by Lisa Jackson
She’d half expected to run into Zachary again, but he hadn’t shown up and it wasn’t his style to stay in the shadows. He might follow her, as he’d done before, but he’d end up confronting her again.
So who? she wondered as she swept her gaze along the street again. She didn’t see anyone hunched over a newspaper, or lounging near a telephone booth, or quickly ducking into storefronts when she glanced behind her. The person who had sent her the package had put her on edge. She was jumping at shadows. Before leaving the hotel earlier, she’d checked with the bell captain, Security, and the business office. No one had remembered anyone leaving a package for her. Whoever was behind it had been very careful. And so would she be.
Waving to the old man behind the magazine counter, Adria dashed into the hotel and asked for messages at the front desk. She was handed one note from the switchboard and a stiff white envelope with her name scrawled across the linen surface, not in block letters this time but flowing script. Rather than read the messages where anyone lounging in the lobby could see her, she took the elevator to her floor.
In her room, she kicked off her shoes, cast a glance at the closed refrigerator, then she scanned the notes. The telephone call was from Nelson Danvers, who wanted to speak with her “urgently.” Good. Progress, she thought. But she could let Nelson wait a little longer.
The invitation in the linen envelope wasn’t expected. She pulled out the handwritten card, and read the offer:
Mr. Anthony Polidori requests the honor of your presence tonight at dinner, seven o’clock at Antonio’s. A driver will pick you up in front of the hotel.
No telephone number. No address. Just a note left at the front desk of the Orion.
Adria read the words over again. Why would Polidori want to see her? Obviously he’d heard that she was in town claiming to be London Danvers, but how? And how did he know where she was staying? She felt goose bumps crawl up her back and she walked to the window and stared out at the street, wondering again if even now she was being followed or if anyone was watching her room.
She saw no one leaning against a lamppost while staring up at her window, no malicious figure darting into the shadows.
“Relax,” she told herself as she tapped the edge of the card on her lips and walked to her closet, where she eyed her meager wardrobe. What would it hurt to meet Polidori? Should she take him up on his offer or would that be playing into his hands?
She smiled to herself because she was starting to think like a Danvers. She had no reason to fear the Polidoris; in fact, talking with Witt Danvers’s sworn enemy could be enlightening. According to everyone in the family, he was the most likely suspect in the kidnapping of London. So why would he want to see her?
She changed into a simple black skirt and top, clamped her hair back, and slipped her arms into a jacket.
By the time she hurried out of the elevator in the main lobby, the limo had arrived and a driver helped her into the shadowed interior. She wasn’t alone. Two men sat across from each other. The short, older man in an elegant gray suit and dark glasses greeted her. “Ms. Nash,” he said, taking her hand as she slid onto the seat beside him. “Welcome. Welcome. I’m Anthony Polidori. My son, Mario.”
“My pleasure,” Mario said smoothly. He was tanned and good-looking, with even features, curling black hair cut longer than fashionable, and eyes the color of obsidian.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” she said, deciding not to play games.
Anthony smiled and tapped his son on the knee with his cane. “She was surprised.” He patted her arm as the limousine pulled away from the curb. “You’ve not heard of the feud between the Danvers family and my own?” His voice was skeptical.
“A little,” she hedged, not wanting to give anything away.
“I bet.” For a few seconds he seemed lost in thought and only the soft sound of classical music filled the plush interior of the car. “Mario, where are your manners? Ask Ms. Nash if she cares for a drink.”
“Later, maybe,” she said, but Mario ignored her and poured a glass of wine from a bottle chilling in an ice bucket.
“Please, be our guest,” Mario insisted. Probably in his late thirties or early forties, Mario wore his good looks like an expensive suit. He seemed to pose as he sat across from her. As he handed her the stemmed glass of chilled wine, his fingers brushed hers for just a fraction of an instant but his gaze touched hers briefly before he removed his hand.
Staring out the tinted windows, Anthony clucked his tongue. “It’s sad, this feud,” he admitted, “but it can’t be helped. It goes back for generations, you see. Starting with Julius Danvers and my father.”
That much Adria understood. Maria, who had worked for the Danvers family for years, had told her of Stefano Polidori and how he became the rival of the Danvers family.
The original patriarch of the Danvers family, Julius Danvers, made his money and the beginning of the family fortune in the late 1800s. An immigrant logger who had the foresight to acquire all the timber-rich land he could beg, borrow, buy, or, in some cases, steal, he not only founded a company to harvest the raw timber that was abundant in the state, but also built a chain of sawmills that eventually stretched from northern California to the Canadian border north of Seattle.
It had been rumored, but never proven, that Julius was a mean son of a bitch who was willing to kill any man who tried to thwart him in his quest for unrivaled power in the timber-rich Pacific Northwest. His guilt in several “logging accidents,” which took the lives of some of the men not particularly loyal to him, was always assumed, but never proved.
Already a wealthy man by the turn of the century, Julius diversified into shipping and hotels, spreading the family fortune into new industries. He opened the elegant Hotel Danvers in downtown Portland in time for the Lewis and Clark Exposition of 1905. The hotel, rumored to be the most lavish in Portland, became home to the elite who traveled to the city on the Willamette River.
Though Julius never finished the ninth grade, he was also instrumental in establishing Reed College, the first college in Portland, where his children attended school and earned diplomas as well as social standing.
Julius was famous for his hard, cruel streak, and it was generally thought that he’d won favors from politicians, judges, and policemen, thereby having more than his share of important men hidden deep within his gold-filled pockets. Julius was careful to align with the powers-that-be in the city and state in order to assure that nothing would ever stand in the way of his ambitions or threaten his family.
His biggest competitor was Stefano Polidori, an Italian immigrant, one of the few in Portland, who had started his career by working on a truck farm in southeast Portland. Stefano had sold vegetables from a cart and later a truck, saving every penny and eventually buying several farms as he could afford them. As the city and his business grew, he opened a highly successful open-air vegetable market and later a restaurant. Eventually he had accumulated enough money to build a hotel that rivaled the Hotel Danvers in turn-of-the-century charm.
The Polidori family, too, became rich, and as Stefano added to his fortune and diversified his investments, he stepped on Julius’s toes by outbidding him on prime real estate along the river or by convincing conventioneers that his hotel was better able to serve their needs than the Hotel Danvers.
Stefano and Julius became bitter rivals.
Julius couldn’t believe Stefano could do anything more than sell tomatoes and lettuce from a cart. But Stefano was as shrewd and tough as his fiercest competitor. Like Julius, Stefano used his wealth to purchase rungs on the gold-plated social ladder of Portland.
The rivalry and hatred between the two men and their families deepened as the years passed.
“I’ve heard about Julius as well as your father,” Adria ventured as the limo turned into the parking lot of the riverfront restaurant.
“Stubborn men, both of them.” Anthony sighed loudly. “We all blamed Julius for my father’s death, yo
u know.”
She’d read of the fire, of course. It had been a major news story in 1935. The cause of the blaze had been a grease fire that had started in the kitchen, but some journalists wondered if Stefano’s death had truly been an accident, or if Julius Danvers had somehow masterminded the blaze that had burned the hotel and surrounding buildings to the ground.
Upon his father’s grave, and in full view of the press, Anthony Polidori, the new patriarch of the family, had sworn vengeance against the murdering Danvers family.
“Here we are,” he said, motioning to the restaurant. “A friend of mine owns it.” The door of the limo was opened by the driver and Anthony, barely using his cane, walked down the plank docking leading to the front doors.
As they entered they were greeted loudly by the maître d’. Voices from the kitchen staff and waiters shouted out greetings as well. In this Italian restaurant, Anthony had no enemies.
“So good to see you,” the maître d’ enthused. “Your table’s ready. Please come this way.” They were led up a short flight of stairs to a private, glassed-in room on the second story that offered a 360-degree view of the bridges spanning the murky Willamette River.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Anthony asked.
“Very.” Adria nodded as the maître d’ pulled out a chair for her.
“The Willamette River is the lifeblood of the city.” Anthony gazed through the windows as if he could never get enough of the panorama of the Willamette River and the skyscrapers rising off the western shore.
Without waiting for him to order, a slim waiter brought wine and crusty Italian bread. “The usual?” he asked as he poured three glasses.
“For all of us,” Polidori responded.
“Why did you want to see me?” she asked as the waiter disappeared.
“Haven’t you guessed?” Anthony’s dark eyes twinkled devilishly and he chuckled.
Mario came to the rescue. “It’s because we know you’ve come to Portland for your birthright. That you’re claiming to be London Danvers.”
Adria took a sip of the Chianti. “Why would you care?”
“Try the bread,” Anthony ordered, ignoring her question for the moment. “It’s the best in the city. Probably in all of the Northwest.” He reached for a slice himself.
“Does the Danvers family still bother you?”
She was rewarded with one of his smiles. “I always care what happens to the family of my old rival.” He glanced up at her and dusted the crumbs from his fingers. “It was a shock to me when the little girl was abducted and yet I was considered a suspect.” Shaking his head at the folly of it all, he added, “Despite my protests and alibi, Witt and his henchman, Jack Logan, seemed to think I had something to do with the girl’s disappearance. Even Mario, though he was in Hawaii at the time, was regarded as a suspect. The fact that the second son, Zachary, claimed he was roughed up by some Italians immediately put my family at the top of the list of possible kidnappers. Never mind that the two men whom he claimed to have attacked him had airtight alibis and were seen at several restaurants around the city.” He wagged a finger in the air. “Didn’t matter. A Danvers had made the accusation and in this town that makes a difference—a big difference.” He raised his palms to the ceiling. “So, I would like to clear the Polidori name. And, if you are indeed London, I would like to help you.” He bit into his bread and sighed happily, as if he’d forgotten the conversation, but Adria knew differently. When she didn’t respond, he said, “I doubt the Danvers family is eager for you to be their half-sister.”
She hedged. “There’s been a little resistance.”
Mario snorted a laugh at her understatement. “A little? Come on.”
Waving off his son’s sarcasm, Anthony said, “Of course, I know nothing of your financial situation, but it’s no secret that the Danverses are exceedingly wealthy and influential. If they decide to fight you on this—and believe me, they will fight you like wounded wolves, with everything they’ve got—I’m willing to help you.”
“Help me?” she said, not sure she understood correctly.
“Absolutely.”
Mario leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes squinting thoughtfully in her direction. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Our family has some power in this town, too. In fact, we think our lawyers are the best in the city. If you need legal help, or a loan—”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” It was beginning to sound as if they wanted her in their camp and she suddenly felt anxious.
“Do you want to prove you’re London or not?” Anthony asked and his dark eyes gleamed with a frosty inner light that was as cold as death.
“Of course.”
“Then you should take my offer.”
She wanted to turn him down flat. Though he and Mario were both trying their best to be charming, she felt as if he was attempting to orchestrate the conversation and push her into a position where she’d be in debt to him forever. However, she wasn’t foolish enough to reject his offer outright. Not yet. She’d learned that patience was a virtue, though sometimes hard to attain. The fact of the matter was that she was in no position to turn away help of any kind. Though the Polidoris had axes to grind with the Danvers family, she needed allies in her search—any allies she could get. She had only to think of the dead rat to remind herself. “You’re very generous.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Not quite. You know, most of the family still thinks you were behind London’s kidnapping.”
Polidori’s smiled faded. He studied the red wine in his glass. “I had nothing to do with the kidnapping. I would never hurt a child. Anyone’s child.”
“What about Robert Danvers?” she asked the old man.
Polidori snorted. “Julius’s oldest son had a boating accident, if I recall.”
“Some people think you arranged it.”
“People like to make something of nothing.”
She plunged onward. “Julius had three children. Only one—Witt—survived.”
With a long sigh, Anthony said, “Julius’s second boy, Peter, was killed in the war.” He frowned. “I had nothing to do with that, either, you know. Though I’m sure the Danvers family would like to think I was in league with Mussolini and Hitler, I didn’t hire the Nazis to shoot Peter’s plane down. Nor did I do anything to the boat that Robert was driving on the river the summer he was killed. The way I heard the story was that he’d been drinking heavily and came too close to the shore of the Columbia. His boat crashed against the rocks. In the accident, his neck was broken. He was killed instantly.”
“An accident that left Witt as the only Danvers heir.”
“Precisely. Look, if I was so vile as to have arranged all these deaths, why wouldn’t I kill Witt as well?”
Adria considered, then decided to gamble. “Maybe you wanted him to twist in the wind a little. There are rumors about your rivalry with Witt. It isn’t out of the question to think that you might want to watch one of Julius’s sons face a little pain in his life.” She didn’t mention Anthony’s affair with Witt’s first wife, Eunice, but it hung on the air between them—suspended by invisible threads of innuendo.
Anthony shook his head. “You think I’m some big Mafia don, is that it?” he asked and exchanged looks with his son.
“I don’t know you at all,” Adria pointed out. “In fact, I wasn’t sure I should come here.”
“And why is that?”
Leaning closer to him, she said, “Because, Mr. Polidori—I thought you might have wanted to talk to me to get information on the Danvers family for your own purposes.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“There’s a reason you asked me to dinner and I don’t think it’s because you think that I’ve had a lack of Italian cuisine while growing up in Montana.”
One graying brow lifted. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“It is rumored that if London Danvers does a
ppear, she’ll inherit a good portion of Danvers International.”
Here it comes.
“Many of our business interests are in direct competition with the Danvers Corporation and I was hoping, should you come to inherit part of the fortune, that you might be willing to sell off some of the smaller industries.” Resting his elbows on the table, he propped up his chin. “I’m specifically interested in the Hotel Danvers.”
Her heart dropped to the floor. The hotel? She thought of the ballroom with its glorious chandeliers, the old elevator, the time and money put into renovating the old building to its original state.
“You brought me here to…what? Bribe me?” She shook her head and laughed at the pomposity of this man, who, though he was loath to admit it, was very much like several members of the Danvers clan. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take a number and stand in line. A few people in the Danvers family are already in a bidding war. They seem to think that I can be bought off.”
“Can you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Ahh…an honorable woman. With noble intentions.” His eyes flickered dangerously.
“I just want to find out the truth.”
16
Zach smelled trouble. It sizzled in the air, like electricity before a lightning storm, and drew him back to Portland.
Jason’s panicked phone calls hadn’t caused him to climb into his Jeep and head west over the mountains. Pressing business worries weren’t the reason. Nor had his concern that he’d lose the ranch if Adria proved to be London been his impetus. No, the reason he’d driven like a madman across the mountains had been something more basic, more primal, an urge deep in his guts that he couldn’t suppress and didn’t want to name.