See How She Dies

by Lisa Jackson

  “I don’t know—”

  Another van from a rival station pulled up and reporters started through the doors.

  “Now!” Zach ordered and the clerk called over a security guard.

  “Give these people an escort out and have Bill come up to handle the rest.”

  “This way!” The guard, a burly black man with a grim I’ve-seen-it-all expression, ushered them to the back of the lobby and through a set of double doors toward the kitchen. Excited voices drifted after them and Adria ducked gratefully into a stainless steel elevator. She wasn’t ready for the press. Not just yet. She needed time to prepare a statement, time to get herself ready for all the questions and accusations that were sure to be hurled her way.

  Minutes later they were on the street and walking the short distance to the Hotel Danvers, where another crowd had gathered. Holding her arm fiercely, Zach guided her to a private entrance, through a tangle of hallways, down to the parking garage and into his Jeep.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked, throwing the rig into gear and backing out of the narrow parking space.

  “I think I have the right to know.”

  “You got yourself into this mess. I could just leave you here to the piranhas.”

  “I didn’t call the press.

  “Like hell.” Zach aimed the nose of the Jeep toward the exit of the parking lot.

  “You don’t believe me?” she said, disappointed as they sped out of the lot and joined the sludge of traffic clogging the city streets.

  “No,” he admitted, glancing in her direction. “But if it’s any consolation, I haven’t believed a word you’ve said since you blew into town.”

  18

  Her face was a mask of calm resolution. Her chin was thrust forward with determination and her eyes, so blue, moved from one reporter’s face to the other. As the clouds overhead threatened rain and the cool wind caused the leafless tree branches to sway, Adria stood on a small rise in the park walkway blocks and addressed the throng of reporters. Her cheeks, stung by the wintry wind, were pink, her smile sincere, and Zach guessed that she’d had years of public speaking in college.

  So far, her hastily convened press conference had gone well, and along with the reporters, a few passersby listened to her strong voice. “…that’s why I’m here. To uncover the truth. To find out for myself if I’m really Witt and Katherine Danvers’s daughter.” Six microphones were thrust in her face while photographers snapped still pictures and shoulder-held minicams rolled. The wind teased at her hair, whipping it across her face, and traffic continued to flow, the sounds of engines running, tires throwing up water, and hydraulic brakes squealing as a backdrop.

  A pushy reporter with thin lips and a pointed nose asked, “Do you have any proof, aside from this tape of your adoptive father, that you’re London Danvers?”

  “No, not really—”

  “Isn’t that a little thin? Home video cameras are a dime a dozen now. Anyone could put together a stunt like this.”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed on the man and he hooked his thumb into his belt loops just to make sure he didn’t start pushing the little bastard around.

  “It’s not a stunt,” Adria replied firmly.

  “You don’t think. But you don’t know. You have no idea what your adoptive father’s motives were.”

  A red-haired woman with a deep voice asked, “What happened to Ginny Slade?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Why didn’t she demand ransom?”

  “Again. I don’t know,” Adria said, as a truck roared past, sending pigeons scattering through the park and trailing a plume of blue exhaust.

  “What about the million-dollar reward that Witt left for anyone who found his daughter? Wouldn’t Ginny have wanted a piece of that?”

  “I can’t speak for her.”

  Another woman asked, “At the time of the kidnapping, some people thought a local businessman, Anthony Polidori, was behind the plot. Witt Danvers always maintained that Polidori was involved.”

  “I don’t know who was behind it.”

  “Polidori was harassed by the police but he swore he was innocent.”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “Who was behind the kidnapping?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “What about you, Mr. Danvers? What do you and your family think?”

  Zach responded by skewering the woman with a gaze meant to strike fear into her heart. “I have nothing to say.

  “But you’re here, with a woman claiming to be your half-sister.”

  He felt his blood beginning to boil. “This is her circus, not mine.”

  “So that’s what you think about it?” the woman pushed, obviously pleased to get a rise from him. “What about the rest of the family?”

  “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “They’re not here. You are. What do you think?”

  “I have no comment.”

  “Weren’t you one of the prime suspects at the time?”

  Zach’s eyes flashed. “I was seventeen, for Christ’s sake,” he said, then forced a lid on his temper. “You’ll have to ask the police that one.” He grabbed the crook of Adria’s arm and if he could, he would have bodily carried her away from this ridiculous sideshow. Reporters were jackals. The whole lot of them. He’d learned that firsthand when London had been kidnapped.

  “What do the police have to say?” the redhead asked.

  Adria shot a glance in Zach’s direction. “Nothing yet.” She didn’t add that, at Zach’s insistence, she’d spent the last three hours at the station, explaining her story, giving the police a copy of the tape, showing them the threatening notes. “Thank you all for coming. If you need to get hold of me, please leave a message at the front desk of the Orion Hotel.”

  “The Orion? Why not the Hotel Danvers?” a man yelled.

  “Hold on a minute—”

  “Just a few more questions—”

  Zach’s fingers clamped firmly around her elbow and he propelled her to the Jeep. “Damned zoo,” he ground out as he helped her inside, then slid behind the wheel. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he spotted more than one of the hungry reporters dashing to their cars and vans, hoping, no doubt, to follow them. Good luck, Zach thought humorlessly. He knew the city like the back of his hand and had spent most of his teenage years trying to outrun the law. He slammed the rig into first, popped the clutch, and took off. A few cars gave chase and he had to suppress a grin of satisfaction.

  “I think it went well, don’t you?” Adria asked.

  “It was a fiasco.”

  “Spoken like a true Danvers.”

  He braked around a sharp corner and the tires skidded.

  “We’re being followed?” she asked.

  “Yep.” He glanced in the side-view mirror, frowned, and turned down an alley that opened onto Burnside. “Some of the vultures weren’t finished getting what they wanted.” He sped across the bridge over the dark Willamette, heading east toward the mountains, then doubled back on the freeway, crossing the river again and turning south, continuously checking his rearview mirror until he was satisfied that the cars shifting from lane to lane behind the Jeep weren’t giving chase. “You’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest now.”

  “It’s time.”

  “You shouldn’t have called the press in the first place—”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “Well, someone did.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, her thoughts whirling as they left the city. “Someone did.” Who? Someone from the Danvers family? Anthony Polidori? The stalker who had left her the ugly notes? Someone who had overheard one of her conversations? Trisha? Jason? Nelson? Zach? A headache thundered behind her eyes and she realized that other than some dark, bitter sludge the police department called coffee, she hadn’t had anything to eat all day.

  “You’ll have to check out of the Orion.”

  “I know.”
>
  “You have another place to stay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Jason thinks you should move to the ranch.”

  “With you?” she asked.

  “I suppose.”

  The Jeep’s interior seemed suddenly close, the atmosphere thick as she considered what life would be like living far removed from the city—with Zachary. How would she stand every day cooped up with him? She glanced at his profile. Her heart began to beat more loudly. Of course, she couldn’t accept his proposal—she had work to do, here in the Willamette Valley. This was just another ploy by the family to derail her from her goal. “I don’t care what Jason thinks.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. You’d be safe.”

  Alone with Zachary Danvers? Safe? She didn’t believe it for a minute. Zachary was dangerous on too many levels to count. She was never safe with him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said, touching the inside of the passenger window with her finger and erasing the dew that had collected on the glass. “Then I’d be trapped in a place where the family could watch me, tape my phone conversations, and monitor me twenty-four hours a day. Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  He eased off the freeway and found a truck stop. A diner with a flickering neon sign that advertised breakfast was served around the clock was set back from the road. Zach parked close to the front door. “Come on, let’s eat something and then you can decide.” He reached across her and opened the door on her side of the Jeep. The feel of his body, warm and hard, leaning over her thighs had a definite effect on her pulse rate. Stop it!

  As if he felt it, too, his gaze found hers and for a ridiculous heartbeat she thought he might kiss her again. His eyes darkened for a second, searching hers, and his breath fanned her face. He smelled of leather and coffee and musky male and his jaw was nearly black because he hadn’t shaved.

  Earthy and raw.

  Primal and wanton.

  Passionate and wicked.

  Zachary Danvers was all these and more. She licked her dry lips and held her breath. Waiting…sensing he could read her thoughts. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

  “I’m not your responsibility.”

  “Aren’t you?” One dark brow lifted.

  Her spine stiffened in defense. “Look, Zach, I guess I should thank you for helping me out today, but I don’t really need a baby-sitter.”

  “You might be surprised.” He sent her a smile that cut past all her facades. Pure male animal. He hopped to the gravel and she had to scramble out of the Jeep and hurry to catch up with him.

  She wanted to tell him to get lost and leave her alone, but she couldn’t. He’d been nearby when she’d needed him and when she’d decided to hold the press conference, he hadn’t argued with her, even helped her pick the spot and stayed with her throughout the entire, nerve-fraying ordeal. She didn’t know his motives, but she doubted they were pure. She’d just been thankful to have his strength, his presence during the press conference, though she was certain she could have handled the situation herself and she believed that he was probably sticking to her like glue in order to spy on her for his family. But why then did he insist she go to the police station with her complaints? Maybe he had no choice and felt backed into a corner since the word was out on the street that another woman claiming to be the little lost daughter of Witt Danvers had shown up in Portland.

  They walked into the diner. Country music could be heard over the buzz of conversation and sizzle of the grill. They sat in a booth near the window.

  Within seconds, a waitress poured coffee and promised to be back for their orders. Adria picked up her menu and tried to concentrate on the daily special, but having Zachary seated directly across from her was a distraction—the kind of distraction she didn’t want.

  Once they’d ordered, Zach drained his coffee and settled onto the small of his back. “You’d better tell me what you’re planning, Adria,” he said, staring at her with eyes that seemed to see into the darkest corners of her soul, “because from here on in, it’s not gonna be much fun.”

  “And that’s why I’m here. To uncover the truth. To find out if I’m really Witt and Katherine Danvers’s daughter…” Her voice was clear. Strong. Her chin thrust forward as if she wouldn’t back down.

  Hell!

  In a private room, Katherine’s killer stared at the television screen with its flickering images of Adria Nash.

  Why didn’t she back off? Why in the world would she actually call a press conference? Now all of Portland—no, make that all of the whole damned country—was watching!

  Rage boiled up inside.

  What if she really was London? Jesus, she looked so much like Kat it was eerie.

  Pictures of Katherine Danvers skated through her killer’s mind.

  Kat, young and successful, assured of her sexuality, walking up to Witt on the street.

  Kat, a bit older, the gold band on her finger flashing the fact that she was Mrs. Witt Danvers.

  Kat, pregnant and still sexy, her once-taut belly rounded. Smug pride had lifted her sharp chin because of the baby growing within her. Now she was tied to Witt and the Danvers fortune irrevocably.

  The killer blinked, felt sweat beading, then dripping onto the plush carpet.

  Calm down. Don’t let it get to you.

  But the images on the television only brought others to the fore, mental pictures that could never be forgotten. Pictures that burned and flashed painfully.

  Flash!

  Kat with the baby, the darling, and Witt doting on them both, as if he didn’t already have a family, as if he didn’t have four other children, as if this one precious piece of flesh was more important than all the other ones put together.

  God, it had been sickening. Horrible.

  Inside, Katherine’s killer was shaking. Remembering.

  Flash!

  Kat getting her figure back, toning up any remaining fat from her pregnancy and showing off her figure, in a sleek, one-piece swimsuit.

  Flash!

  Kat, black hair gleaming and pinned high on her head, holding court with the elite of Portland. Playing bridge. Attending charity auctions or balls in her tight dresses…

  Flash!

  Kat flirting with anything in pants.

  Flash!

  Kat naked…her body gleaming…the shower…oh, God, how vulnerable she’d been after London had been stolen from her—how easy it had been to place the pills in her drink and then, when she was disoriented, when she’d stumbled outside, give her a shove over the wall.

  Flash!

  Kat falling over the wall, recognition dawning as their eyes met, fear contorting her beautiful features…

  Then the sound. The sickening sound of bones cracking and muscles thudding hard against the pavement below.

  It hadn’t been hard.

  It could be done again.

  “Just a few more questions,” a reporter was insisting but the camera was no longer trained on Adria. The focus had been shifted to the rock-hard countenance of Zachary Danvers and he was pissed. A vein bulged in his neck and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black as he forcibly propelled Adria away from the crowd.

  Of course he’d be there. Zachary had always been a sucker for a beautiful woman. Hadn’t he, like so many other men, been enthralled by his stepmother? Hadn’t he risked Witt’s wrath to be with her?

  And now he was with a woman who could be a carbon copy.

  Like father. Like son.

  Fools both.

  It was time to do something.

  Something permanent.

  But first…a scare.

  Katherine’s killer smiled and clicked off the television.

  Flash!

  In a glimmer of the future there came an image of Adria, the pretender, lying in a pool of her own blood, her bones broken, her neck and head turned to an impossible angle, her eyes staring sightlessly upward.

  Even in death, she would resemble the woman she claimed was h
er mother.

  The intercom beeped.

  “I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, Mr. Danvers,” Jason’s secretary, Frances, said in her most annoyed voice, “but your brother is on line two and he insists on speaking with you right now. I tried to get rid of him—”

  “It’s all right. I’ll take it.”

  Jason crossed the thick forest-green carpet and picked up the phone. Nelson’s voice was agitated and high-strung. “Channel Two. The news.” A click signified that he’d hung up.

  Like a hangman’s noose, dread took a choke-hold on Jason’s neck. He grabbed the remote control, pointed it at the television in the opposite corner of his office, and, with a sick feeling, dropped the telephone receiver back into its cradle. The television flickered on. As Jason stared at the program in progress, his worst fears crystallized. She’d done it. Adria Nash had held her own goddamned press conference in the middle of the park blocks and standing to her side, sometimes in the camera’s eye, often not, was Zach. Good old pain-in-the-ass Zach. A day’s growth of beard discolored his chin and his eyes were dark and unreadable. He was wearing clothes that were mussed and he looked like a damned range cowboy, but he didn’t seem to care that the cameras weren’t being particularly kind.

  Jason swore loudly. A tic started beneath his left eye as he watched, transfixed.

  God, she was beautiful. Standing straight, her wild black hair tossed in the wind, her eyes clear and blue, she looked so damned much like Katherine, Jason could barely breathe. He remembered Kat’s sexy little come-hither smile, her teasing laugh, the mischievous light in her gaze. At first she’d only had eyes for Zach, even though Zach had been a kid at the time, but later, after Zach had been banished from the family, when Witt had discovered his errant son in bed with Kat at the ranch, things had changed. Kat had finally begun to notice Jason.

  It had started slowly at first. A smile. A wink. A naughty little joke. A finger touching the back of his neck that lingered a second too long. Witt’s long absences on business trips didn’t hurt, either.

  The first time had been on a cold winter night with the wind howling through the attic. The electricity had gone out and Jason and Kat had been alone in the house. She’d feigned being frightened and he’d wrapped his arms around her to settle her down and to keep her warm. When she’d tilted her face up to his, it had been the most natural act in the world to kiss her, to touch her, to rip her robe from her and to claim her like a wild buck stealing another’s mate. She’d been an untamed one, her passion pent up from years of frustration.