“No.”

A muscle ticked in Witt’s jaw. “You act as if you know where your brother is.”

“Probably meeting a girl,” Jason replied, then shrugged indifferently. “He’s always horny. My guess is he’s spending the night with someone he picked up.”

Katherine looked stricken.

“Come on, Dad. Don’t pretend you don’t remember how it was when you were seventeen and horny as hell. Zach just wanted to get laid.”

Witt could barely remember, but he didn’t give a damn. Not now. Not when London was missing.

Sirens.

Somewhere in the distance sirens screamed through the night. Horns honked, people shouted, and the pounding in his head wouldn’t fade. Slowly Zach opened an eye. The floor tilted and for a second he didn’t know where he was. He tried to move and pain ricocheted down his arm. He was woozy and his head felt as if it weighed a ton.

Gritting his teeth, he got to his knees and saw the dark stain of blood-his blood-on the cheap carpet. The room swayed. He was dizzy, his mind a blur, until he saw his bloody reflection in the mirror over the bureau. The Orion Hotel. Room 307. Sophia. All at once he remembered everything-the pretty girl, the hoodlums barging in and nearly killing him.

Why?

Because the thugs had thought he was Jason.

That bastard. He’d been set up. By his own brother. Zach pulled himself upright and staggered into the bathroom. His head throbbed, his gut ached from being kicked and his shoulder felt as if it were aflame, but somehow he managed to twist on the faucets and splash some water onto what had once been his face. He looked like hell. His eyes were already beginning to blacken and swell shut, blood crusted in his nostrils and clotted over his lips. One cheekbone was crushed, and a clean slice ran from the top of his head and down to his cheek.

His monkey suit, the tuxedo Kat had bought for him, was torn and stained with blood.