Fascinating.” Jameson stared in the direction Grayson had gone. “Was that a hint of genuine human emotion on his face?”
Avery gave him a look. “Worried?” she asked. “Or curious?”
“About Grayson?” Jameson replied. Both. “Neither. It’s probably his tailor calling to make fun of him for being a twenty-year-old who has a tailor.”
Xander grinned. “Should I creep inside and eavesdrop on that phone call?”
“Are you implying that you’re even remotely capable of stealth?” Jameson retorted.
“I can be stealthy!” Xander insisted. “Clearly, you’re just still bitter at the extent to which my legendary dance moves blew everyone’s mind at the club last night.”
Refusing to take the bait, Jameson glanced at Oren, who’d joined them on the terrace. “Speaking of our little celebration,” Jameson said, “how bad is the paparazzi situation this morning?”
“British tabloids.” Oren’s eyes narrowed to slits. Avery’s head of security was former military and frighteningly capable. That he’d narrowed his eyes at all told Jameson that the paparazzi situation wasn’t good. “I’ve got two of my men patrolling out front.”
“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.
