Skye Hawthorne was staying at a luxury hotel—a hotel I owned. It was the kind of place that had caviar on the room-service menu and offered in-room spa services. I had no idea how Skye was paying for a room, or if she was paying. The idea that this was her punishment for an attempt on my life was infuriating.
“Easy,” Jameson murmured beside me as he knocked on the door. “We need her to talk.”
Talk first, I thought. Have security remove her from the premises later.
Skye opened the door wearing a crimson silk robe that brushed the tips of her toes and flowed around her as she moved. “Jamie.” She smiled at Jameson. “Shame on you for not visiting your poor mother until now.”
Jameson gave me the briefest of warning looks, a clear Let me handle this.
“I’m an awful son,” Jameson agreed, dialing his level of charm up to meet Skye’s. “Horrid, really, so preoccupied with the person you tried to have killed that I’ve barely spared a thought for how difficult getting caught must have been for you.”
I hadn’t breathed a word to Jameson about what his mother had done, but he knew Skye had moved out. It probably hadn’t taken him long to figure out that Grayson had forced her out—and why.
“What has your brother been telling you?” Skye demanded, without specifying which brother she was talking about. “And you believe him?
Believe her—”
“I believe,” Jameson said smoothly, “that I’ve found Grayson’s father.”
That got an eyebrow arch out of Skye. “Was he lost?” The victim act melted off her like snow in the sun.
“Sheffield Grayson.” I said the name, forcing Skye’s gaze to flit toward me. “His nephew died in the fire on Hawthorne Island, along with your
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“And I have no idea why you think lying to me is a good idea, when I could have you kicked out of this hotel,” I shot back. I’d intended to let Jameson handle this. Really. It just hadn’t worked out that way.
“You?” Skye sniffed. “This hotel has been in my family for decades.
You are under quite the delusion if you think—”
“That the management will care more about the feelings of the new owner than about yours?”
“Aren’t you just adorable?” Skye retreated into the room. “Don’t just stand there,” she called back. “You’re letting in a draft.”
With a glance at Jameson, I crossed the threshold—and found myself almost immediately joined by Oren and Eli. Apparently, I’d been under closer guard than I’d realized.
Skye gave every appearance of being delighted at the appearance of my security team. “It appears we have a party.” She sat down on a chaise longue and stretched out her legs. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? I have something you want, and I would like a few assurances, starting with how very welcome I will be to stay in this penthouse indefinitely.”
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.”
