The Inheritances Game (Jameson Hawthorne)

Ian Johnstone-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 Kings Gate Terrace fashionably late and alone. If you want to play, lan 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. 

lan 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," lan 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?" 

Jameson raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to give me one?" Nothing mattered unless you let it. 

"Tit for tat." lan'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."

lan Johnstone-Jameson held the glass door open, waiting. Jameson let him wait, then languidly strolled forward. 

"You'll ask your questions first," lan 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." 

lan'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, lan Johnstone-Jameson?" 

You couldn't grow up Hawthorne without realizing that everyone wanted something. 

"Simple," lan 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."