Tyrell was rich. He was clever. He was powerful.
He was also detestable.
“What do you want?” Deacon asked.
The rest of Hale Harbor might jump to Tyrell’s commands, but not Deacon.
“A conversation.”
“Why?”
Tyrell lifted his glass and turned it in the light that beamed down from the ceiling fixtures. He gazed at the amber liquid. “Glen Klavitt, 1965.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“You’re supposed to be curious. When was the last time you tasted fifty-year-old single malt?”
“I forget.” Deacon wasn’t rising to the bait, even though they both knew he wasn’t in a tax bracket that would allow him to casually spend whatever 1965 Glen Klavitt cost. Not that he’d be foolish enough to blow his money on it anyway.
“Sit down, boy.”
“I’m not your dog.”
One of Tyrell’s brows went up.
Deacon expected Tyrell to react with anger. He mentally braced himself for the onslaught, realizing he’d been looking forward to a fight from the moment he walked through the oversize castle doors.
“But you are my son.” Tyrell’s words, though softly spoken, fell like cannonballs into the cavernous room.
Deacon held still, half expecting eight generations of Clarksons to rise from their graves and rattle the crested shields hanging on the stone walls.
He tried to gauge Tyrell’s expression, but it was inscrutable.
“Do you need a kidney?” he asked, voicing the first theory that came into his mind.
Tyrell’s mask cracked, and he almost smiled. “I’m in perfect health.”
Deacon didn’t want to be curious about anything to do with the Clarkson family. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk out the door. Whatever was going on here, he wanted no part of it.
Tyrell had two healthy, living legitimate sons, Aaron and Beau. He didn’t need to reach out to Deacon for anything—at least, not for anything that was honorable.
“Will you relax?” Tyrell asked, gesturing to the empty chair with his glass.
“No.”
“Stubborn—”
“Like father, like son?” Deacon asked mildly.
Tyrell laughed.
It was the last thing Deacon had expected.
“I don’t know why I thought this would be easy,” Tyrell said. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”
“I stopped caring about you a long time ago.”
“Yet, here you are.”
Deacon knew Tyrell had him there. Despite his anger, despite his hatred, despite the twenty-nine years of resentment, Deacon had come the first time Tyrell called. Deacon told himself he was here for a confrontation with the man who had impregnated and then abandoned his mother. But the truth was he’d also been curious. He was still curious.
He sat down.
“That’s better,” Tyrell said.
“What do you want?”
“Do I have to want something?”
“No. But you do.”
“You’re not stupid. I’ll grant you that.”
Deacon wasn’t sure if Tyrell expected a thank you for the backhanded compliment. If he did, he was going to be disappointed.
“Why am I here?” Deacon pressed.
“I assume you know about Frederick.”
“I do.”
Tyrell’s youngest son—and Deacon’s half brother, though they’d never been introduced—Frederick had died of pneumonia six months ago. Rumor had it that Frederick’s lungs had been seriously damaged as a child, when he’d been thrown from a horse. The fall had also broken his spine and confined him to a wheelchair.
“Did you know he lived in Charleston?” Tyrell asked.
Deacon hadn’t known where Frederick lived. He’d only known Frederick had left home after college and never returned. Everyone in Hale Harbor knew Frederick had a falling out with his father and walked out of the Clarkson family’s life. Deacon had silently admired Fredrick for doing it.
“Frederick has two sons,” Tyrell said. His gaze didn’t waver.
Deacon was surprised at that news. He wasn’t an expert on spinal cord injuries, but he wouldn’t have expected Frederick to father children. He supposed they could have been adopted.
He didn’t know what Tyrell anticipated as a response to that particular revelation. But Deacon didn’t have anything to say about Frederick’s sons.
“The oldest is four, the other eighteen months,” Tyrell said.
“Congratulations?” Deacon ventured.
“My only grandchildren, and I’ve never met them.”
“I don’t get where this is going.” Deacon had sure never met Tyrell’s grandsons.
The entire Clarkson family did their best to pretend Deacon didn’t exist. Aaron and Beau knew perfectly well who he was, though he’d never been sure about Tyrell’s wife, Margo. It was possible Tyrell had been successful in keeping Deacon a secret from her all these years—which begged the question of what Deacon was doing in the castle today. Surely Margo would be curious.
Tyrell took a healthy swallow of the scotch.
Deacon decided to try it. What the heck? It might be the one and only thing his father ever gave him.
He lifted the expensive tumbler to his lips and took an experimental sip. The whiskey was smooth, rich and peaty, not bad, but he’d sampled better. Then again, the company might be tainting the taste.
“I want to see my grandsons,” Tyrell said.
“So see them.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Frederick’s widow.”
It took Deacon a beat to comprehend what Tyrell meant. Then he grinned. Poetic justice had visited Tyrell. Deacon took another sip of the whiskey, silently toasting the widow. The scotch tasted better this time, really quite good.
“You find that amusing?” Tyrell’s words were terse.
“Someone keeping the powerful Tyrell Clarkson from something he wants? Yes, I find that amusing.” Deacon saw no point in shading his feelings. Tyrell couldn’t possibly think Deacon gave a damn about Tyrell’s happiness.
Tyrell seemed to gather himself, leaning forward, his chin jutting. “Down to brass tacks, then. Let’s see if you think this is funny. I’ll trade you what I want for what you want.”
The words unnerved Deacon. At the same time, they put him on alert. “You haven’t the first idea of what I want.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
“I’m completely sure about that.” Deacon had never even had a conversation with his father, never mind confided his hopes and dreams to him.
“I’ll acknowledge you as my son,” Tyrell said.
It was all Deacon could do not to laugh at the offer. “I could have