Jordan Jace made a hard turn into the car park of the Prescott George headquarters. He got out, slamming the door of his black Karma Revero. Jordan glared at the stone-and-brick building.
He didn’t appreciate being summoned to HQ. Vaughn Ellicott may have been a lieutenant when he served in the navy. But as a civilian, Vaughn was the treasurer of the San Diego chapter of Prescott George, not his commanding officer.
Jordan had joined Prescott George, or the Millionaire Moguls, as they were more commonly known, as a concession to his parents. He was the outlier in a family of wealthy London bankers who also had financial interests here in San Diego. His membership in the Millionaire Moguls was his way of throwing them a bone so they’d let go of their hopes that he’d eventually join the family business.
Jordan caught a glimpse of himself in the glass as he approached the building. Overpriced, tattered jeans. A T-shirt that read Icon. An unbuttoned, blue check shirt. Black motorcycle boots. His thick, curly hair grown out in twists.
He was no bloody banker. Artist. Metal sculptor. Professional badass. Any of the above applied. But a banker?
Not in this lifetime or the next.
Jordan checked his watch. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. The opening for the latest exhibit of his work at his art gallery, Sorella, began in six hours.
Vaughn better make this quick.
Jordan scanned the modern, industrial space. Exposed brick. Concrete floors. Metal railings. Offices with glass walls and doors. Masculine, minimalist, modern furniture. No one was milling about the club.
He entered the building and made his way to the treasurer’s office. There was Vaughn seated behind his glass-and-steel desk.
A career military man, Vaughn carried himself with poise. Stern scowl, confident demeanor, erect posture. But the man fidgeting behind that desk looked as if his seat was littered with thumbtacks, and he couldn’t quite get comfortable.
Something is very wrong.
Whatever it was, Jordan didn’t like it. Nor did he have the time or inclination to deal with any Millionaire Moguls drama today.
His assistant had been ringing his mobile all morning about the opening at the gallery that night. If he didn’t get there soon, Lydia Dyson might need to crank up the dosage on her anxiety meds.
Jordan barged through Vaughn’s partially open office door without knocking. He dropped onto one of the leather guest chairs on the other side of the man’s desk and crossed one ankle over his knee.
“So, what is it you needed to see me about so bloody desperately that it couldn’t wait until after my show tonight?” Jordan studied the man’s reaction.
Vaughn’s face went through a rapid series of emotions. Miffed that Jordan hadn’t knocked. Unnerved about whatever it was he wanted to discuss. Annoyed with Jordan’s cockiness after he read his T-shirt.
All of which deepened Jordan’s smirk.
Vaughn returned his gaze to the paperwork he was reviewing on his desk.
“How long have you been a member of the San Diego chapter of Prescott George, Jordan?”
“Since I hopped across the pond. About a year ago, I guess.”
“And how long were you a member of the London chapter before that?”
“A few years, I suppose. Why does it matter?” Jordan leaned into two fingers, pressed against his temple. “You didn’t bring me down here to complete inconsequential paperwork that could have been handled just as easily via text, did you?”
“No.” Vaughn put down his pen and frowned deeply, his hands steepled over his belly. “But I need to know how you feel about Prescott George.”
Something most definitely isn’t right.
Jordan sat up, clasping his hands in his lap. “Prescott George is a storied organization steeped in history. And over the years it’s done a lot of good.”
There.
He’d told the truth, but just enough of it that he wouldn’t piss anyone off with what he really thought of the idea of an exclusive club for a bunch of wankers who thought themselves better than everyone else.
“But...?” Vaughn wasn’t prepared to accept his textbook response. And he knew enough of Jordan to realize that if he poked a little harder he’d get the unfiltered truth.
“Why