Dissonance (5 page)

“New in town?” he’d asked as he’d taken his full measure of Aiden.

“That obvious?” Aiden’s southern twang had been more pronounced back then. Cam remembered thinking how he’d like to wake up to that resonant voice every morning. And when, only a month later, he’d asked Aiden to share his London flat, he’d felt good to know that Aiden wanted him. He’d felt that flutter in his belly. He’d felt wanted. It had felt so fucking
good
.

The song ended. Cam hesitated a moment longer, then reached into his jacket and pulled out his billfold. He’d just used his last twenty for the fare card. He slipped the only remaining bill—a hundred—out of his wallet and walked to the open trumpet case. A few singles, some quarters, and several pennies lay strewn over the faded purple velvet of the interior. He dropped the bill on top, then walked to the turnstiles, slid his fare card through the slot, and entered as the machine beeped. He didn’t need to see the musician’s reaction to know a hundred was more money than he’d ever seen. He knew the type. Too lazy to bother working a regular job, maybe even addicted. Why else would someone with obvious talent be in a place like this? Surely there was work to be had in an orchestra or even playing the Manhattan Sunday brunch scene.

The last thing he heard when he walked onto the Uptown No. 3 train was the opening phrase of “Stairway to Heaven.”

Happy fucking birthday to me.

C
AM
AWOKE
well past noon the next day with a pounding headache and the vague recollection of a dream. Maybe a nightmare—he only remembered the feeling of dread that lingered. Divine retribution for not having drunk more at the party the night before. Not that he wouldn’t have had the headache if he’d stayed longer, but at least he’d have enjoyed the party and gotten a little something afterward. Or forgotten, however temporarily, that the man he thought he’d spend his life with was going to spend the rest of his life with someone else.

Fuck.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and tried not to hear Aiden’s voice reverberate in his mind.
“Sam asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
Who could blame Aiden? Sam Ryan wasn’t the most fascinating man on the planet, but he obviously loved Aiden and treated him well. And although Cam couldn’t fathom why Sam had given up an appointment as a federal judge to travel with Aiden, that fact seemed to be important to Aiden.

He doesn’t cheat on Aiden, either
, the voice in his head taunted.

Cam fell back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. What the fuck was with the voice in his brain that insisted on reminding him of something he’d tried so hard to forget? His mother had once told him he had no conscience. She was wrong. He not only had a conscience, at that moment he wanted to choke it.

Even now he couldn’t explain why he’d done it. Cheated. He hadn’t had any serious relationships other than with Aiden. With Aiden he was comfortable. Warm. Happy. The sex had been great. The company even better. But when Jarrod Jameson had shown up at one of Cam’s parties at the castle, he’d ended up fucking that pert little swimmer’s arse in one of the guest bedrooms while Aiden entertained their friends. Worse, after the party, when Cam had gone back to the room he and Aiden shared, he’d had sex with Aiden.

At first Aiden hadn’t suspected anything. Cam told himself he wouldn’t do it again, so it didn’t matter. But he did it again. And again, and again. Until Aiden caught him in a lie. So he’d begged and pleaded with Aiden not to leave him. He’d promised Aiden he was done with cheating. He’d meant it too. Until Jarrod had flown back into town and Cam had suggested—against his better judgment—that Jarrod come to the party he was holding to celebrate Aiden’s Covent Garden debut.

What the fuck were you thinking?

Cam had seen the stricken look on Aiden’s face when he’d walked in on Cam fucking Jarrod. Cam had seen it and known that he’d lost Aiden forever, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself for months afterward. The strangest thing of all was that Cam felt
relieved
that Aiden had literally caught him with his pants down. Because he’d known all along that Aiden was too good for him. Too kind and too trusting. Too loving. And if Cam had needed any more proof that Aiden really
was
too good for him, he needed look no further than the threats he’d made when Aiden had left him. That he’d make Aiden pay. That Aiden was nothing without his help and his money. But Aiden had succeeded without him. Cam had known he would.

God, you’re disgusting. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!

He dragged himself out of bed. He really should go home to England. What good was it to spend time in New York when David and Alex were leaving and Aiden had Sam? Cam supposed he could call Veronica Landau and see if she’d like to go to the symphony fundraiser on Friday. Or perhaps he could convince Randy Knowles to go in for a friendly game of racquetball at the club. But none of these things, none of these people, interested him in the slightest. In the end, he decided on his old standby, Riley. She knew how to cheer someone up, and she was usually up for last-minute plans.

He picked up his mobile from the bedside table and tapped it a few times. “Riley?” he said as he wandered over to the window and gazed out at the city.

“Cam, sweetness! How’s the birthday boy?”

“It’s not my birthday today.”

“You left the party so quickly,” she said, ignoring his comment. “Something come up?”

Nothing he would tell her. “I was just tired,” he lied.

“Really?”

“Of course.” He took a breath and fought the urge to tell her he was sick. The idea of going out wasn’t as enticing as it had been a few minutes before. No. He needed to do something or he’d go mad. “Care to join me at the museum for tea?” he asked, knowing she fancied herself an Anglophile and wouldn’t turn him down. He’d overheard her telling a friend that she often took tea with royalty. She used him, but he didn’t care.

“I’d love to.” Her tone brightened noticeably.

Ten minutes later, he headed out of the apartment for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He stopped at the nearest cash machine to withdraw some money. He inserted his card, punched in his security code, then waited. The screen flashed blue.
We’re sorry, we are unable to process this transaction. Please contact your banking institution for more information
.

He swore under his breath and reinserted the card. The same error message appeared again.

Bloody American banks!

He shoved the card back into his billfold, then slipped his credit card into the ATM and typed in his PIN. Again, the same message on the screen.

Fucking machine.

Five minutes later, he was reading the same message at another machine two blocks over. Much to the chagrin of the people waiting behind him, he tried all of his credit cards this time, including one he used strictly for business
—
fuck the people tapping their feet behind him—and each time, the machine rejected them.

“Bloody hell,” he growled as he walked out of the bank back onto the street. He pulled out his mobile and dialed the number for the credit card company on the back of one of his cards. “We’re sorry,” the recorded voice on the phone said, “all our representatives are assisting other customers. Please stay on the line and a customer service representative will be with you in approximately five minutes.”

Ten minutes later he finally spoke to an employee. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cameron,” the woman on the phone said in an oh-so-pleasant-but-there’s-no-fucking-way-we-can-help-you voice. “There’s been a hold placed on your account.”

“It’s Sherrington.
Lord
Sherrington.” There were times when a title got things accomplished a bit faster.

“I’m so sorry, Lord Sherrington,” the credit card company employee told him, “but there’s been a hold placed on your account.”

“A hold? Why a bloody hold?” he snapped, at his wits’ end.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have that information, Mr. Sherrington,” the woman said. “The hold originated with your bank. You may want to contact them and see if there’s a problem. I don’t have the authority to remove the hold.”

Cam gritted his teeth and did his best not to shout into the receiver. The end result came out sounding a bit like a growl. He called his London bank. The bank employee who answered the phone said, “I’m sorry, Lord Sherrington, but it appears there’s been a hold placed on your account. I don’t have any more information about that. I’m afraid you’ll need to speak to your personal banker during regular business hours.”

As if that helped on a Saturday afternoon. Finally, unwilling to ask Riley to pay for his tea, he headed back to his apartment.

“C
AMERON
.”

Conversations that began with his full name never went well. Cam pressed the ball of his foot against the barstool in the kitchen and fidgeted, causing the counter to vibrate with the movement. “Duncan, what’s going on?” he demanded.

“Going on?”

“I tried to withdraw cash today,” Cam explained. “I got an error message telling me there was a hold on the account. The bank confirmed this. Said the hold originated in England.”

“I see.”

Cam waited for an explanation, but when his uncle didn’t immediately reply, his anger soared. “What the bloody hell is happening? Has the board decided to toss me out on my arse?” They’d be just the types to do it too. It had been bad enough being dragged in front of them—his own board of directors—and being told they were putting him on a budget.

“Things are a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

“What the fuck is going on, Duncan?” Cam demanded, at the limits of his patience. He abhorred being beholden to the board—what the devil were they up to now?

“Well… it seems the authorities may have found something during the investigation.”

“Something?” Cam’s gut clenched.
Something to do with me?
There was no other reason to make his life difficult. “What kind of something are we talking about?”

Duncan waited just a second too long to respond.
Something bad.
But what the hell would it be?

“Duncan? Tell me what’s happening.”

Duncan let out a long, audible breath. “It seems there are a number of questionable transactions they’re looking at. Sounds as though they think they’ve found something interesting.”

“Revenue and customs?” Cam laughed. “I thought they’d moved on to bigger and better things.” Sherrington Holdings was nothing more than a blip on the radar screen for the big-boy investigators. Surely nothing they’d done warranted anything…. Now Cam felt ill.
Stop this! It’s nothing, and you know it.

“Not HMRC. The Americans.”

“The Americans? You mean they’re interested in Raice Corp.?” That made a bit more sense. Cam had been the one to convince Sherrington’s board to invest in the small green energy company five years before. Duncan had called the deal a “waste of time and money,” but he hadn’t blocked the stock acquisition either.

“I’m not aware of any other US company we own,” Duncan snapped.

Cam ignored the disdain in Duncan’s voice. Of course Duncan wouldn’t be pleased that one of Cam’s “little projects” was the focus of an investigation. “What are the American authorities looking for?”

“If I knew that, I’d have already told you.” Duncan sounded tired. Irritated. How bad was this, really? “All I know is that they’ve issued Raice Corp. subpoenas to turn over banking information.”

“Banking?” Not just the company’s bank, though. If it were just the company, his personal accounts wouldn’t be frozen
.
They think I’ve done something.
“You mean
my
accounts?”

“Your accounts, the company’s accounts. All of it.”

Shit.
Cam realized he was gripping the phone so tightly his fingers had turned white.
Deep breath. There’s nothing that interesting in anyone’s accounts. Worse comes to worst, we’ll restructure my personal accounts to please the authorities and pay whatever back taxes they think we owe.

“Sherrington’s board is acting out of an abundance of caution. The FBI specifically asked about your connection to Raice. Given your history—”

“So the board froze my accounts without speaking to me first?” Cam shouted. “How
dare
they—”

“They have every right. You agreed to abide by their decisions with respect to your allowance.”

Duncan was right, of course. Not that Cam had been given much choice in the matter—by the time the board had agreed to give him an allowance, he’d already spent through just about every penny he had. And even though Raice’s accounts hadn’t been frozen, it wasn’t as though Cam could just dip into the company’s funds to pay for his personal needs. Especially now that the FBI was poking around in the company’s business.

Cam took a deep breath. Angering Duncan wouldn’t help. The board would do what Duncan told them. “I need money, Duncan. At least enough to tide me over until this mess is cleared up.” He fucking hated having to ask for money! It was
his
company, after all. His father’s business, and now his.
And you can’t touch a penny of it without the board’s approval.