by Lisa Jackson
After their first night together, they’d begun sneaking around, experimenting with drugs, getting high on coke and marijuana and sex. Even thinking of her now, he was harder than he’d been in years. His wife, Nicole, was and always had been frigid. Kim was a hot little piece, frantic to please him, willing to play out all his fantasies, but she kept pressuring him to file for divorce and she’d never had the raw sensuality, never shown the primal lust for sex that had set Kat apart from all his other lovers. While Kat enjoyed sex, Kim tried too hard to act as if she were enjoying it. Even though she’d do anything he asked, Kim’s responses seemed forced and inhibited.
There had been no one to equal the pure nymphomania and narcissism of Katherine LaRouche Danvers.
And this Adria woman—whoever the hell she was—looked so damned much like Kat it scared him—and excited him.
She was fielding questions and smiling, for God’s sake, handling the crowd deftly. Jason leaned his hips against the desk. He’d already realized that Adria Nash was an enemy to be reckoned with. She couldn’t be taken lightly. Nor was he. He’d seen through her scam from the minute he’d set eyes on her. She wouldn’t get away with it. He’d stop her dead in her tracks before she claimed one cent of the Danvers assets. He wondered fleetingly what she was like in bed. Sexually charged like Kat or dispassionately accommodating like Kim?
He frowned at the thought of his mistress and her increasing demands. He couldn’t divorce Nicole. Wouldn’t. His wife, though a limp dishrag in bed, was shrewd. She’d take him for half of everything he owned, which, he hoped, would soon be the largest fortune in Portland. Somehow he’d have to find a way to keep Kim appeased—as well as deal with Adria Nash.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched the end of the segment, listened to the two anchors speculate on the possibility that the missing heiress had stepped forward to claim her fortune, then felt his insides tense as old footage taken the night London had been kidnapped rolled across the screen. His guts twisted at the sight of his father and Kat, and there was a photo of little London. An artist, using the latest computer technology, had provided a simulated portrait of what the girl could look like and the features weren’t far from Adria’s. Dread settled like lead in his spine.
But there was no way she could be London! It was damned impossible.
He clicked off the television as the intercom beeped again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danvers, I really am, but Mr. Sweeny insists that you’ll want to talk to him. I tried to tell him you were busy and he used the most foul language—”
“It’s all right, Frances. I’ll take it.”
“Line two again.”
“Got it.” Jason’s palms began to sweat. He picked up and braced himself for Sweeny’s news. “Jason Danvers.”
“You told me to call you when I got to Memphis and I’m here,” Sweeny said, his voice sounding smug.
“You’ve found Bobby Slade?”
“I’ve found a whole mess of ’em. Robert E. Lee Slade seems to be a family name or somethin’. It hasn’t been easy, but I got the list narrowed down to a few prime candidates.”
“Just be sure you end up with the right one.”
“Piece of cake. Oh, by the way, thought you might like to know that your girl Adria’s been busy.”
Jason’s fingers tightened over the receiver. “Has she?”
“Yep. I found out from an insider in the Polidori house that she’s big news over there. The old man thinks he can use her if she is London because, as you probably already know, he’s interested in buying out big chunks of Danvers International.”
“Go on,” Jason said through clenched teeth.
“Well, that’s about it. Except that the younger Polidori seems to be very interested in her.”
“Mario?”
“Mmm, could be messy, don’t you think? Your sister’s still seeing him.”
“I know,” Jason ground out. Trisha would never learn.
“Fun family you got there, Danvers. I’ll call you when I have more.”
Click.
“Wait!” Jason said, hating to be dismissed by the slimy detective. Sweeny’s information usually was good and if he’d managed to make an informant out of one of the servants in the Polidori house, then Jason felt as if his money had been well spent. But he wanted to know more. Lots more.
The noose around his neck tightened a notch.
Glancing at his watch, he frowned and yanked his briefcase from the top of the desk. In the reception area, Frances was talking on the phone. He headed to the elevators, but she flagged him down. “It’s Guy in Security,” she said, hanging up. “Seems we’ve got a siege of reporters downstairs wanting to talk to you or someone in the Danvers family. And these”—she held up a small pile of messages—“are all from reporters and columnists from all over the country. They want to talk to you about London.” She raised her eyebrows over the tinted lenses of her glasses. “Do we have a new one again?”
“Yes, and a very convincing one,” Jason said, unable to hide his irritation.
“Oh, dear.” Her small lips pursed in her fleshy face. Frances Boothe would lay down her life for Danvers International. “Well, Guy said you might want to avoid the lobby.”
“I am,” he said, flashing her a not-to-worry smile. “They won’t expect me to be going off the roof. Anything else?”
“Miss Monticello called twice. Wanted you to call back.”
Jason’s fingers clenched over the handle of his briefcase at the mention of Kim. She could stew for a while; it wouldn’t hurt her to wait for him. Now that Adria had gone to the press, Kim held nothing over his head—except his affair. Frowning to himself, he dashed down the hall with two vice presidents. They were both talking to him at once, two yes-men who cared more about Danvers International than they did their own families. He managed to respond automatically as they rode the elevator to the helicopter pad on the roof.
The chopper was waiting and Jason was grateful for the roar of the whirring blades that drowned out conversation for the next few minutes. As the helicopter lifted off and he looked down at the city he felt a premonition of doom. At one time he’d been certain he would be the crown prince of Portland. Now, because of Adria Nash, he wasn’t so sure.
It was time to show Ms. Nash what she was up against. Really up against.
Zach glanced at Adria. She was huddled in the far corner of his Jeep, staring at the middle distance through the windshield, but, he guessed, seeing nothing as cars sped around them. She acted as if she didn’t know he was in the rig with her, and he couldn’t forget how close she was. Whenever he was with her, his instincts seemed to sharpen and his nerves were strung tight as bow strings.
Her lower lip protruded slightly and her fingers drummed impatiently upon her leg. Her hair was loose and windblown and fell down one shoulder in thick, unruly curls. Beneath her jacket he noticed the outline of her breasts and he wondered if her resemblance to Kat stopped at her face or continued beneath her clothes…
Angry with himself for the single-minded track of his thoughts, he switched on the headlights and pulled out of the parking lot of a restaurant where he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from gazing at the curve of her cheek, the precocious little dimple when she smiled, the smooth column of her throat, and the roundness of her breasts.
He’d been hard half the day, silently cursing himself for feeling like a sex-starved teenager all over again. It was more than just her looks that attracted him; her mind was just as sexy as the rest of her.
Adria had given one interview after another and though Zach had disapproved, he didn’t have a death wish and didn’t do anything as stupid as try to stop her. He’d stood in the shadows, watching her handle the reporters’ questions deftly, though she couldn’t have missed the innuendoes that she was just a cheap fortune hunter out to steal a dead man’s money. She had managed to stay calm, even injecting a little humor into the situation. From the newspaper-reading and television-watching public’s point of vie
w, Adria Nash was going to look good—damned good—and if the Danvers family didn’t accept her as an honest woman searching for the truth, they would have one hell of a public relations problem.
Zach snorted in disgust. Public relations and public image were Nelson’s department. The kid was certain to be sweating. “Okay, where to?”
“I guess back to the hotel.”
“You’ll have reporters swarming through the lobby,” he predicted. “Your phone will ring off the hook.”
She smiled a little. “I’ll leave that to Security.” Stifling a yawn, she added, “Besides, I think I can handle them.”
“It’s your funeral,” he growled, and she even managed a laugh as he drove to the Orion Hotel. She was tougher than he’d first thought and as she’d so vehemently claimed on more than one occasion, she didn’t run scared easily. Her tenacious and independent spirit had earned her his grudging respect. “The press can be ruthless.”
Her gaze slid in his direction. “I’m used to it.” For a split second he read something more in her eyes than her usual hostility, a dusky look that caused a forbidden quivering deep in his gut. “Don’t worry about it, Zach. I’ll be fine.”
Silently cursing the lust that continually teased the corners of his mind whenever he was around her, he parked near the hotel. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly, hustling her through the gathering mist to the hotel. Their footsteps rang on the wet sidewalk and Adria ducked her head against the wind.
He expected to be crushed by a throng of scandal-hungry reporters, but the lobby was nearly deserted. Only a few people, carrying raincoats and umbrellas, were hurrying in and out of the restaurant and bar.
Adria relaxed a little. It had been a long day and she’d been on edge, if not because of the reporters and their questions, then because of Zachary. He’d been apprehensive, his gray eyes brooding as he’d watched the crowd and tersely answered the few questions cast in his direction. She’d felt his tension hovering in the air, noticed the muscles of his neck flex when a reporter asked a particularly pointed question, and knew the minute he turned his gaze on her. He was with her most of the day, only leaving her for about an hour when she was in an interview with a woman reporter from the Oregonian.
She found it impossible to believe that he was her half-brother. He was just too sexy, too darkly sensual, to be related to her. Surely she wouldn’t find him so attractive, so dangerously alluring, if in fact the same blood ran in their veins. As if he read her thoughts, he turned his eyes on her and she saw it, that tiny flicker of passion that he tried vainly to hide.
Her throat closed in on itself and time seemed to stand still.
She felt as if she and Zach were the only two people in the world. One man. One woman. Licking her lips nervously, she noticed that his gaze was drawn to the movement at her mouth. He swallowed hard.
“Miss Nash?” The clerk at the registration desk was trying to catch her attention.
“Oh, yes,” she said, glad for the interruption. Clearing her throat and praying she wasn’t transparent, she asked, “Are there any messages for me?”
“Does it rain in Oregon?” the desk clerk asked dryly, trying to make a joke as he handed her a thick stack of small papers that filled her fist. She flipped through each missive quickly. Some of the people were reporters, others she didn’t recognize at all, probably just the curious, starstruck that someone dared claim to be London Danvers.
They walked to the elevators and Zach cast one final look over his shoulder before he touched her arm. “You don’t mind if I come up to your room and see if your friend left any more gifts?”
Adria’s heart nearly missed a beat. She hesitated and bit her lip. This is stupid—just plain stupid, Adria. You’ve always been a smart woman, so don’t blow it now! Think, for God’s sake! Being alone in a hotel room with Zachary is asking—no, begging—for trouble so deep you’re sure to drown! He’s asking the impossible! With a lift of her shoulder as she punched the elevator call button, she replied, “Whatever you want.” Oh, God, had she really said that?
They stepped into the elevator car and the atmosphere seemed close, making breathing difficult. Zachary placed both hands on the back rail, leaning his hips against the smoothly polished brass, not attempting to close the distance between them.
She shouldn’t be thinking about Zach like this. She didn’t have time to get involved with a man; she had to remain focused and, until she knew if he was her half-brother, the only sane thing was to stay away from him.
Which seemed impossible.
Well, at least quit thinking of him in any way the least bit sexual, she told herself as the car stopped and the elevator doors parted. He’s the worst candidate for a lover for you. The absolute worst! For God’s sake, use your head, Adria!
Trying to ignore Zach, she stepped into the long hallway. It was deserted and quiet. Almost too quiet. Too empty.
Don’t let your imagination run away with you.
She attempted to shake off the feeling that something was out of place, just not quite right, but as Adria reached for the door, she felt more than a second’s hesitation. Dread made her hand pause, her key extended. Silly as it was, she had the eerie sensation that someone or something evil had been here recently, and a frisson of fear swept down her spine.
Which was ludicrous. She’d just had a long day and the notes and package she’d received earlier were getting to her—that was all. Still, she hesitated before inserting her key.
“Something wrong?” Zachary asked, so close she could feel his breath against the back of her neck.
Don’t be silly.
“No, of course not.”
He lifted a dark brow, encouraging her. “You want me to go in first.”
That did it. “No, Zach, I think I can manage,” she said sarcastically. “Relax with the bodyguard tactics, okay?” Managing a thin smile, she pushed her key into the lock and shouldered open the door.
She took one step inside.
The room was freezing, the air conditioner rumbling.
Adria’s gaze fastened on the full-length mirror near the closet. Her blood turned to ice. “Oh, God,” she whispered, biting back a scream.
“What?” Zach demanded, striding past her, only to stop short as he viewed the scene. “Jesus!”
The mirror was cracked and smeared with blood, as if someone had put a fist through the glass. Upon the splintered pieces, a large, mutilated photograph of Adria had been taped. Her head was severed from her body, the bloody crack in the mirror slicing across her neck. Her eyes had been cut out and rimmed in blood, the mirror behind streaked red, so that when she looked at the image she saw the reflection of her eyes cast in blood.
Adria began to shake. “What kind of monster would do this?” she whispered.
“Someone who wants you out of the picture.” Zach wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t look at it.”
She couldn’t drag her gaze away. Fear congealed inside. “This is crazy,” she whispered. “Certifiably nuts.”
“You got it.”
“Someone hates me.”
“Very much, and you’ve got him backed into a corner.”
“Oh, God.”
“You could just give up, you know,” he said, his chin resting on her crown, his arms wrapping around her. “Forget all this London stuff. The family would pay you—”
She pushed away from him. “Is that what you want? Are you…are you some part of this sickness?” she demanded, her mind racing. Was Zach here at someone’s behest, to be her savior, to talk some sense into her, to make sure she was being driven away?
“I want you to be safe.”
“And leave.”
“Adria—”
“It won’t work. I think I told you before, I don’t scare easily.”
“This isn’t a little prank.”
“I know. But I’m not backing down.” Though she was trembling, she set her jaw. “I can handle this, Zach,” she said and wrapped her ar
ms around her middle. “Sick, twisted bastard. He won’t get away with it. I won’t let him.”
Zach eyed her a second, then quickly checked the bathroom and closets. Both seemed okay. They were alone. “Whoever did it is gone, but not by much, the blood isn’t completely dried. Maybe he got careless, maybe he left a fingerprint or hair or something.”
“Bastard,” she muttered, her insides turning to jelly. Despite her brave words to Zach, she wanted to fall into a million pieces, to throw in the towel, accept defeat and leave. Who the hell cared if she was London Danvers? It wasn’t worth it. Not when she was dealing with a psycho. And yet she couldn’t. Not when she was close enough to have obviously scared the living hell out of the bastard.
“I’m calling the police first and hotel security second.” He checked out the room, then strode to the bedside phone.
“Wait a minute.” She reached for his arm.
“Like hell! This is serious, Adria. Whoever is doing this to you is sick. First the rat, now this.” He picked up the receiver.
“Whoever is doing this is running scared,” she pointed out, trying to keep from panicking, which was damned hard to do. She was safe, she reminded herself. She was with Zach.
But isn’t he part of the family? Hasn’t he encouraged you to back off—even suggested taking a payoff?
The back of her throat turned dry. Could she trust him? And if not Zach, then whom? “I just need a minute to think and…and sort this out and—”
“Stop! Don’t even go there.” He glared at her. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a kid’s prank. Some major pervert is on your case. He’s obviously unhinged. No telling what he’ll do next.”
“I’m…I’m not afraid,” she lied.