Raising the Stakes

“You got an obligation to me, boy. Maybe it’s time you knew that.”

Gray narrowed his eyes. There was an ominous sound to the words. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jonas got up, walked to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “You never did get along with your old man, did you? Never did cotton to the idea of sittin’ around, watchin’ him grovel to me.” He sipped the bourbon, smiled over the rim of the tumbler. “You ever stop to think how nice it was, gettin’ away from here when you was, what, eighteen? When you went away to that there fancy college in New Hampshire?”

“I was seventeen,” Gray said coldly. “And what does that have to do with this conversation?”

“An’ how ‘bout that law dee-ploma?” Jonas sighed. “The way I hear it, ain’t ever’body can afford a Yale law dee-gree.”

The hair on the nape of Gray’s neck was rising again. “I had full scholarships to both Dartmouth and Yale.”

Jonas chuckled. “Oh my, yes. You was a smart kid, Graham. You won them scholarships, fair and square.” His smile faded. “‘Course, you never did give too much thought as to who funded those scholarships, did you?”

Gray stared at his uncle. He felt as if the floor were dropping from under his feet. “You?” he said hoarsely. “You funded them?”

“And the pocket money that went along with them.” The old man plucked what remained of his cigar from a heavy glass ashtray and stuck it between his teeth. “Your father did the right thing, son. He come to me, said you was smart and he couldn’t afford to do right by you.”

That his father had once said something good about him didn’t seem to matter half as much as learning that he’d gotten where he was today—wherever in hell that might be—courtesy of the very man he’d grown up despising. Gray could feel a cold, hard knot forming in his gut.

“And now,” he said softly, “you’re calling in your markers.”

His uncle shrugged. “Only if you make it seem that way.”

Gray laughed. “Only if I make it seem…? You are some piece of work, Jonas, you know that? You’re blackmailing me into taking God only knows how much time out of my life so you can soothe your conscience before you die, and you say it’s payback time only if I make it seem that way?” His laughter stopped abruptly. “I don’t suppose you’d settle for me writing out a check for whatever I owe you… No,” he said grimly, when Jonas chuckled, “no, I guess not.” Anger flooded through him and he balled his hands into fists, jammed his fists into his pockets before he did something he knew he’d regret. “I’ve got news for you, old man. You don’t need to be concerned with your conscience because the fact is, you never had one.”

Jonas took the cigar from his mouth and set it back into the ashtray. “Yes,” he said softly, “I do, even if it seems to be catching up years too late.” He walked toward Gray, his gaze locked to the younger man’s, his hand outstretched. “You do this, we’ll call things even.”

Gray held his uncle’s eyes for a long minute. Then he looked pointedly at the outstretched hand, ignored it and reached, instead, for his briefcase.

“You’re damned right we will,” he said, and he pulled open the door and marched down the hall, hating Jonas, hating himself, but most of all hating his own father, a man he’d sworn he’d never emulate, because here he was, dancing to a tune Jonas Baron played and stuck with dancing straight to the very last note.

CHAPTER TWO

GRAY boarded the flight to New York still tight-lipped with rage.

If anybody had asked him how he’d gotten where he was today, a partner in one of New York’s top law firms at such a relatively young age, he’d have said he’d done it all on his own. Good grades in college had led to his acceptance at Yale Law. A straight A average there and a stint writing for the Law Review had won him a clerkship with a Federal judge and then interviews at a number of important firms. He’d picked the one where he’d figured he’d have a straight shot at the top after putting in the requisite seventy-five hours a week of grunt work for a couple of years. He’d been right. Those years got him noticed; he landed a partnership even sooner than he expected without having to curry favors from anybody. Watching his father go through life as a suck-up had convinced him he’d sooner end up flipping burgers than repeat Leighton’s pattern.

Now it looked as if he’d been blissfully living a lie, that his successes were all traceable to Jonas’s largesse. Okay. Maybe that was an overstatement. He’d made it to where he was on his own, but his uncle’s money was the reason he’d been able to get his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He was just where he’d sworn he’d never be, beholden to the old man, and now Jonas was calling in the debt.

“Sir?”

But facts were facts. You couldn’t change them; you could only use them to serve your client’s best interests. That was one of the things he’d learned in law school. First, make a dispassionate assessment of a case. Then use your knowledge to get the outcome you wanted. Well, he was his own client right now, and what would serve his interests was to do what had to be done so he could get on with his own life.

Truth was, he wouldn’t have to spend much time dealing with Jonas’s situation. He had all sorts of contacts, including private investigators whose fields of expertise involved tracking people even if the trail was old and cold. Actually he didn’t have to do much of anything personally except give Jonas’s information to one of those people, then sit back and wait for the answers to drop in his lap.

Then, if—and it was a huge “if,” considering that Jonas didn’t even know if this Ben Lincoln actually had a granddaughter—if there was such a woman, and if a P.I. could find her, Gray would meet her, spend ten minutes in conversation before contacting his uncle.

“Mr. Baron?”

What the old man did with his money was none of his business. All he wanted was to erase this debt. Hell had to be going through life, knowing you had an obligation to Jonas Baron.

“Mr. Baron. Sir, would you like to see the lunch menu?”

Gray looked up. The flight attendant, smiling politely, leaned toward him. For the first time since he’d stormed out of his uncle’s library, Gray felt good enough to smile back.

“Sure,” he said, “why not?”

Why not, indeed? A couple of days, maybe a week at the most, and he’d be able to tell Jonas to go scratch.