Chapter One
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Grant Barrington’s right hand tightened on the grip of his Beretta. He brought his other hand around for support then spread his feet shoulder-width apart, bent his knees slightly, raised the gun toward his target, and aligned his sight. Only when he was certain of the shot did he slowly squeeze the trigger with precisely enough force to discharge the weapon.
Perfect shot to a non-kill zone on a paper torso that was moving toward him. He waited before firing again because more than one bullet per second was prohibited. It didn’t matter that he was the only shooter on the exclusive country club gun range or that there was virtually no chance that the range safety officer would correct him. Rules and procedures were important. A clean win was the only one worth celebrating.
Another perfect non-kill shot followed by a deadly one to the head just as his retired police captain instructor had designed the drill. Grant’s precision brought him little satisfaction. He wasn’t practicing to impress anyone. He was a man who believed in being prepared, and this was nothing more than a step in that process.
His brothers joked he was as spontaneous as a sunrise. He took that as a compliment. Reliability was a trait he valued. Once he chose a course, he held to it until he achieved his goal. Perseverance succeeded where brute force failed. Unwavering, methodical action was an under-celebrated, unbeatable force. In a modern culture where the goal was instant gratification and flashy results, Grant remained steadfast to the idea that slow and steady won the race.
He hadn’t always been as self-disciplined. When he was still a child, his family was shattered by a tragedy. His mother had fallen apart and his father had lost his fight. None of them had ever been the same. His oldest brother, Asher, had learned to lash out to protect himself. Kenzi and Lance had withdrawn. Ian had become a master negotiator. Each of them had learned to make a life for themselves outside of the family—coming together for a long time only when guilted into doing so.
Grant had found his sanctuary in the predictable nature of numbers and the calm of researching the nuances of financial law. He learned early on information was its own power. Where others fumbled and guessed, he was precise and informed. Not only had he used that skill to stabilize his family’s fortune when it had teetered, but he had a reputation for solidifying the prosperity of his clients.
After successfully completing one more drill, he unloaded, cleared and locked the gun, placed it on the shooting bench in front of him, and removed his earmuffs and earplugs. He replaced all of it in his range bag and handed it off to the safety officer. It would be cleaned and ready the next day when he returned. Now it was time for free weights followed by a jog on the treadmill.
“Nice shooting,” a man in a charcoal suit with short brown hair said as he walked up. He didn’t look comfortable in his suit although it had been tailored to fit him. He appeared close to Grant’s age but rough around the edges like someone who had lived a harsher life.
“Thank you,” Grant answered with a slight frown. “Do I know you?”
“You might. The name is Marc Stone.” He waited for recognition then added, “I work for Dominic Corisi.”
It was a questionable reference, but Grant held out his hand in greeting. Although Dominic wasn’t someone Grant would count as one of his friends, they navigated the same social circle, and Marc looked familiar. “Nice to meet you. Since it’s unlikely you’re here by coincidence, what can I do for you?”
Marc shook his hand firmly. “Alethea Niacharos is my fiancée.”
Grant looked the other man over again. Confident. Physically fit. Carries himself like someone with military training. It’s plausible. Alethea hadn’t mentioned him, but they hadn’t discussed much outside of how to find Clarence Stiles. “Interesting.”
“She doesn’t know I’m here or that I know the two of you have been in contact. I’d appreciate it if you don’t say anything to her.”
“I have no reason for further contact with her.” Marc wouldn’t be the first man to accuse Grant of being with someone he shouldn’t have been with, but Grant didn’t sleep with married or engaged women. Every single encounter he’d had with Alethea, beautiful as she was, had been purely professional. Anything else would have invited chaos.
“So it’s true that you fired her.”
“I did. Her investigative skills didn’t match my current needs.”
“Because she blurs the line when it comes to surveillance laws?”
In an age of easy to conceal cameras and audio recording devices, Grant always chose his words with care. “You would know that better than I, but either way it’s no longer of consequence.”
Marc rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I wish that were true. I love Alethea, but I’m not blind to her . . . personality quirks. She doesn’t respond well to being told she can’t do something.”
Grant arched an eyebrow. “Then explain to her I didn’t refuse her services, I merely invited her to offer them to anyone but me.”
Marc almost looked as if he might smile, then he ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I would if I thought it would stop her. The problem is, her instincts are always spot on. This case is frustrating her, and that’s not a good sign. Someone went to extreme measures to ensure the truth about your brother’s death would stay buried. Your aunt’s journal reads like an obituary column, and Alethea thinks you’re about to add your name to the list of casualties. I agree. No offence, but you’re not exactly the Barrington for this job.”
So much for client confidentiality. If Alethea wasn’t Marc’s source of information, then she was getting sloppy. Someone had loose lips. Rising to his full height, Grant narrowed his eyes. If it had done nothing else, the conversation had supported Grant’s instincts to not use Alethea. “Good luck with your fiancée, Mr. Stone.” He moved to step around Marc.
Marc blocked his path. “Alethea will be in the mix whether you want her to be or not. She can’t help herself. If you’re not working with her, that adds another layer to what is already potentially a dangerous situation. Protecting you while hiding from you might be a dangerous distraction for her. I can’t let you go forward like this. You have a choice: You can work with her or work with me.”
“This conversation is over,” Grant said, stepping forward and clipping his shoulder forcefully against Marc’s as he passed him.
A second later, Grant was flat on his back, looking into the barrel of a gun, gasping for air as Marc pressed the heel of his shoe into his chest. Another man would have started swearing and threatening Marc, but Grant quickly regained his calm. Anger clouded a person’s ability to assess a threat.
If Marc was who he said he was, the only logical goal for knocking Grant off his feet was to scare or confuse him. It was a power move. One of Grant’s early martial arts instructors had welcomed each new student with a similar humbling takedown. Grant appreciated Marc’s form even as he refused to allow the move to work.
Experience had taught him the best defense for an act of aggression was an equally forceful and unexpected offense. Calculating the necessary leverage and force came naturally. Practiced patience allowed him to give Marc a moment to think he’d won.
Looking confident, Marc lectured, “The people you’re hunting won’t fight fair. They won’t stand perfectly still while you take aim. You need someone watching your back. Am I hired?”
“No.” Grant rolled toward Marc, clasped the back of his knee and used his full weight to buckle it. Marc tipped backward, landing on his ass with a thud, as Grant jumped to his feet. After calmly dusting himself off, he held out a hand to assist Marc to his feet.
Marc tucked his gun into a holster beneath his jacket and took Grant’s hand. “You’d be dead if I’d wanted you to be,” he said once he was on his feet.
“Maybe.” He’d never been the type to get in a pissing contest. He preferred the quiet win. Grant glanced around for the safety officer. Although the man wouldn’t have the nerve to say something, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t talk about the exchange once they were gone.
“He’s with my men. If they do their job right, he’ll think they were here to price membership to the firing range,” Marc said.
“I hope they’re more subtle than you are.” Henchmen at the country club. Perfect. Had Grant wanted the drama, he would have let Asher know where he worked out. His older brother had a reputation for being a hammer even when alternate methods were an option. Like Dominic Corisi, Asher had a good share of enemies. And unscrupulous friends. Alethea Niacharos was a prime example, proving that people with similar ethics tended to gravitate toward each other. “Dominic Corisi earned every enemy he has, and I understand why he might require someone like you on his security team. I, however, do not conduct business the way he does. As far as uncovering the truth about a crime that may have occurred nearly thirty years ago, your fiancée’s instincts are off this time. It’s mostly a paper chase. I won’t require anyone to save my ass.”
“Then why the gun?” Marc asked.
“Insurance, but most likely unnecessary. Statistically, dangerous criminals have shorter life spans. Given the length of time that has passed, everyone involved is probably dead or no longer in positions of influence.”
Marc shook his head slowly. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not. I’ve already confirmed what Lance and Andrew discovered in Aruba. There is no proof that Clarence Stiles was involved in my brother’s death outside of Andrew’s account of their conversation. My brother has had a difficult year. I wish he had spoken to me before involving our mother. I won’t know how much Stiles was actually involved until I speak to him myself.”
“If finding him was possible, Alethea would have already.”
Using a similar tone to what Marc had used earlier, Grant said, “No offense, but hacking into computer systems isn’t the only way to locate someone. It’s a good place to start, but since her method wasn’t productive, it’s time for an off-the-grid connection.”
“Meaning?”
“I intend to interview every person who ever worked for Stiles, dated him, stood behind him in a grocery line. Someone knows him and knows where he would go. I’ll find that person and resolve this.”
“Stiles was afraid enough to burn his house with all of the old records in it. A man doesn’t do that unless there is still a threat.”
Is there anything this man doesn’t know? “It doesn’t require much of a threat to frighten a coward, but the facts don’t match up. Andrew wasn’t followed. The private investigator Lance paid to snoop around hasn’t encountered resistance. I don’t expect to either.”
Marc sighed. “Send me. I’ll do better at talking to the locals.”
“Excuse me?”
Marc motioned at Grant from head to toe. “You reek of money. People won’t trust you.”
Now that was simply flat-out wrong. “I’ll have you know that prime ministers, royal families, and even some dictators trust me with their financial secrets. My ethics are above reproach.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to tone that way down before anyone on the street will open up to you. What’s your favorite beer?”
“I prefer an aged Scotch.”
“Sports team?”
“For investment purposes I used to own a hockey team, but the tax benefit from losses wasn’t worth the aggravation.”
“Hobbies?”
“Never had the time for them.”
“Friends?”
“Of course, I have friends.” Grant was losing patience with the conversation.
“Any of them not have a trust fund?”
Grant opened his mouth to list those who didn’t, but stopped when he realized he couldn’t think of any. He’d been born to money, attended private schools before graduating from Wharton School, and worked in the investment industry since. He lived at work, and his clients were people who wanted to stabilize or grow their portfolio rather than start one from scratch. Now that he thought about it, those people weren’t what some would call friends—they were a network of business associates he spent time with. That realization was disconcerting and didn’t match the image he had of himself. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”
“Because you’re out of touch with reality, and that’s a whole other danger. If you’re going to do this, you need to get out of the country club and spend some time with regular people.”
Regular people. Grant thought about how his brothers, Asher and Lance, had both chosen women from a significantly lower economic stratosphere. And I like them. I’m not an elitist.
He reviewed Marc’s assessment of him. But apparently I sound like one.
“Where do I start?” Asking such a question went against how Grant had been raised. Barringtons didn’t need help. They didn’t stumble. They didn’t bleed. Appearances meant more than the truth. Anything less than perfect had risked upsetting their mother.
That’s a moot point now.
His mother was justifiably, unapologetically obsessed with what Stiles had told Andrew because it made possible a memory she’d been told she’d only imagined. She remembered holding Kent, alive and well, after his birth. The doctors had told her that was impossible since Kent had died at birth. Their family, having not been in the room for the birth, had believed the doctors.
Had the doctors lied? It was impossible to ask them since both the nurse and doctor had died within days of Kent’s birth.
To cover up what? Negligence? Murder?
His family was scrambling to make sense of the possibility that something horrific, more horrific than a nearly full-term stillbirth, had occurred. If his mother had actually held Kent, then no wonder no amount of counseling had been able to convince her of the opposite. No wonder she’d doubted her own sanity.
Before Stiles claimed responsibility for Kent’s death, no one had believed her. No one.
And that had broken her along with their family. In an attempt to protect his wife, their father had demanded an illusion of perfection from his children.
The truth was their road back—and his mother deserved it, no matter how ugly it was.
“So, I’m hired,” Marc said.
“Yes, but with certain conditions.” His siblings were all settling down, getting married, and having children. They had too much to lose. His younger brother, Ian, was in town but had gotten a job with the US Embassy in Madrid. A scandal could end his career. “We don’t share anything we discover until we are certain of the facts, and if there is danger to my family, we don’t come home until we eradicate it. I may not be the Barrington you consider most qualified, but I will do whatever it takes to protect my family.”
“Good.” Marc nodded slowly. “When are you heading to Aruba?”
“Sunday.”
“I won’t fly with you, but I’ll be there every step of the way. If you see me, I’m doing my job wrong.”
“Understood.”
“You need an alias. Give me a name, and I’ll have IDs made up for you.”
“I don’t care. Use any name.” He snapped his fingers. “Grant E-n-y-n-a-i-m.”
“Seriously?” Marc asked.
Grant raised and lowered a shoulder. “You have a better suggestion?”
Marc opened the door. “No. Grant Enynaim it is. I’ll be Marc Let’s-fucking-come-back-alive.”
For the first time that day, Grant smiled. “I want to see that passport.”
Marc laughed. “That’s funny.”
Grant sobered. “Good because if I sound out of touch when I speak, I need to correct that. Instead of working out in the gym tonight I’ll jog near the Charles and meet some people. I can’t imagine it’ll be hard. I’ll spend some time with them, listen to how they speak, and have that issue remedied by Sunday.”
Marc laughed again then stopped when Grant glared at him. “You’re serious. Of course you are.”
Viviana Sutton slowed her pace so Audrey could catch up. Her friend wasn’t out of shape, in fact she had a figure that men jogged backward to take a second look at, but she didn’t like to get sweaty. With her hair in a fashionable French braid and her designer spandex, Audrey looked like a bouncy model in a sportswear commercial.
Viviana, on the other hand, was in cotton jogging shorts and a loose, faded T-shirt. She’d tied her hair back without the benefit of a mirror and considered this portion of her daily run, the part where Audrey joined her, her cool down phase.
From the time they were young children, everyone knew Audrey would move to the big city. She was too pretty for a small New England town. Everyone expected her to end up on the big screen in Hollywood or married to some sinfully rich man. She left right after high school but surprised everyone by working for an environmental advocacy agency—saving the world one water source at a time. Living her dream.
She has her life together—me, not so much.
No one ever expected much from me.
Viviana had grown up working for her father’s construction and large machinery rental company. She’d commuted to school from home and continued to work for her family after college because her family had needed her.
She didn’t consider herself ugly, but she was realistic. Women like her didn’t inspire devotion from men. They liked her. She could walk into a bar fight and leave with a new male best friend. She could fish as well as the best of them, parallel park an eighteen-wheeler, and no amount of swearing offended her.
Was it wrong to dream of being irresistible to someone? No wonder I’m an easy mark.
“You’re not thinking about him again, are you?” Audrey asked.
“Who?” Viviana parried.
“Forget him.”
“I can’t. What is wrong with me? He didn’t even try to sleep with me. That bugs me more than the money he took. Do you realize I haven’t had sex with anyone but myself for . . . holy shit, it’s been over a year. I’m going to die alone.”
“Now you’re talking stupid. Let go of who you were in Cairo, New York. Do you know why I moved to Boston? I didn’t want to be the person everyone thought I was. I wanted to do me on my own terms. You don’t think you’re sexy, so men don’t see you that way. I’m not actually prettier than you, I just think I am.” Audrey’s concerned expression took the bite out of her words.
Viviana smiled. Good try, Audrey. “No, you are.”
“As long as you believe that I always will be. Listen, I’m your friend, and I love you. You pay half the rent so if you want to keep the first job you came across when you moved here and hide out in your room, I’m cool with it. I love having dinner made for me when I come home. I love having someone clean up after me. I wouldn’t be a good friend, though, if I didn’t tell you that you’re not my mother. You don’t have to feed me. You don’t have to do my laundry. All I want is to see you happy, and I don’t think you are.”
Viviana sighed. Good friends saw too much. “That stung.”
Audrey nodded. “You need a win—something to boost your confidence. You need to pick a man, bring him home, and fuck his brains out. You’ll feel better, I promise. Then we’ll go get our nails done, maybe have our hair highlighted. We’ll have a whole beauty day.”
“I think you have it backward. Shouldn’t I get the makeover first?”
Audrey threw her hands up in frustration. “No, that’s the point. You are beautiful just the way you are. I’ll prove it to you. See that guy who just jogged by?”
“What guy?” Viviana scanned ahead of them and her breath caught in her throat. “Oh, that one.” Male perfection. Broad shoulders. Tight ass. Muscular legs. If the front of him looked anything like the back of him he was way, way, way out of her league. “What about him?”
“You need to fuck him.”
Viviana swallowed hard. “Sure. I bet he’s single and has been waiting his whole life for me.”
“If you don’t want him, I’ll fuck him.”
“Do it. I don’t care,” Viviana said in a terse voice. She didn’t expect the shove Audrey gave her.
“Wake up, Viv. This is your chance to recreate yourself and be the woman you want to be. You can do it. Decide you want him and go get him.”
“I can’t.”
“Because you’re scared. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Are we ignoring the possibility that beautiful people can also be crazy psychos? Yes, well, then—“What if he says no?” And I confirm what I’m already beginning to believe: that I’m universally, sadly quite resistible.
“What if he does?” Audrey smiled in encouragement. “You’ll still be the woman who saw what she wanted and had the courage to go after it. What he says doesn’t matter. What you think about yourself does. Do you believe a man like that would find you attractive?”
“Maybe?”
“Not good enough.”
“Yes?”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Yes.”
“That’s better. Now, get in front of him somehow.”
“Why?”
“So he can see your killer body. You have one, you know. Cut across the corner over there. Get in front of him. Then drop something. He’ll stop and help you pick it up. After that give him some long looks, touch his arm a few times, lean in. You’ll know if he’s interested.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“How long have we been friends?”
“Forever.”
“Trust me?”
“Completely.”
“Then go get him, Viv. Remember, this isn’t about him—it’s about you.”