Sleep wouldn't come. Jack threw off his weighted blanket, glared at the city twinkling below his penthouse, cars still roaming the streets at 3 am and resigned himself to find some form of distraction.

Now he regretted not answering Draven's text to go down to the club tonight, pick up a piece of ass to work out with or better yet, have her work on him. His uncle taught him how anonymous sex could take one's mind off almost any situation. James Blackhorne instructed Jack on the ins and outs of Cloud Nine, LA's most exclusive gentleman's club, its private rooms, how to use his money to influence the owners to be attuned to his preferences and the best times to visit. On Jack's initial trip to the lounge, James hand selected the woman Jack lost his virginity too, and both men toasted the event with twenty-year-old scotch from the top shelf.

Open twenty-four hours, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year, he could call up a car and ease the tension coiled inside his chest within the hour in the arms of the girl of his choice. Jack jerked on a pair of Under Armor shorts, tied his worn black runners, and headed down the hall for a different kind of workout. Not bothering to turn on the light in his private gym, the floor to ceiling window illuminating the space enough to show the equipment, Jack punched in a five-mile run and let the pounding of his feet on the rotating belt do its work.

"One, two, three." To quiet his mind, Jack counted each step. Numbers came naturally to him, better than words or artistic endeavours. James said he inherited the trait from his father, the Blackhorne's math whizzes all the way back to his great grandfather, who won enough money in a contest back in England to ship his family to the land of opportunity, America. The planned world domination had taken a few generations, but Jack's father and James established the company that took the Blackhorne family from blue collar to gold watch.

He wouldn't miss the Rolex he'd handed over to the ambulance driver as he dropped off Luc and Abraham. He had a drawer full of timepieces and an email to his assistant would replace the watch easily. However, he quite enjoyed the glare of disgust mixed with awe on Abraham's face when Jack tossed the watch to the paramedic.

Abraham, who didn't hesitate to go inside the hospital and was doubtless with Solana right now. Those hulking arms snaked around her waist. The thought made Jack's shoulder blades tighten.

"Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety." He shouted the numbers into the empty room. "Ninety-one, Ninety-two."

His private investigator would have a preliminary report on Solana in the morning. Well, later today. Then he'd know who this Abraham really was and could assess the best way to remove the obstacle from the thing he wanted.

Solana.

He'd almost made it past the reception desk at the hospital before the nausea took over. The familiar smell still causing Jack's stomach to lurch years after he'd last stepped into St. Michael's for the final time. The day his uncle died.

Solana's worried face, leaning over her grandmother, floated before Jack. He ran faster.

Ethan, the pain in the ass, refused to provide Jack with information on Ximena's condition beyond the barest of details. The man was insufferable, clinging to his code of conduct, morals, and ethics. Ethan Collins was one of the few men Jack couldn't bribe with money or blackmail with solicitous details. Not that the man was squeaky clean. Jack knew Ethan's dirty secrets and chose not to exploit them. Respected his friend too much.

Despite the fifteen-year age difference, they were friends of a sort. Ethan had been a resident doctor at St. Michaels when they met. He'd broken the news James had prostate cancer, that it was terminal and had been in the hospital room day after day as Jack sat vigil. The doctor spent countless hours with Jack as he observed the only man who cared for him waste away. Dr. Collins offered a kind word, brought him coffee and the occasional sandwich and, at the last moment, a shoulder to cry on when the end came.

Ethan's concern and texts didn't stop with James's death, the doctor checking in on him for months afterwards, insisting they meet for coffee. Coffee turned into occasional dinners, and before he knew it, Ethan had convinced Jack to join the hospital's board. "It'll be good publicity for Blackhorne & Caldwell."

It was the only thing Ethan ever asked of Jack. In a world where everyone wanted something from him, Ethan was a rarity and although he'd never admit it out loud, Jack cherished the older man's presence in his life. Board meetings came with a standing monthly lunch date and Ethan a substitute for the uncle he lost. Not that Ethan was anything like Jack's last close relative. James Blackhorne was a unicorn, or a dinosaur, depending on your point of view. He belonged to another generation, a bachelor until the end, yet determined the Blackhorne name would live on through his nephew.

Family prosperity drove James to cut the original partner Caldwell out of the business, build the company into the conglomerate Blackhorne & Caldwell was today. But James wanted more than the trail of nine zeros after the number nine on the bank account. He wanted status and Jack was his ticket.

Jack and the right woman from the right family.

The Stinson's fit the bill. Daniel Stinson shared the same ethics as James, swam in the same circles, but he had two things James needed. The first, pedigree. Stinson genealogy traced back to the Mayflower. The family name meant old money and belonged to an elite class. The second thing Daniel had was a daughter.

James Blackhorne had something Daniel wanted as well. Money. All that pedigree couldn't save the family business, which had been in danger of folding because of poor management. The two men struck a deal. Jack would get a wife and Daniel would receive an influx of cash and a son-in-law to take the business to new levels.

A beep indicated the five miles were up and Jack wiped the sweat off his brow, heading for the bathroom. The run had helped, but a shower was now imperative. Hot water beat down on Jack as he tipped out a blob of body wash, the aroma of cedar filling the shower. He could still remember the sensation of desire that flooded his veins when he first saw his ex-wife, Ali Stinson. Tension filled his body in another way as blood rushed to Little Jack.

His uncle had insisted they go to a new country club. Marble walls decked out for the holidays, the grand ballroom stuffed with wealthy patrons imbibing on food and drink. They weren't there more than ten minutes before James pointed out a vivacious girl his age, dark hair curling down her back, breasts barely contained in the scarlet dress that wore her.

Jack pressed his back against the warm tiles in the shower, hand around Little Jack, letting the memory of Ali's smile, her curves, her spirit work their magic in combination with the friction of his fingers.

"That's Ali Stinson." James leaned in to speak over the music of the band playing holiday tunes, liquor-laced breath in his ear. "You're going to marry her."

"Yeah, right." He assumed his uncle was joking.

"I'm serious."

Jack studied James, knowing very well the difference between the man's pranks and his business, no-nonsense look. James was as cool as a cucumber. He meant his words.

"I don't even know her." Jack had his eye on Lisa Kipling, a girl he'd met in his economics class. Although popular with the girls in university, Lisa didn't seem interested. Jack wished to change that.

"But you will. This is what Blackhorne & Caldwell needs." James plucked two glasses of champagne off an offered tray, handing one to Jack. "We have money, enough to buy almost anything. These people, this room, an exclusive club, we don't have access to. All because we don't have the right name. You're going to fix that."

"By marrying her?" Jack watched as a man tugged the girl decked in red out on to the dance floor, arm around her waist.

"And having children." James drained his glass, immediately looking for another. "No room your offspring won't have the right to walk into. Her name, our money. It's the perfect union."

"What if I don't love her?"

James rarely laughed, and when he did, the sound reminded Jack of eager dogs quarreling over a bone. He much preferred his uncles chuckle, low and mischievous. James barked a laugh as he called over another server and embarrassment flushed through Jack.

"Love is a made-up thing to sell roses and perfume. If you don't like Ali Stinson, if she's frigid or doesn't do it for you, then find yourself some candy on the side." James' cold blue eyes peered into his. "Be discreet. Don't get caught and everything will be fine."

"And she's agreed to this?" Across the room, Ali whispered something in her dance partner's ear and he kissed her on the temple.

James slurped a swig of the bubbly alcohol. "The girl has no idea. Nor should she ever. I've always found ignorance is bliss with women. What they don't know won't hurt them. Or you."

He trailed the couple on the dance floor as they swayed to the music. Jack searched for a positive in the situation, knowing his uncle had made up his mind. Resistance was futile. What James wanted, he got. No matter the expense. Or anyone feelings. Feelings made you weak.

Red was definitely this girl's colour, and she was tall enough to match his height. By most standards she'd be considered a classic beauty. They'd look good in photographs together, her hanging on his arm.

"She's off to college next month, you'll bump into her in some cliché way, say in a bar, a café—" He waved his hand "—you get the point. I'll withhold the money until you've sealed the deal. But don't worry, they aren't good business managers—not ruthless enough. Won't be long until they need more. You'll have their support for years until you take over and fold it into ours."

Three years later, he stood in a church while his dying uncle witnessed Jack exchange rings with Ali Stinson.

Jack shut off the water, slipped on a bathrobe, and strolled out to the kitchen. There'd be no sleep for him tonight. The exercise and shower activities relieved some tension, but he was still wired. He'd check in on the Tokyo stock exchange or read the St. Michael's financials he'd ignored yesterday. In a few hours, he'd have his report on Solana and he could make his plans.

Numbers flashed across the screen sitting on his desk. He simply had to keep his mind occupied until then.