“I registered us on WhoAreYou.com.” Callum spun the top of his test tube and pulled out a long Q-tip. “I will send off our DNA next week and soon we will have a complete picture of our origins.”
“Technology is amazing,” Callum added after he’d finished swabbing the inside of his mouth, sounding pleased. “WhoAreYou is the biggest and most popular company providing this service. I have distant cousins that are already registered on the site, so the site should throw up a match to them. I have asked to be notified if there are any DNA matches to me or any of you. It’s a very good way to fill in some blanks on the family tree.”
James felt the room swim. He stared at the test tube, his mind racing. How could he get out of this?
“This isn’t difficult,” Callum snapped, looking from him to Penelope, who held her test tube in her hand. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Callum,” James lied. He’d never been allowed to call him father. Or Dad.
James looked at his wife, noticing the annoyance in her eyes. She squirmed in her chair, and sent Callum a narrowed-eyed, I’m-not-happy look.
Callum replaced the swabbed-with-saliva tubes in the envelope. “Let’s discuss business.”
Blood and business, that was all that was important to Callum. “Have you made any progress tracking down the owner of that block of shares, James?”
James ground his back teeth together. Over the past three decades, Callum’s obsession with the 25 percent stake in Ryder International he didn’t control had mushroomed and he was more determined than ever to buy the shares back. But first they needed to discover who owned them.
“I’m still working on it.”
“Work harder,” Callum snapped. “Let’s talk about Ryder International’s centennial celebrations. The charity ball will kick off the year-long celebration,” Callum continued. The ball was a $100,000-a-plate function, limited to two thousand very rich, very exclusive people, including princes and politicians. “I thought you girls would’ve nailed down a performer by now.”
Kinga and Tinsley ran Ryder’s enormous PR division together and did an excellent job. Their talent was something Callum routinely overlooked and rarely acknowledged.
“The performer I booked has canceled all her performances for the next six months for medical reasons,” Kinga replied. “I’m still looking for someone.”
“Well, I want someone a little controversial, someone who will attract attention and—what’s that word?—buzz.”
James felt Kinga stiffen. “And do you have any suggestions as to who might provide that for us?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Griff O’Hare.”
Kinga exchanged horrified glances with Tinsley and James didn’t blame them. Even he’d heard of the bad boy singer, performer and actor with the voice of an angel and the impulse control of a toddler.
Kinga just closed her eyes and shook her head. “Happy damn Christmas to me.”