The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games #3)(49)

“Beauty was expected,” Grayson replied. “Technique without artistry is worthless.” He looked down at the remains of the violin he’d destroyed.

“Beauty is a lie.”

“Remind me to mock you for saying that later,” Jameson told him.

“Leave me,” Grayson ordered, turning his back on us.

“If I’d known we were having a party,” Jameson half sang, “I would have ordered food.”

“A party?” I asked.

“A pity party.” Jameson smirked. “I see you dressed for the occasion, Gray.”

“You’re right.” Grayson walked toward the door. “This is self-indulgent.

Thoroughly beneath me.”

Jameson reached out to trip him, and then it was on. I understood now why Nash had sent Jameson. Sometimes Grayson Davenport Hawthorne needed a fight—and Jameson was only too happy to oblige.

“Let it all out,” Jameson said, ramming his head into Grayson’s stomach. “Poor baby.”

Tobias Hawthorne hadn’t just expected beauty. The four Hawthorne grandsons were also damn near lethal.

Grayson flipped Jameson onto his back, then went in for the kill. I knew Jameson well enough to realize that he’d just let himself be pinned.

Every muscle in Grayson’s body was tight. “I thought that we failed him,” he said, his voice low. “I thought we weren’t enough. I wasn’t enough, wasn’t worthy. But you tell me, Jamie: What the hell is there for us to be worthy of?”

“He played to win,” Jameson gritted out beneath his brother. “Always.

You can’t tell me that comes as a surprise.”

“You’re right.” Grayson didn’t loosen his grip. “He was ruthless. He raised us to be the same. Especially me.”

Jameson locked his eyes onto his brother’s. “To hell with what he wants.

What do you want, Gray? Because we both know that you haven’t let yourself want anything in a very long time.”

The two of them were sucked into a staring contest: silvery gray eyes and deep green ones, one set narrowed and one wide open.

Grayson looked away first, but he didn’t remove his forearm from Jameson’s neck. “I want to get Toby back. For Eve.” There was a pause, and then Grayson’s head turned toward mine, the light reflecting off his blond hair in a near-halo. “For you, Avery.”

I closed my eyes, just for a moment. “Jameson thinks—we both think— that there might be a connection between Toby’s kidnapping and the game your grandfather left me. That it might tell us something.”

Grayson angled his gaze back toward his brother’s, then dropped his hold and abruptly stood.

I continued, “I know you didn’t want to play—”

“I will,” Grayson said, the words cutting through the air. He reached a hand down to Jameson and pulled him to his feet, leaving the two of them standing just inches apart. “I’ll play, and I’ll win,” Grayson said, with the force of absolute law, “because we are who we are.”

“We always will be,” Jameson said. No matter how close I got to the Hawthorne brothers, there would always be things they shared that I could barely fathom.

“Here, Heiress.” Jameson broke eye contact with his brother, removed the photograph from his pocket, and handed it to me. “You’re the one who found this clue. You’re the one who should explain it.”

It felt significant: Jameson bringing me closer to Grayson instead of pushing me away.

I held the picture out, and Grayson’s fingers brushed mine as he took it.

“We don’t know who those three women are,” I said. “There’s a date on the back. And a caption. We can take you through what we’ve already done.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Grayson’s gaze was sharp. “What else was in the bag that our grandfather left you?”

I went to get it, and when I came back, Grayson and Jameson were standing farther apart. Both of them were breathing heavily, and the expressions on their faces made me wonder what had passed between them while I was gone.

“Here,” I said, ignoring the tension in the room. I laid out the remaining three objects in the game, naming them as I did. “A steamer, a flashlight, a USB drive.”

Grayson set the photograph down next to them. After what felt like a small eternity, he flipped the photograph over to read the caption once more.

“The date gives us numbers,” Jameson said. “A code or—”

“Not a code,” Grayson murmured, picking up the steamer. “A vintage.”

His gaze found its way slowly and inexorably to mine. “We need to go down to the wine cellar.”





CHAPTER 47

As I pulled open the door to the wine cellar, so much of that night came back to me: the cocktail party, the way Grayson had deftly deflected every person who just wanted a minute of my time to tell me about a unique financial opportunity, the little girl in the pool, Grayson diving in to save her.

I could remember the way he’d looked climbing out of the water, dripping wet in an Armani suit. Grayson hadn’t even asked for a towel.

He’d acted like he wasn’t even wet. I remembered people talking to him, the little girl being returned to her parents. I remembered the brief glimpse I caught of his face—his eyes—right before he disappeared down these stairs.