Chapter One

At forty-one, Iain Fraser had known who he was, what mattered, and what came next. Now, at forty-two, he no longer had a fucking clue. But that was about to change.

He tipped the valet and handed him the keys to his Lotus Eletre SUV with a pang of regret. It held up to the high standards of his father’s exclusive club but was next on his list to sell. The convertible had gone last month, after everything went to hell, and his condo was on the block right now.

It didn’t matter. They were just things. But every one he let go of reminded him of his brother’s promise: to take everything from Iain the way it had been taken from him. He knew the things wouldn’t matter to his brother, either. After all, he hadn’t exactly started small with his vendetta. Destroying the company that Iain had helped build wasn’t subtle. In terms of introductions, Iain could think of a good dozen other ways Niall could have said “Guess what? You have a brother you never knew about.” Starting with, maybe, Guess what? You have a brother you never knew about.

After months of trying, Iain still barely knew more than that. So now he’d come to this club to confront his father, General Glenn Tywether, formerly of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and a long, storied career, currently in command of significant influence in the industries in which Iain’s former company, Victory, had operated. Highly regarded by those communities as a bluntly honest man willing to face his weaknesses as well as his opponents’ strengths. Now also regarded by his son as a soul-deep coward.

An attendant opened the front door with Iain’s approach, nodding silently as he strode through. This was Iain’s last resort, after weeks of chasing his father all over the effing place. He’d alternated that with following the scant leads Corin—Victory’s former researcher—had been feeding him against orders. Those had gotten him just as far as following his father had. As in, nowhere.

Okay, not nowhere, he amended when he inhaled the rich, warm scent of lemon wood polish and some kind of spice that made him think of age and refinement. This was definitely somewhere. The gleaming walls of the foyer opened into a hushed, narrow lobby with a reception counter. A man in a tan suit that offset his light-brown skin smiled at him. His nametag said Jonathan, Manager.

“Mr. Fraser. What a pleasure.”

Iain’s stride faltered. He hadn’t expected to be recognized. But his training, experience, and fierce intent straightened him out in half a second, and he accepted the pen Jonathan handed him. He scrawled his name in the leather book the manager had set on the counter. As soon as he was done, the book was whisked away.

“Your private room is stocked, of course, but if you have specific requests, I’m reachable via any house phone as well as the app.”

“Thank you.” They had an app?

A computer dinged gently and Jonathan turned away, as if he didn’t need anything further from Iain. Like, membership. Identification. Money. This didn’t make sense. This place wasn’t the stereotypical club held sacrosanct by rich white men—other kinds of rich white men—in that they had no bans on membership, explicit or implied. But they did require a rather large fee after confirmed referral by at least two other members. Iain had lined those up from former colleagues and had a bank transfer ready to initiate, but…he didn’t need them?

He cleared his throat, and Jonathan looked up immediately, his expression blandly anticipatory.

“Has my father arrived yet?” He may as well keep acting like he belonged here and was expected.

“Yes, of course. He’s room thirty.”

“Thank you.” He inclined his head and took the curving corridor to his left. He hadn’t been able to get so much as a childhood report card for his brother, but the building plans for this place had been on record, so he’d studied the general layout. He hadn’t wanted his father to be able to duck him and get out a side exit before Iain could corral him. A few weeks ago, when Iain had tried to approach him at his office, he’d spotted the general sneaking out into the stairwell at the far end of the hall. By the time Iain got there, his father was gone. Spry for a man in his late sixties.

Of course, Jonathan might be notifying the general of Iain’s presence right now, and his father would get away again. So Iain strode into the common area and ate up the distance, ignoring the raised eyebrows from the men and women who bothered to glance up at him. A server greeted him by name as he passed, and then Iain had to halt as an older woman cut into his path and stopped.

“Well, well, look who it is.”

“Dollie. It’s good to see you.” It would have been, in other circumstances. Dollie was old money and served on the boards of at least a dozen large businesses, but Iain knew her because she was one of Victory’s earliest clients, hiring them to secure safe passage for women escaping abusive situations.

“I knew you were a member—”

“What?” Iain interrupted before he could stop himself. He apologized for his rudeness, but Dollie waved it off.

“But as far as I knew, you’d never set foot in the building.”

“I haven’t,” he admitted in a low tone. “I’m here to see my father.” He didn’t ask about the membership thing. He didn’t have time.

“All right, I won’t delay you. Always with the important business.” She clucked her tongue. “I must say I was quite saddened by Victory’s closure and hope that’s temporary.” She squeezed his upper arm and shifted out of his way, smiling at someone behind him. He moved on, shoving aside his bewilderment. This was just one more question for his father, but it was low on the priority list.

Room thirty was on the third floor of this old brick mansion near Dupont Circle in Washington, DC. The bottom floor was all the public areas, with the second and third floors holding the private rooms. Iain knew there were more secure ones on at least two sublevels and was a little surprised the general’s was not only high, but on the outside of the building. Maybe he wasn’t here for the security, which could be extreme enough to satisfy international intelligence agency standards.

Iain tried the knob, a little shocked when it turned and the door easily opened.

“It’s about time,” came his father’s familiar, gruff tone. “I’ve had this warming for—oh.” A frown immediately took over his face as he turned from the counter separating a kitchenette from the sitting area. He harumphed and finished scooping what smelled like chili into two bowls, then set the pan down on a burner and slid off the hot mitt he’d held it with.

“I’d apologize for interrupting your plans,” Iain said, closing and locking the door behind him, “but I’m not sorry.”

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” His father picked up the two bowls and shoved one into Iain’s midsection, passing him to circle the couch and settle on the upholstered chair next to it. “Might as well eat.”

“Who are you expecting?” Iain stared down at the steaming chili. His stomach grumbled. He might not have eaten yet today. It was hard to keep track when meals were unimportant compared to everything else he was trying to do.

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll move on when he finds the door locked. Plans are fluid around here.” He waved at the small sofa. “Sit.”

Iain didn’t move. For the first time since getting out of his vehicle, he was shocked into inaction. The room was small, but nowhere near as impersonal, as business-like, as Iain had expected. The furniture looked more comfortable than in the common area downstairs, and personal items were strewn throughout. Personal items like books—military strategy, of course, but a few thrillers and even some romantic suspense sprinkled in—and mementos and photographs. Photographs like the one Iain stared at now, hanging on the wall between two windows, of him and his mother on the beach the summer after he’d graduated from high school.

And those, on the credenza, a progression of school photos, eight-by-tens, lined up along the back, with myriad random candids displayed in front of those. On the table next to his father’s chair was one of Iain as an adult. He and the general must have been at a fundraiser or business event. Iain couldn’t tell from the photo details. But they stood side by side, solemn, watching something out of view, cocktail glasses in hand, dressed in suits similar enough to play up a resemblance Iain preferred not to see between them. Nothing overt, since Iain had his mother’s coloring, but at least in that snapshot, it was in the brace of their jaws, the shape of their eyes.

“Why do you look like someone shoved a lightning bolt up your ass?” the general demanded irritably.

“You can’t be surprised that I’m shocked.” For Iain’s entire adult life, and at least the second half of his childhood, his relationship with his father had been private. The general’s complicated career had led him to decree it best for it not to be widely known that Iain was his son. But this explained the staff’s familiarity, at least. “You paid for my membership here.”

His father took a bite of the chili.

“But never bothered to tell me about it.”

“It was a birthday present.”

That actually made sense. Iain’s birthday had been a month ago, in June, right in the middle of the chaos and his father’s active avoidance.

“You’ve successfully bearded me in my den, Fraser. Now sit the fuck down and eat lunch while we do this.”

Iain let two heartbeats pass and then did as ordered. He was hungry and he wanted answers, and being defiant wasn’t going to resolve either situation. The sofa cushion sank comfortably under him and he leaned back, taking a bite of chili. Heat and flavor burst across his tongue, and it was all he could do not to start gobbling.

The general made a go-ahead gesture, his steel-gray eyes steady on Iain’s, and the shame and regret in them were another surprise. Those were emotions he’d never seen his father reveal before.