Back downstairs, Jameson found Rohan and Zella on opposite sides of the foyer, waiting for them.
“Family business all sorted?” Zella asked. She slid her gaze from Branford to Jameson. “I didn’t read your secret, by the way.”
Jameson’s gut said that wasn’t a bluff. Probably. “You still owe me,” he told her. “Your Grace.”
“I always pay my debts,” she replied. “Boy.”
“That boy beat both of you.” Rohan pushed off the wall and strolled forward. “The Proprietor will be disappointed. He tries to hide it, but you were clearly his favorite this year, Duchess.”
Zella smiled at Rohan. “I won what I set out to win, and I doubt the Proprietor will be that disappointed. Honestly, I think he made me a player this year just to prepare me for next year.”
Rohan’s expression didn’t darken or shift, but Jameson felt a change come over him. “Next year?” the Factotum said lightly. “Counting on another invitation to the Game?”
Zella walked toward Rohan, never taking her eyes from his. “Next year,” she said. “I’ll be planning and running it. The Proprietor has already promised as much.” She didn’t stop walking until her body was even with his, and then she turned her head to the side. “Surely you didn’t think you were his only possible heir, Rohan. If there’s one thing the man loves, it’s competition.”
 |
“You won.” Those were the first words out of Avery’s mouth the second she saw him—a statement, not a question. “Tell me everything.”
Jameson’s lips curved into a lopsided smile. “Where do you want me to start, Heiress? The seventy keys, the bell tower, the moment I altruistically chose to save a life and lose, or the instant I knew how to win?”
Avery lifted her head, angling her lips up toward his. “I said everything.” He kissed her the way he would have if she’d been there the moment he’d won—all the adrenaline, the wild beating of his heart, the need to keep
that feeling going, the need to make her feel it, too.
Her body fit perfectly against his, hard in places, soft in others. He wanted her the way he’d always wanted her, the way that fire wants to burn. This time, the kiss came laden with memories—the way their bodies knew each other, the way they knew each other, the many, many times when the only thing in his life that felt right was this.
Jameson forced his lips away from hers—but barely. “You got yourself disqualified for me, Heiress.”
“This was your game, Jameson. Not mine.”
“You burned my secret.” He looked at her eyes. There were rings of colors there, more shades of brown and gold and green than plain “hazel” eyes had a right to. “You didn’t read what I wrote. You could have, but you didn’t.”
“It was your secret,” she said simply. “Not mine.”
Jameson closed his eyes. Before, he hadn’t trusted himself to tell her.
But now? “Say the word, Heiress.” Tahiti. “Say it and—”
“I don’t need to know.” Avery’s voice was steady. “If what you need is for me not to know, then I don’t need to.”
Jameson brought his lips to hers again and murmured a single word. “Liar.”
Beside them, Oren cleared his throat. Loudly. “Cell signal’s back,” he announced. “I have your phone, Jameson, courtesy of Rohan.”
“He was blocking calls before,” Avery clarified. Jameson heard what she didn’t say: I’m not lying about not needing to know. I’m pretending. There’s a difference. And if what you need is for me to keep pretending, Hawthorne
—I will.
Jameson felt a lump rising in his throat, a single sentence burned in his mind still. An H, the word is, the letters v and e.
Not today, Jameson told himself. Today, he was going to savor his win, savor her. But soon.
“I know you’ve transferred most of the foreign properties over to the foundation,” he murmured, “but what are your thoughts on Scottish castles?”
Vantage was his—and based on Avery’s expression, he had a feeling he was going to like her thoughts on Scottish castles very much.
But before she could make good on the promise in her eyes, Jameson’s phone buzzed, as voicemails, texts, and missed calls came through on a delay. He stared at the most recent, a text. From Grayson, he realized.
911.
