which got him expelled from several elite prep schools. Thanks to pricey attorneys and thick wads of cash, the troubled boy avoided well-deserved jail time.
Seemingly “scared straight” after a near-death DUI incident in his freshman year in college, Christopher eventually graduated from Stanford Graduate School of Business with high honors. Within a decade he had joined his father’s firm, Gage Capital Partners, and become the CEO of its public infrastructure and transportation subsidiary, Gage Group International. Currently, Christopher was operating in Poland with his own venture, Baltic General Services.
But Dixon remained suspicious. The boy—a thirty-eight-year-old man, she had to remind herself—had too many close calls, and she had a long memory.
But her husband, Aaron, had a short fuse. He was not a man to be crossed, not even by her.
Dixon pulled her feet off her husband’s lap, stood up, grabbed his glass, and headed for the bar. “How’s Poland shaping up?”
“Christopher is doing a good job. Still scouting things out, making connections.”
Dixon poured another drink for them both. “He’s a smart boy. I don’t doubt he’ll make you proud.” She crossed back to the couch and handed him his glass.
“I just wish he’d settle down and get married. I’d like a grandson to play ball with while I still have my marbles.”
“Maybe he’ll find one of those beautiful, long-legged Polish girls.”
“I’m sure he’s looking as hard as he can.” Gage chuckled, taking another sip.
Like father, like son.
“I’m just asking him to be careful over there. I’m sure you understand my position.” She smiled. “Our position.”
Gage took another sip. “He knows the lines he can’t cross.”
Dixon remained standing over him. “Even when the lines keep moving?” she said over her glass.
“So long as we’re the ones moving the lines, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Does he understand what’s at stake?”
“He’s my son, isn’t he?”
“Thank God for that.” Dixon smiled. “Thanks for letting me vent. It’s been a long day.” She finished her drink.
“Trust me,” Gage said, finishing his scotch. “He’s fine.” He stood, yawning. “I’m off to bed. You?”
“I have some committee work to read, but I’ll be up soon.”
Gage leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Good night.”
He headed for the stairs leading toward their bedroom, making a mental note to call his son first thing in the morning.
Before it was too late.
12
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
The carmine red Porsche 911 Targa 4S slid into its designated five-hundred-dollar-a-month parking space in the basement of the glass-and-steel building near the Embarcadero.
Lawrence Fung, a lean, handsome thirty-year-old, dashed from his vehicle to the elevator, clutching his laptop case. He stabbed the up button furiously, willing the doors to open. He checked the time on the oversized TAG Heuer watch strapped to his narrow wrist.
Shit!
The doors finally opened, and the fast elevator whisked him to his expansive Bay-view condo on the thirteenth floor. Fung punched the keypad on his keyless door, but the lock beeped. He cursed his clumsiness and punched the code again. The door clicked open and he pushed his way through, kicking off his calf-leather loafers and dropping the Porsche key fob into a sterling-silver bowl on the hand-carved entryway desk, along with his polycarbonate slim wallet.
Fung sped barefoot across the bamboo floor toward the kitchen, conscious of the precious few minutes remaining. He was starving, but there wasn’t time to make anything, not even a cup of tea. He yanked open the Viking refrigerator and pulled out a bottled organic protein shake, cracked it open, and guzzled it before heading for his bedroom.
He fell down into his chair just as his timer beeped, and powered up his desktop, ignoring the stunning view of the Bay Bridge lit in the low fog on the dark water below. He opened up Skype, scrolled down to his contacts list, and selected the video button. His face popped up in a small window on the screen. Not liking what he saw, he brushed his hair with his fingers and wiped his lips to make himself more presentable as the international phone line chirped and buzzed. An image popped up.
“Sweetheart,” Fung said. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
A brooding, handsome face loomed on the wide monitor. Torré was mixed Korean, Haitian, and Irish. He broke into modeling on his exotic looks years ago as a teenager, but a vicious drug habit ruined his career. He was now in recovery, his ambitions turned elsewhere, convinced that modeling was a one-way ticket back into addiction hell.