by Lisa Jackson
“Like hell. You’re afraid and I’m afraid. Don’t give me any of that crap. Look, I didn’t fight you when you wanted to go to the press, and I stood by like a friggin’ wooden Indian while you gave your interviews. But I’m not gonna have something happen to you just because you’re too bullheaded to back off when some major nutcase is threatening you.”
“You want me to back off?”
“Hell, yes!”
“That’s what he wants. What he expects.”
“Fine. Who cares?”
“I do.”
He glared at her. “Then you’re not as smart as I give you credit for.” He crossed the room and grabbed her shoulders before thrusting his face next to hers. His nostrils were flared and his eyes narrowed. “You’re getting out of here tonight.”
She decided not to argue. She couldn’t stay in this room a second longer than necessary. “I get the message,” she said, her nerves beyond frayed. “And you’re right, I am afraid. What happened here tonight scares the hell out of me.”
“It should.”
“But,” she admitted, “I’m trying to stay as calm as possible—which isn’t easy.”
“Amen to that.”
“So how does he get in here?”
“With a key—someone on the staff,” Zach said, thinking aloud as he took another quick look around the room. He squeezed her shoulders gently, then let go. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. You’re not safe here.”
She didn’t try to stop him from calling the police. He was right; she knew it. Len Barry wasn’t on duty, but another detective, Celia Stinson, arrived and took charge by sealing off the room and calling in a crime-scene team. The hotel security officer wasn’t happy, but Stinson didn’t seem to care as she gave orders, took notes, and listened to what Adria and Zach had to say. Then, after hearing about the notes, dead rat, and observing firsthand the magnitude of the stalker’s depravity, she advised Adria to move. Pronto.
“And I’m not talking about just down the hall,” she said, eyeing the cracked mirror, picture, and smeared blood as a photographer took pictures of the scene and another officer was dusting the room for prints. Still another was carefully vacuuming the carpet. “This creep means business. And he’s dangerous. Go to another hotel, preferably far away.”
Adria provided the detective with a statement and a list of people she thought might be trying to terrorize her. Most of them were members of the Danvers family.
Who would try to terrorize her?
Jason?
Trisha?
Nelson?
Someone she didn’t know about? Someone who was afraid that she really was London Danvers.
Adria glanced at Zach and prayed that he wasn’t a part of this…surely he wasn’t. His fear and anger seemed too sincere.
But who? Who was so desperate? So determined? So deadly?
From the corner of her eye, Adria caught her reflection in the cracked, bloodied mirror and her heart nearly stopped. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale, her image distorted.
For the briefest of seconds Adria felt as if she’d been given a glimpse of the future and witnessed her own death.
19
Hell.
That’s what the last three days had been: pure hell.
So far the police hadn’t located the perpetrator who had terrorized Adria. The crime scene at the Orion Hotel had given up no fingerprints nor any other substantial evidence. Zach had spent most or his time with Adria, either dealing with the media circus that her announcement had created or camped out on her doorstep at the run-down hotel in Estacada, miles away from the city. He’d taken the room next to hers and insisted they keep the connecting door unlocked should she need help. Every night since then he’d spent hours looking at the unlocked door and thinking about her—how warm and innocent she would look with her hair fanned around her face, her dark lashes curled over her rosy cheeks, and her breasts visible over the edge of the sheets. The image had nearly driven him out of his mind.
He’d even given in once, opened the door and looked in, watching as she lay sleeping. Moonlight had spilled through the window and she’d sighed, her lips parting gently as she rolled over. Her eyelids had fluttered for a second and he’d stood still as death, but she hadn’t awakened and he’d somehow found the strength to turn away from her. He’d gritted his teeth, slept little, and spent more time taking cold showers than he wanted to admit.
So far, it seemed, no one knew where she was staying. He hadn’t told a soul and unless she opened her gorgeous mouth, she should be safe. She had talked about more permanent quarters, but he’d managed to convince her that mobility was important should her personal nutcase find her and force her to leave in a hurry.
Now, as he stared across the table of the little out-of-the-way tavern where he hoped neither of them would be recognized, she was smiling up at him with a wicked little glint in her eye.
“You’re paranoid,” she accused over clam chowder.
Men in work clothes bellied up to the bar, where peanuts, pretzels, and popcorn were offered for free and the television was tuned in to a basketball game. From the sounds of the crowd, the Portland Trail Blazers were ahead.
“Family trait.” He pushed his platter aside. “Guess you can’t be part of the Danvers clan if you don’t have it.”
“Guess not,” she said with a teasing smile that caught on the strings of his heart. Hell, but he was becoming a fool over her.
She looked suddenly guilty, as if she’d been keeping something from him. “I got a phone call,” she admitted. He waited for the rest of it and guessed that she’d spent hours, maybe days, deliberating on whether or not she should confide in him.
“Who called?” he asked as his patience gave out. He felt the brackets near the corners of his mouth deepening.
“Mario Polidori.”
“He knows you’re here?” Zach’s smile faded and his entire countenance turned to stone.
“Probably a lot of people do,” she pointed out as she waved the end of her spoon at him. “Your family’s having me followed, I’m sure of it. And they’re probably not the only ones. With all the interest in the media…”
“Christ!” He rubbed the back of his neck in agitation and his gut wrenched—a sure sign that he expected trouble. He didn’t often foresee it and find out that somehow trouble had managed to slip him by. Why hadn’t she told him earlier? They could have moved to another spot somewhere farther up in the hills—or toward the beach. Somewhere safe. “Anyone else call?”
She shook her head and her wild hair brushed across her shoulders. “Just Polidori.”
“What does he want?”
“To talk to me, obviously.” She let her spoon clatter back in her empty bowl. Should she tell Zach about the Polidoris’s offer? She considered it, but decided to hold her tongue. What good would it do? Knowing that the Italian family was looking for ways to buy chunks of Danvers International would only serve to make him more angry and suspicious than he already was. And she didn’t need to be on the receiving end of his particularly bad temper. Since she, if she did prove to be London, had no intention of selling the hotel or any part of the vast businesses to Polidori or anyone else, it seemed a moot point.
“Stay away from him,” Zach advised.
“Why?”
“There’s bad blood.”
“Oh, don’t give me that old feud thing.” Someone turned on the jukebox and the notes of a country ballad drifted through a cloud of smoke.
“It exists, Adria. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” Her gaze shifted to the fine line cleaving along the side of his face. It was barely visible, but seemed to serve as a constant reminder to him. No doubt he was still convinced that his attack at the Orion had been orchestrated by the Polidori family.
Near the bar, there was a roar of approval from the patrons watching the basketball game. Hoots and hollers filled the room, obscuring the announcer’s voice and drowning out the music. The Blazers must have f
ound the bucket again.
“Why don’t you fill me in on the details of the feud,” she suggested once the din died down and some drunk offered to buy the house a round. “Then I’ll decide if I want to meet Mario.”
“The feud,” he said, obviously reluctant to talk about it.
“I know some of the story already.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Come on, Zach. Tell me about it.”
Gazing at her thoughtfully, he rolled his long-necked bottle of Henry’s between his palms. He frowned silently, then shrugged.
“Okay, why not? You probably know most of the gory details anyway. It’s always been there—ever since I was a kid—This…intense hatred of a family I’d never even met. You’ve probably read about most of it,” he said, and she nodded, deciding it best not to mention talking to Maria Santiago.
The waitress came with a fresh bottle of beer for Zach and after she’d swept away the empty bottle and glasses, cleared the platters and bowls, slapped a bill on the table, and left balancing her precarious load, Zach told the story of the Polidoris and Danverses. His version was about the same as she’d heard before.
Zach scowled. “It’s all such a waste.” He downed part of his beer, left the rest and paid the bill. They walked outside. The night was cool but clear and a million stars glittered in a soft ebony sky. Fir trees loomed like ancient sentinels around the old tavern and the sounds of a creek splashing over smooth stones cut through the still night.
Her defenses were down as she climbed into the Jeep. It seemed right to be with Zach and she wondered at the fact that she’d met him only a short while ago—or had she? A part of her felt as if she’d known him all her life.
He drove her into the foothills of the mountains on a zigzagging course that followed the Clackamas River. At a wide spot in the road he parked and helped her down a seldom-used trail that led to the water’s edge. Even in the darkness, she smelled the clear water mixed with the scents of damp earth and fir trees, and felt the force of the river as it roared and surged through the cliffs.
A cool breeze sped down the canyon as if riding on the back of the river and Adria felt its breath upon her face. She shivered, rubbed her arms, and Zach slipped out of his denim jacket, then tossed it over her shoulders, his fingers never touching her. “I thought you might like to see this,” he said, as if he needed a reason to explain himself. “Whenever things are cloudy or unfocused for me, I usually spend some time where the power of nature is the strongest. Sometimes it clears things up. If I’m near the coast, I walk on the beach and stare at the breakers. If I’m on the ranch, I ride into the mountains to the creeks that feed into the Deschutes River, and if I’m in the city, well, I usually drive up here.”
“Alone?” she asked and his smile slashed in the night.
“Always.”
A night bird cried plaintively and the forest with its ancient trees seemed to close around them, separating the rest of the world from this little stretch of water. “You were telling me about the feud,” she prodded and she saw the tension return to his hard features.
“It just goes on and on, doesn’t it? Good old Witt—the great man you hope to prove is your father—was as tough and single-minded as his old man. Witt was willing to do whatever he had to in order to preserve the Danvers fortune and name.
“You didn’t like him.”
“Never,” Zach admitted.
“But you respected him?”
“I hated the son of a bitch.” Zach stared at the river and in the pale moonlight, Adria could see his features, stark and harsh, set without a trace of remorse.
“What about your mother?”
He snorted, his lips thinning thoughtfully. “Eunice…she’s something. Complex,” he said as if weighing his words. “She says one thing and does another.”
Adria had heard the story of Eunice Patricia Prescott Danvers Smythe. As a young woman, Eunice had been the socially correct choice as a bride for Witt Danvers. Only child of rich parents, she had her own money, a quick wit, and regal bearing, though it was reported she had been cursed with a mind of her own. Some people had thought her spoiled and disdainful and a woman scorned. There were sketchy references to other women in Witt’s life, especially when he was younger, and Maria, the maid, had admitted that Witt’s affairs had been whispered about around town as well as into Eunice’s ear. Though she’d borne him two children, a son and a daughter, Witt hadn’t been satisfied with his willful wife and had spent many nights out.
Maria had mentioned that she’d overheard an argument in which Eunice had accused Witt of impotence, but it had to have been just the vindictive words of a bitter woman for it hadn’t proved true. Eunice had given Witt two more children, Zachary and Nelson.
From the beginning, there had been speculation about Zachary’s paternity. Zachary was still staring across the dark, angry river.
“Your mother seems to care about all of you,” Adria said tentatively.
“My mother left us.”
“Because she had no choice.”
His jaw worked. “That’s what she claimed.” He bent down, gathered up a rock, and hurled it over the river with all the pent-up fury in his muscles.
“You expected her to stay with your father?”
“No,” Zach said, his lips compressing in the darkness as he reached for another stone and flung it over the canyon. Then, as if sensing the futility of his actions, he walked to the base of an ancient fir tree and leaned against its rough trunk. “I expected her to take us with her.”
“But she couldn’t—”
“She wouldn’t, you mean. Back then, divorce courts and judges usually favored the mother, even if the father was as powerful a man as Witt Danvers. But Eunice was too scared to go public, too interested in saving face and getting as much money from Witt as her attorney could wangle. She had a lifestyle to maintain. The truth of it is, even when we kids were young, Eunice spent more time at the MAC club working out and socializing than she did with us. And then, once my father decided to divorce her, she didn’t want her reputation ruined by the fact that father was a womanizer and she’d had an affair with Polidori—” He cast a hard glance in Adria’s direction, assessing her reaction. “You didn’t really think I was naive enough not to know what people thought or deaf enough not to have heard the talk.” His smile was as cold as the bottom of the river. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard people conjecture that I was Polidori’s son. It’s just not true.”
She moved closer to him and stood beneath the drooping boughs of the massive tree. The smells of damp earth and spring water mingled in the air and carried with them the underlying scent of musk, unadulterated and male. The night was seductive as it folded, like a gentle black cloak, around them. “Even then there were blood tests. You could have proved that you were—”
“Are you kidding? Witt Danvers go to a doctor to prove that he had fathered his own son?” His voice was harsh, barely audible over the rush of water cutting through the trees. “You don’t have any idea what kind of man he was. A mean bastard who thought nothing of slapping his wife around, or controlling his kids with a belt, or buying up smaller businesses on the verge of bankruptcy for a song. He clear-cut forests, stripping the land bare, never once thinking about reforestation or erosion or anything but how the chain saw could bring him more money. Without batting an eye, he closed sawmills and logging camps, putting families out of work and never gave a damn, not if the bottom line told him there was a chance to make more money elsewhere. He was unbending and ruthless and proud of his power. He would never, never have submitted to paternity tests. You have to understand, Adria, that he didn’t care about anyone or anything except himself, the bottom line, his own damned pride, and London—hell, yes, he cared about London.” He turned and the moonlight caught in his furious eyes.
“You didn’t like her.”
“She was just a kid,” he said, staring at Adria’s face, his eyes moving slightly as if he were tr
ying to find a flaw in her features, looking for certain proof that she couldn’t be the little girl he remembered. Adria’s heart kicked into double time and she found it suddenly hard to breathe. One of Zach’s fingers touched the side of her face, stroking her cheek as he stared at her. “London was precocious, stubborn, and smart as a whip. She had Witt wrapped around her little finger and she knew it. She followed me around like a damned puppy. I didn’t need it, but I wouldn’t say I didn’t like her. In fact I thought it was kind of funny the way the old man made a fool of himself over her.” He reached up and captured a strand of Adria’s hair. Her throat, suddenly scorched, closed in on itself. “I don’t know if you’re London,” he said slowly, his teeth flashing white in the darkness, “but if you are, it’s gonna make things a helluva lot more complicated.” He paused for a heartbeat, his eyes locking with hers. She swallowed hard and her pulse pounded in her throat.
In that forever instant she knew he was going to kiss her.
She gave a small sound of protest as he slowly lowered his head, but she didn’t stop him. His lips found hers in the darkness. Warm, anxious, burning, they molded over her mouth with a possession that was frightening.
Her heart drummed in her ears as his arms closed around her, dragging her close, forcing her to feel the heat of his blood, the fire in his loins.
Hot and hard, his body pressed hers and his tongue slid between her parted lips.
A pool of desire began to swirl deep within her.
She wound her arms around his neck, feeling the brush of the hair over his collar on the back of her hand, tasting the salt on his skin, smelling his musky scent, feeling the bulge in his jeans where he held himself so intimately against her.
He reached beneath her sweater, touching her abdomen before scaling her ribs with hard, work-roughened fingers.
“God, you feel good,” he moaned as he slipped his hand beneath the flimsy lace. She groaned, wanting more, knowing being with him was a mistake.
“Adria,” he ground out as the tip of one finger brushed against her taut, waiting nipple. He kissed her again, harder still. He shoved the jacket off her shoulders and pulled her sweater over her head.