“Any new loans?” he asked.
“Several. He’s barely afloat. Most were refis except this one.” She rotated the monitor closest to Cam so he could see the document open on the screen.
He rolled his chair closer, squinting at the long-form deed of trust.
“It was made back in May,” she went on. “But only recorded this week.”
May.
Five months ago, when the threats against Nic had quieted.
Her rainbow-painted nails directed his attention to the property description line. “You recognize that address?”
“Fucking hell. That’s the mansion in Hillsborough.”
“Yup, and the same company holds the mortgage on the office building in Burlingame.”
“Please tell me you’ve cracked that.”
The mortgage holder had a generic company name as did many real estate lenders and investment companies. Nic had claimed not to know who it traced back to. Cam didn’t buy it, suspecting that’s what Nic had been holding back.
“That’s where things get interesting,” Lauren said. He waved a hand, prompting her to go on. “There are other affiliate entities with loans on other Price properties and at the top of each company’s org chart is Vaughn Investments.”
“Who runs that?”
Her dark brows raced all the way to her hairline.
“I’m supposed to know?” Cam said.
“Vaughn Investments is run by Duncan Vaughn.”
“Who’s he?”
“Only one of the biggest real estate investors in the Valley. He’s like, all over the weekly business journal, opening this or that new project. I can’t believe you don’t know who he is.”
“I haven’t lived here my whole life, remember.” He also avoided the local business journals and other reminders of how little money he made relatively. In any event, his mind was making a more troubling connection. “So you’re telling me one of this area’s biggest real estate investors might be behind the threats against Nic?”
She nodded, not looking the least bit surprised. “I’m still tracing funds, but I doubt there’s any ‘might be’ to it.”
“Why’s that?”
She rapped her nails on the desk in a mock drumroll. Good news did not follow. “Because Duncan Vaughn is Silicon Valley’s version of a gangster.”
The gate agent called for Zone 5 passengers to board, and Nic heaved himself out of the vinyl chair with a sigh, in no hurry to race the other passengers to hell. Ninety minutes of cramming his six-foot-three self into coach, then at the end of his journey waited a new apartment, a mountain of unpacked moving boxes, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed Bostonian whose mood Nic couldn’t predict after five weeks apart.
Don’t run to your death, the SEAL saying went. When he’d been a SEAL, Nic took the saying seriously. Calm, methodical, well-scoped-out missions saved lives; uninformed, reckless ones cost them.
He still took it seriously post-military. Accepting Cam’s offer to move in with him would have been reckless, no matter how much he’d wanted to say yes. With his father’s creditors looming, Nic might have been running them both to their deaths. He wouldn’t have that, wouldn’t risk Cam. So, as Cam rightly accused, he’d run the opposite direction, making true the other SEAL saying inked on his torso.
The only easy day was yesterday.
Because each day away from Cam had hurt. He’d missed his Southie drawl and hungry kisses, his bed with the so-worn-they-were-soft sheets, and even his big-as-a-dog cat named Bird. He’d also missed their friends who’d been steadily expanding Nic’s world beyond Gravity and the US Attorney’s Office. He’d missed them all—his life—more than he cared to admit. But facing them anew after he’d cut and run, no matter how good the reason, was going to make yesterday, as miserable as it had been between trial and transitioning cases, somehow easier.
“Excuse me, Mr. Price?”
Nic turned toward the lilting British accent, finding an unfamiliar older gentleman standing behind him. Gray hair styled, expensive suit tailored, he carried himself with the impeccable air of a professional butler or steward, Nic familiar with the sort from when his father had had a staff of more than two. The stranger also carried Nic’s checked suit bag over his arm.
“That’s me,” Nic said. “Is there a problem, Mr. . . .?”
