When Grayson Tazewell had received an offer of financial salvation from the son he had never acknowledged—the son he believed had conveniently vanished into the underworld of off-the-books adoptions—he had seized the lifeline. Under other circumstances he might have been a little more cautious. Then again, maybe not. He had built Tazewell Global by taking big risks.
Regardless, by the time the offer had arrived in his inbox, the circumstances were desperate and he was a desperate man.
Lucan pushed himself to his feet and went to stand at the window of his father’s study. He forced himself to review the facts of the situation, but it was difficult to think logically with the acid of fury and frustration burning in his veins.
Knight and Sloan had failed. After all the research, after all the time and energy spent in the chat room manipulating Kendall Moseley, after the painstaking attention to the details of the strategy, the entire plan had collapsed.
He needed a new strategy and he needed it quickly.
But he also needed a little fire. It was the only thing that cleared his head these days.
He tried to focus on the expansive view of the vineyards of the northern California wine country. The neat, orderly rows of vines marching over the rolling hills were illuminated in the early-morning light. It should have been a soothing, calming sight.
The Sonoma house was one of five residences that Grayson Tazewell currently owned. They all had one thing in common: a study from which Grayson could operate the levers of his empire. Each study was identical, right down to the photographs on the wall. Many of the pictures showed Grayson with various politicians, celebrities and spectacularly beautiful women. There were also images of Grayson’s first yacht and his first Lamborghini.
In the center was a photograph of the first of the huge houses that Grayson had acquired over the years. It was the house that he had bought to celebrate making his first fortune.
There was a glass case in one corner that contained six bottles of a very expensive, very exotic hundred-and-fifty-proof brandy. Lucan knew that Grayson reserved the stuff for toasting victories and successes.
None of the bottles had been opened recently.
In every study there was a two-foot-high glass sculpture of a phoenix rising from the ashes. All of the pieces had been done by the same artist. In the carefully placed lighting, the figures glowed with the hot reds and golds of fire.
Grayson had failed early on in his career. His first private hedge fund had gone down in flames. The project had been a poorly constructed pyramid scheme and it had collapsed. But he had managed to escape the feds by arranging for his partner to take the fall.
Grayson had survived the disaster and he had learned from his mistakes. He had gone on to reinvent himself.
Just as I did, Lucan thought. Like father, like son.
Grayson bought and sold large houses not because he needed them but because they were testaments to his wealth and power. Sometimes he acquired one merely as a venue to showcase his latest wife. Each of the four Mrs. Grayson Tazewells had been prettier and younger than the last. He had discarded the fourth Mrs. Grayson less than a year ago and had been in the market for a fifth when he had discovered the impending financial disaster.
In addition to the faux Mediterranean château in the northern California wine country, there were the sprawling beachfront estate in the Hamptons, a compound on the island of Lanai in Hawaii, a New York City penthouse with views of Central Park and, the latest acquisition, a dead movie star’s mid-century modern classic in Beverly Hills.
Grayson also liked yachts but, unlike his properties, he maintained only one luxury vessel at a time. As was the case with his wives, however, he upgraded regularly, naming each new, larger yacht in honor of the original, The Phoenix. The latest Tazewell yacht was The Phoenix IV. He had been discussing designs for The Phoenix V when he had been blindsided by the realization that his empire was about to disintegrate.
Lucan contemplated the vineyards for a while, trying to calm the rage by focusing on his triumphant future. It was all so clear. When the project was completed he would possess everything that his father had built; everything that should have been his birthright.
He tightened one hand into a fist and gripped the nearest windowsill. After months of careful planning the entire project was now in jeopardy because of the failure of a couple of well-dressed mercenaries.
When he had found them on the Darknet, Devlin Knight and Victoria Sloan had appeared ideal for his purposes—trained, experienced killers with dreams of becoming as wealthy and powerful as their clients. It had been so easy to seduce them. All he had to do was promise them what they wanted most.
He was well aware that Victoria was starting to develop a sexual interest in him. It was not unexpected. Women almost invariably found him attractive. So did a lot of men, for that matter. Genetically he had hit the lottery with his high cheekbones, elegant jaw and brilliant blue eyes. Even now in his midforties he still had what it took to make people of both sexes look twice. But his looks were not his real superpower. It was his ability to convince them that he could make their dreams come true that drew people to him and made it possible for him to use them. He was always the smartest man in the room.
He reminded himself that he needed to tread carefully when it came to Victoria Sloan. Devlin Knight would become considerably less reliable if he thought he was losing his longtime lover and business partner to the client.
So many chain saws to juggle.
He really needed some fire. Just a little, to take the edge off.
He could not fight the urge any longer.
He went back to the desk, opened a drawer and took out a blank sheet of printer paper. He wadded the page into a ball, let himself out the glass door and walked across the stone balcony that overlooked the vineyards.
He was very conscious of the fact that he was not alone in the big house. Grayson had concluded that the emergency situation was so grave that a family war council was called for. To that end he had summoned his other son—his legitimate son—the son he had always acknowledged as his real heir.
Easton Tazewell had dutifully arrived three days ago. He had been accompanied by his wife, Rebecca. The couple had flown down from Seattle.
In his growing paranoia and frantic desire to keep the true status of Tazewell Global a secret from the media, Grayson had let go almost the entire staff of the Sonoma house. Currently there was only a single housekeeper, who came in twice a week and went home early.
It was not just the household staff that had been severely reduced. Lucan had convinced Grayson that he could no longer trust the handful of assistants and financial analysts who had worked for him for years at the headquarters of the firm in San Francisco. They had all been fired. The remaining employees had been given a month’s vacation.
Lucan tossed the crumpled paper into the firepit and flicked the switch, igniting the gas. The flames leaped, setting the paper ball ablaze.
He watched the small inferno, smiling a little in anticipation. After all these years he still got the rush of transcendent euphoria that he had experienced the very first time he used the power of fire to destroy the past and light the way to a bright new future. He had been sixteen years old. He could still hear the echo of the screams coming from inside the fully engulfed house.
He had left town with a nice little stake, primarily the money his adoptive parents had obtained from dealing drugs. He had assumed it would be a simple matter to discover the identities of his real parents. He had been wrong. It had, in fact, taken him several decades to learn the truth.
It didn’t take long for the crumpled sheet of printer paper to be reduced to ashes, but it was enough. He was no longer feeling agitated and jittery. He was once again calm and clearheaded. Now he could focus.
He switched off the fire. He had work to do.
A new st
rategy was needed to deal with Jack Lancaster but now there was no longer the luxury of time. Too many moving pieces had been set in motion. Halting any one of them would put the entire project in jeopardy.
Once you had begun the process of destroying your family and taking control of the empire, you could not afford to pause or slow down. You had to keep moving forward.
Jack Lancaster could not be put aside until a more convenient opportunity arose. It was imperative to design a new, more straightforward strategy. There were risks involved and it was far more likely that, by the time it was finished, Anson Salinas and his two surviving foster sons would conclude that Quinton Zane had, indeed, returned from the dead. So be it.
He turned around, intending to go back into the study, but he paused when he caught a slight movement in a window in the south wing. He turned his head and saw Rebecca Tazewell watching him. Her blond hair was mussed from sleep and she was wearing a bathrobe. Even from where he stood, positioned above her on the tower balcony, he could feel the heavy vibe of her suspicion.
Unlike most women, Rebecca did not respond to his charm or his looks, but that did not really worry him. Grayson Tazewell had never approved of his daughter-in-law, so he was unlikely to pay attention to any concerns she might raise. It was amusing to think that Rebecca had guessed his endgame and knew that there was nothing she could do. She was a modern-day Cassandra, able to see the future but cursed by the fact that no one believed her.
Easton Tazewell had a few suspicions, too, but it was doubtful that Grayson would pay any attention to him, either. The relationship between the two had been strained almost to the breaking point when Easton had made it clear that he did not want to take control of Tazewell Global.
Easton had moved to Seattle, married Rebecca, and founded a venture capital firm that had done very, very well. But in spite of his successful track record, or maybe because of it, his father had never forgiven him for walking away from Tazewell Global. Yet, when faced with disaster, Grayson’s first move had been to summon Easton home. And Easton had answered the call.
Got to love the power of family ties.
So now they were all gathered together in the wine country house. The drawbridge had been raised and the moat had been filled with alligators to keep the financial media out. Grayson was not taking any calls or meetings. He was not inviting friends to join him for drinks. He was not playing golf. He was holed up in the fortress of the Sonoma house with only the people he thought he could trust around him.
The trick was to make certain that Grayson did not realize the enemy was already inside the gates.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Who is Quinton Zane and how could he be connected to what happened here in Eclipse Bay?” Winter asked.
She had been braced for something out of the blue because she knew Jack well enough now to know that his mind worked in unexpected ways. Nevertheless, he had managed to shake her. It was the dark intensity of his eyes that sent the warning.
For the first time since she had met him she began to wonder if maybe he was in the grip of a true obsession. Maybe he really was lost in a bizarre world defined by a conspiracy.
You know better than that. This is Jack. Give him a chance to explain.
“Wait,” she said. “I’m cold. Let’s go sit in front of the fire. You can tell me your story there.”
Jack nodded once and got to his feet. They moved to the ancient sofa in front of the hearth. She sank down onto the well-worn cushions. He sat beside her, not touching her, and leaned forward, legs braced a little apart. He rested his forearms on his thighs and laced his fingers together.
For a time he gazed quietly into the flames. She waited.
After a while he started his tale.
“When I was twelve my mother got sucked into a cult that was run by a man named Quinton Zane,” he said.
Winter was floored. “A cult? Really?”
“Zane referred to his operation as the first in a series of what he labeled Future Communities. There was no religious angle. It was all about money and power. Essentially the community was a pyramid scheme that operated online. Zane promised that everyone who joined—the true believers—would ultimately get very, very rich. Secrecy was imperative, so the members had to cut all ties with family and friends and live in a tightly controlled compound.”
Winter shivered. “Naturally. First rule of a cult—isolate the members from all outside influences. Did your mother actually believe Zane?”
“In the beginning he convinced her that she and I were in mortal danger from a mob boss. He claimed to be a government agent who was in deep cover, playing the part of a cult leader, while he investigated the mob guy. By the time Mom realized the truth, it was too late. She and I were trapped in the compound where the members lived and worked. In the end, Zane torched the place. A lot of people died that night.”
“Including your mother?”
“Yes, but her body was not found with those of the other women in the community. She was killed in Zane’s private quarters, but not by fire. He shot her. No one knows why. All we know is that afterward Zane burned his whole operation to the ground.”
“Oh, Jack—”
He ignored the small interruption. She realized that now that he had started, he needed to keep going.
“My foster brothers, Cabot and Max, and I and the rest of the kids in the community almost died that night, too, because we were locked up in a barn on the property. We realized later that we were essentially hostages. Zane had separated us from our parents in an attempt to keep them in line.”
Winter took in a sharp, horrified breath. “How did you survive?”
Jack gazed into the flames. “Anson Salinas, the local chief of police, was one of the first responders. He used his vehicle to crash through the locked door of the barn. There were eight of us inside. Somehow Anson got all eight of us into his vehicle and reversed like a hound out of hell. The barn collapsed in flames moments later. Anson saved us, but he and the other first responders could not save everyone that night. My foster brothers, Cabot and Max, lost their mothers, too.”
He stopped talking for a while. She did not push him. He had to tell his story in his own way.
After a time Jack resumed his tale.
“In the days that followed, various family members showed up to claim the other kids but no one came for Max and Cabot and me. We were officially orphaned. Anson offered to let us stay with him until the authorities could figure out what to do with us. When it became obvious that we were headed for the foster system and that we would be separated and sent to live with strangers, Anson sat us down and made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.”
“He offered to be your foster dad,” Winter concluded gently.
Jack took his attention off the fire long enough to glance at her. “Anson saved the three of us—not just on the night of the compound fire but in all the other ways that boys need saving when they go through their teens.”
“I understand.”
“Zane’s enterprise was designed to make money online. He got a thrill out of manipulating and controlling people, but at the same time he was trying to build a financial empire. He needed followers with certain business skills: people who knew how to move money around, how to invest it, how to construct shell corporations, how to deposit large sums in offshore accounts—that kind of thing. At the operational level he needed security. There were always armed guards around the compound.”
“To keep people from leaving?”
“Yes. He also needed sales reps.”
“What, exactly, did they sell?”
“A multistep program that was supposed to lead to enlightenment and financial success. It was the usual old-school mix of mystical psychobabble and positive-thinking shit repackaged into a modern-sounding formula for becoming wealthy. Envision yourself rich and you will become rich.”
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Winter cleared her throat. “‘Positive-thinking shit’?”
He grimaced. “Sorry. Old habits.”
She almost smiled. “Baby steps.”
“Right.”
“At least I understand now why you were so skeptical about my positive-thinking philosophy when you booked that first appointment with me.”
“Trust me, your version of positive thinking is a lot different than what Zane promoted,” Jack said. He said it with feeling.
“Thanks for that much, at least.”
Jack groaned. “Moving right along—at its core, Zane’s program was a classic pyramid. The marketing was done online. The clients had to buy their way up through the various steps of the program, and one of the ways they did that was by bringing in new clients.”
“Did Zane make a lot of money?”
“Sure. Well-constructed pyramid schemes usually do make money for those at the top, at least for a while. But eventually they collapse under their own weight.”
Winter pondered that briefly. “You said Zane needed followers with certain kinds of skills. Did your mother have a particular talent?”
Jack turned his head to look at her again. His eyes were hotter than the flames on the hearth. “You could say that. She was a gambler.”
“I don’t understand,” Winter said. “Why would Zane want a gambler in his cult? That seems . . . counterintuitive. Gamblers are losers.”
“My mother was a very, very good gambler,” Jack said quietly. “As in the kind of gambler who wins so often and so regularly that she was barred from the big casinos in Vegas.”
“I see.” Winter tried—and failed—to come up with a diplomatic follow-up question so she went with straight-to-the-point.
“Did your mother, uh, cheat?” she asked, trying not to sound judgmental.
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