raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to give me one?” Nothing mattered unless you let it.
“Tit for tat.” Ian’s lips twisted into a smile. “That, I can respect. Three questions.” The British man turned, strode back the way he’d come, and pushed open the first glass door. “That’s what I’ll give you in exchange for your answering one of mine.”
Ian Johnstone-Jameson held the glass door open, waiting. Jameson let him wait, then languidly strolled forward.
“You’ll ask your questions first,” Ian said.
Will I? Jameson thought, but he was far too Hawthorne to fall into the trap of saying that out loud. “And if I don’t have any questions for you, I wonder what you’ll offer me next.”
Ian’s eyes glinted, a vivid green. “You didn’t phrase that as a question,” he noted.
Jameson flashed his teeth. “No. I didn’t.” Down the long hall they went, through more glass doors and past a Matisse painting. Jameson waited until they wound their way to the kitchen—all black, from the countertops to the appliances to the granite floors—before giving voice to his first question. “What do you want, Ian Johnstone-Jameson?”
You couldn’t grow up Hawthorne without realizing that everyone wanted something.
“Simple,” Ian replied. “I want to ask you my question. It’s more of a favor, really. But as a show of good faith, I’ll go ahead and offer up an answer to your question in the general sense as well. As a rule in life, I want three things: Pleasure. Challenge.” He smiled. “And to win.”
Jameson hadn’t expected anything this man had to say to hit him hard.
Focus. He could almost hear his grandfather’s admonition. Lose focus, boys, and lose the game. For once, Jameson leaned into the memory. He was Jameson Winchester Hawthorne. He didn’t need a damn thing from the man in front of him.
They were nothing alike.
“What does winning look like to you?” Jameson chose a question that was meant to give him the measure of the man. Know a man and know his weakness.
“Different things.” Ian seemed to relish his answer. “A lovely night with a beautiful woman. A yes from men who love to say no. And often…” He put special emphasis on that word. “It looks like a winning hand. I’m a bit of a gamesman.”
Jameson saw straight through that statement. “You gamble.”
“Don’t we all?” Ian replied. “But, yes, by profession, I’m a poker player. I met your mother in Las Vegas the year I won a particularly sought-after international title. Frankly, my family would prefer that I’d chosen a more respectable pastime, like chess—or better yet, finance. But I’m good enough at what I do that I generally don’t have to drink from the family cup, so their preferences—my father’s and eldest brother’s in particular—are irrelevant.” Ian drummed his fingers lightly on the countertop. “Most of the time.”
You have brothers? Jameson thought the question but didn’t say it. Instead, he offered up a statement. “They don’t know about me.” Jameson raked his gaze over Ian’s face. “Your family.”
Everyone had a tell. It was just a matter of finding it.
“That wasn’t a question,” Ian replied, his expression never changing. And that’s the tell. This was a man whose face had a thousand different ways of conveying that life and everyone in it were naught but amusements. A thousand ways—and he’d just locked into one.
“Not a question,” Jameson agreed. “But I got my answer.”
Ian Johnstone-Jameson liked to win. His family’s opinions of him were irrelevant most of the time. They didn’t know he had an illegitimate son.
“For what it’s worth,” Ian said, “it was a few years before I realized myself, and at that point, well…” Why bother? his little shrug seemed to say.
Jameson refused to let that sting. He had one question left. The smart move was to go for leverage. What’s your eldest brother’s cell phone number? Your father’s direct line? What is the question you’re most hoping I don’t ask?
But Jameson wasn’t the Hawthorne known for making the smart choice. He took risks. He went with his gut. This might be the only conversation we ever have. “Do you sleepwalk?”
It was such an inane question—trivial, could be answered in a single word.
“No.” For an instant, Ian Johnstone-Jameson looked a little less above it all.