PART ONE
Chapter One
Asher’s longtime friend Jimmy Rothschild wore an amused expression as he watched the waitress walk away.
“That look might rock it in Aleppo or Cairo, my friend, but you’re scaring the locals in the good old U.S. of A.,” Jimmy joked quietly, nodding at the back of the retreating waitress, and then Asher’s face. Asher knew Jimmy referred to his full beard and rough appearance. Or possibly he’d been frowning as he ordered from the blonde, thinking more about the meeting with his parents tomorrow morning than being civil and pleasant in front of a pretty woman.
Or maybe everyone really did notice how out of place he felt in the city he’d once called home.
Rudy Fattore, his other friend, snorted. “The waitress wasn’t afraid of him,” Rudy told Jimmy with a wise air. “She was thinking about where to start in on him. With that beard and tan, Ash reeks of the desert and intrigue. Trust me, women love the smell of danger. He’s giving off that most-interesting-man-alive cachet. It’s concentrated testosterone, I’m telling you.” He ran his fingers across his own clean-shaven jaw. “I may not be up for a Pulitzer Prize or a job as the Gazette’s new European bureau chief, but I’m still an award-winning photojournalist, aren’t I? Maybe I’ll give a beard a spin.”
“You’d only be overcompensating for the lack of hair on your head,” Jimmy said. He smiled calmly at Rudy’s glare.
“You tried to grow a beard in college and it sprouted in patches,” Asher reminded Rudy.
“Things are different now,” Rudy insisted. “I’ve got eleven years on that patchy kid.”
Asher grinned despite his bad mood. Rudy was always good for a laugh. Well, most of the time, anyway.
He slumped in the uncomfortable, sleek chair, searching the upscale Lincoln Park French bistro. It took him a moment to realize he was scanning for a potential threat among the loud, carefree crowd of diners. He halted the instinctive reaction with effort. He, along with a lot of other Western reporters, had been banned from entering Syria s
everal years ago. It was his time spent in Syria that had given him an edginess he couldn’t seem to shake. It was weird being back in the States after spending most of the last eight years in various parts of the Middle East.
Not a lot had changed in the old Lincoln Park neighborhood. Even Petit Poulet, the French bistro, looked unchanged. Yet everything looked strangely gray and muted to him, like he was a sleepwalker in a dreamworld of the past that had remained strangely congealed in time while he—Asher—had transformed into something alien that didn’t fit into the scene anymore. Of course he’d been back in the States several times since becoming a foreign correspondent years ago. Maybe it was being in the familiar restaurant with his childhood friends that made things especially surreal. He hadn’t been out with both of them in years. Jimmy still lived and worked here in Chicago, but Rudy had moved to L.A.
In fact, the three of them hadn’t been together in eight years. Not since those bittersweet days in Crescent Bay that had been, in many ways, the last, elusive hours of his youth.
“Are you actually going to meet Madeline in the morning wearing that beard?” Asher forced his mind out of his nostalgic musings at his friend’s question.
Jimmy was right to question his grooming choice. Jimmy Rothschild had known Asher’s mother, Madeline Gaites-Granville, almost as long as Asher had. Their mothers had been friends forever, hobnobbing in their exclusive social circles and either bragging or complaining about their sons. His mom would probably have a stroke, seeing her only son’s swarthy skin and thick beard.
Maybe he’d shave before showing up for the dreaded brunch in Winnetka tomorrow. His full beard and one of his mom’s silver-and-crystal-gilded brunches definitely wouldn’t mix. Asher resented that it mattered, but what else was new?
“If what you told me is true,” Asher said to Jimmy as he lifted his glass of Chivas, “Mom’s going to have more to worry about than my beard.”
“What’s that mean?” Rudy demanded. When Asher remained brooding and silent, Rudy turned to Jimmy. “What’s going on?”
Jimmy exhaled slowly. “I told Asher earlier that according to my mother, Asher’s parents are under the impression that the prodigal son has returned home to Chicago to do his filial duty and finally take over the helm of the Gaites-Granville media empire,” Jimmy replied with attempted levity. Still, his dark eyes looked worried as he examined Asher. Asher frowned, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down his ever-present mixture of annoyance and guilt when it came to the topic of his parents.
“I didn’t have a clue that’s why they thought I was coming to Chicago. I have some rare time off between jobs, and I owe them a visit after being away for over two years. That’s all. It was purely coincidental, me being here close to my birthday,” Asher said.
“It’s not surprising that Clark and Madeline jumped to that conclusion, though. You know it’s the moment they’ve waited for now for thirty years,” Jimmy pointed out fairly.
Asher slouched his large body further down in the uncomfortable chair. Of course his mom and dad thought that was why he’d come to Chicago this autumn: to lay claim to the principal of his trust fund. How could he have been so stupid as to blunder into a hornet’s nest?
If he accepted their money, he’d have to follow their plan for his life, wouldn’t he? Maybe that was never explicitly said, but it had certainly been the depressing implication Asher had gotten since he was nine years old.
His parents couldn’t fathom that Asher had rarely thought about his inheritance for the past ten years. He willfully repressed the idea of that money, along with all the invisible strings attached to it. Strings? Try titanium chains. Those hundreds of millions of dollars had come to symbolize his parents’ hold on him. No, it better represented Asher’s refusal . . . no, his inability to give them what they wanted. What they needed: a suitable, polished, biddable Gaites-Granville heir.
That inheritance, along with all the other privileges his parents offered, was the crown Asher cringed at the thought of accepting. But according to his parents, that symbolic crown was his privilege. His birthright.
His duty.
Bullshit.
He grimaced at the snarling voice in his head. Asher had done whatever he wanted with his life, despite his parents’ rampant disapproval. Publicly, his mother and father had broadcast their disapproval of him with every glance and gesture. In private, they’d threatened dire consequences in regard to his choices. When he’d remained steadfast in his plans, they’d stiffened their backbones and pursed their lips against their anger with such silent forcefulness that sometimes Asher feared they’d shatter into a million pieces just from disappointment. And all the while, Grant and Madeline just waited for the day when Asher would return to toe the line.
They believed that day had finally come.
“Right, the big day is finally around the corner,” Rudy drawled presently, snapping his fingers in remembrance. “I’ve been waiting for you to turn thirty since we were at Stanford. I mean, you haven’t exactly been a pauper up until now, seeing as how your grandfather left you a nice little nest egg, and that’s more money than most of us will ever see in a lifetime. But that’s all petty cash compared to the big enchilada. It’s finally here: your thirtieth birthday and total control over your trust fund. Freedom, man. What are you going to buy first? Please say a racecar. You’ll have to get me one too, to have someone to practice against. Wait, no . . . a yacht. Hey, the three of us should plan a trip to climb Mt. Everest! Or what about a beach house like that one your parents have in Crescent Bay? The chicks love that. Damn, you’re going to get laid morning, noon and night—”
“He’s not accepting it.” Jimmy interrupted Rudy’s fantasizing bluntly.
Rudy blinked. “Not accepting what?” He studied first Jimmy’s, then Asher’s stony faces. His blank expression turned incredulous. “You’re not accepting control of your trust fund? Are you crazy?”
“How can he accept Madeline and Clark’s money when he’s planning on leaving the country again? He’s going to London to become the New York Gazette’s European bureau chief. You know that,” Jimmy reminded Rudy.
Rudy set down his highball glass with a loud clunk. He looked floored. Asher was thankful to Jimmy for backing him up. Jimmy knew what it was like better than Rudy to have that gilded cage hovering over you for most of your life, ready to crash down at any moment. Jimmy had finessed his parents a lot more gracefully than Asher ever had, though. He’d remained in Chicago after getting his law degree, and he’d quickly earned a reputation for being a brilliant criminal prosecutor. Rudy and Asher were two of the few people on the planet allowed to call him Jimmy. Most people in his professional and social circles knew him as James Rothschild, Esq. Elite local power brokers had already tagged him as a promising candidate for the state house of representatives. But despite all his career success, Jimmy had quietly but steadfastly defied his parents’ designs for his life and determinedly carved out his own path. He routinely ignored or denied his parents’ little fantasy scenarios among their social circle about him being the most desirable stud in Chicago.
“Last I heard, money travels just fine overseas,” Rudy insisted heatedly. “There’s no stipulation on that trust fund that says Asher has to live in Chicago or Winnetka if he accepts his inheritance.”
“There’re stipulations, all right,” Asher replied grimly.
“But not legal ones,” Rudy protested, glancing over at Jimmy for assistance. “Clark can’t stop him from taking what’s his legally, can he, Jimmy? He can’t force Asher to become an executive at GGM and become a WASP clone of himself, for Christ’s sake. Take the money and run, Ash.”
“I don’t want the money, Rudy,” Asher snarled.