“I see.” We’ve been talking in the small entryway. Now, Ashton turns and heads to the sitting area. Damien and I follow.
“I still don’t understand why you think I didn’t send that text.”
Damien shrugs, his mouth curving up at the corner. “Call it a father’s intuition. Or maybe I still owe you one more truth. For that matter, maybe you owe me one.”
Ashton stares at him for a moment, then starts to chuckle. “I feel like I’m living in an alternate reality. And I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but yeah. I do know Jeremiah. He’s the one who told me you’d snubbed me.”
Damien nods. “I know.” He opens the phone again, this time showing Ashton the picture of him talking with Jeremiah.
Ashton groans, and rubs his hands over his mouth and nose. After a moment, he looks between the two of us. “I was telling him what happened. That you’d offered me the trust, so that maybe you weren’t the shit that he thought you were. Maybe you were okay.”
“And what did say?”
“He said you played games.”
“I do,” Damien said. “But not about this.”
Ashton got up and went to the window, looking out over Century City toward the Pacific Ocean. “Yeah,” Ashton said. “I’m starting to believe you.”
18
Damien forced himself not to let his emotions show on his face, but damned if that wasn’t hard. There was such joy in knowing that Ashton had this breakthrough, small as it might be. That the son he hadn’t known he had—the son who had been raised to hate him and distrust him—was no longer looking through the lens that Jeremiah Stark had handed him.
God, how he hated that man. The father whose blood ran in both his and Ashton’s veins. Jeremiah had poisoned them; he’d poisoned their lives. But somehow, Damien had come out ahead. He’d survived, and he’d thrived. And from what he could see, Ashton was doing the same.
Jeremiah might have been in Ashton’s life, but with the exception of the poison that Jeremiah had fed him about Damien, Ashton was doing well. And that made him proud. Possibly a ridiculous feeling, considering he’d had nothing to do with Ashton’s upbringing, but he liked to think that whatever strength and fortitude were in the man had come from him.
He was trying to find a way to express all of that to Ashton without sounding too sentimental, when his phone pinged. It was on the coffee table, and he reached for it, then saw that it was a text from Matthew Holt.
I have information about the Masque video. Give me a call.
He started to dial, then hesitated, his attention returning to Ashton. “I told you about the other texts we’ve received. The ones I assumed were from you.”
His son’s face tightened with anger. “Did someone just send another one?”
“No. It’s from a friend who may have information about a particular video.” He glanced sideways at Nikki, who nodded almost imperceptibly, but he knew she understood and agreed. “I didn’t specifically tell you about one of them. A rather racy video of Nikki and me at a club called Masque. Are you familiar with it?”
Ashton’s mouth curved into a grin. “Gee, Dad, should you be telling me this kind of thing?”
Beside him, he heard Nikki laugh, and Damien bit back his own smile.
“If you’re familiar with the club, you’re probably also familiar with the policies. No cameras, the client list is secret, and privacy is the name of the game.”
“Of course,” Ashton said. “What happened?”
“As I told you, we were sent a video. It said some not-so-nice things about me, about Nikki. About how I treated her and other members of my family.”
“That was supposedly from me?”
“It wasn’t signed, if that’s what you mean, but under the circumstances, I believe whoever sent it wanted us to think that.”
“He saw Ashton’s hands tighten around the arms of his chair. “I swear, if I ever find the son of a bitch who’s pretending to be me, I’ll—”
“Believe me, I understand. I’ll even help you. The fact is, we might have an answer now. I’m friends with Matthew Holt, who owns the club. I asked him to investigate, and he agreed. He’s just sent a text, asking me to call him. I’d like to take the call, and I’d like you to be on the line. Assuming Holt has no objections.”
“Why?”
“I told you a few minutes ago. Truth. Whoever took that video was pretending to be you. At least as far as we know. I think you deserve to know why as much as I do.”
Ashton nodded. “Go ahead.”
Damien glanced at Nikki, who nodded as well. Then he dialed Holt, who answered on the first ring. “Before you say anything, I want you to know you’re on speaker. And I have Ashton Stone sitting beside me.”
“A little family bonding moment?” Holt asked, and Damien had to chuckle. “Something like that.”
“Well, what I have is confidential information. Can you vouch for Ashton?”
Damien looked his son in the eyes. “I can.”
“All right, then. I’m bending the club’s rules almost to breaking. Or no, that’s a lie. I’ve bent the rules, turned them into knots, and sliced right through them with a chainsaw. I need your word this won’t get out.”
“You have mine,” Damien said.
“And mine, too,” Ashton added.
“That’s good enough for me,” Holt said. “I started with clients, as I trust my staff. So I went back and looked at the list. As you know, I’m the only one who has access to the list. I thought I’d give it a quick once-over to see if anyone stood out who I knew had a grudge against you. Surprisingly I only found one.”
“Surprisingly?” Damien asked.
“What can I say? I thought you’d have more enemies.”
Ashton laughed, then lifted his hand in a sorry gesture.
“Who was it?”
“Carl Rosenfeld. Wasn’t there bad blood about the time you commissioned Nikki’s portrait?”
“There was.”
“Well, I think the man may hold a grudge. I looked into his company a bit, and interestingly enough, it recently applied for a patent on a new type of lapel camera. As you know, we have systems that monitor for cameras in the club, but if I’m understanding right, this tiny little thing may just have gotten through.”
“Looks like I need to pay a visit to Carl. See who he might have shared that video with. He may hate me, but I don’t think he’s the one sending these texts.”
“Neither do I,” Holt said. “Do you need any more help? I’m not sure what I can do except talk to Rosenfeld myself. He violated my trust, and I will kick him out of the club, but not until you tell me that you’ve spoken with him. I don’t want him to bolt or have any advance notice.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll keep you posted. And, Matthew,” he added, “I owe you one.”
He ended the call, then looked at Ashton. His son’s face was a mask of fury. “You’re pissed,” he said.
“Damn right,” Ashton responded.