by Lisa Jackson
Cool air swept up her abdomen. His mouth moved slowly and sensuously along her jaw and her neck, his tongue licking a hot path to the circle of bones at the base of her throat where her pulse hammered impatiently.
Adria sagged against the tree.
When he lifted his head and stared into her eyes, her bones turned to water. “I want you,” he whispered, his voice as tortured as the wind racing through the trees.
“I know.”
“We can’t do this.”
“I know.”
His hand cupped a breast and she closed her eyes and threw back her head, telling herself that she wouldn’t, couldn’t make love to him, but as his mouth surrounded her nipple, her will vanished as quickly as if it had been ripped from her by the angry wind before being carried far away. His supple tongue and lips suckled through the wet lace of her bra and her knees gave way. They tumbled to the ground, disturbing the thick carpet of needles beneath the tree. The river rushed at a furious, wintry pace, and Adria cradled his head closer, her fingers twining in the thick strands of his hair.
Dangerous thoughts mingled with reckless abandon. Why not make love to him? You don’t know if he’s your brother…you don’t know if he thinks of you as Kat.
“Adria, for the love of God,” he said hoarsely and buried his face in her abdomen. His breath was a tempting desert wind, trickling past the waistband of her jeans, touching the most feminine part of her. She kissed his crown.
He drew in a long, shaky gulp of air, then rolled away from her.
“Zach—”
“Leave me alone.”
“But—”
“For Christ’s sake, get dressed,” he ordered, not even looking over his shoulder.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right. Put your damned clothes on and pretend this didn’t happen.” He jumped to his feet, kicked the flashlight toward her, and started hiking up the path in the darkness.
Damn the man! He could be so maddening! Scrambling into her clothes, she refused to feel an ounce of remorse. She hadn’t tried to seduce him and what had been simmering between them for over a week was just starting to ignite. She knew she had to tread carefully, and that deep down, he was right. She couldn’t make love to a man who could be her half-brother, but she’d be condemned to hell before she accepted sole responsibility for the desire that sizzled between them. Grabbing the flashlight, she marched up the path, muttering under her breath as the small beam bobbed ahead of her and the rush of the river faded into the distance.
As she rounded a final bend in the trail, she spied the Jeep, headlights splashing twin beams on the grizzled bark of a huge trunk. Someone had carved initials into the rough bark, surrounding their art with an imperfect heart. How ironic.
As she climbed into the passenger’s side of the Cherokee, she shot a furious glare in his direction.
“That was a mistake,” he said.
“You’ll get no arguments from me.”
“Good.”
“Just don’t act as if I started it.”
“It just happened, okay? It won’t happen again.” But even as the words passed his lips, he knew they were a lie. There was no way in hell he could keep his hands off her.
Later, Adria saw no reason to tell Zach she was going to meet Mario Polidori. Zach had been furious when she’d mentioned that Mario had called. She decided she’d had enough with his overprotective attitude. Half the time he acted like her older brother, the other half he seemed as if he wanted to be her lover.
Warring emotions battled inside her and she decided she needed to get away from him to clear her head, to set her sights back on the path of her quest. She had to find out if she was London. If she was, she’d fight the entire Danvers clan to gain her birthright; if she wasn’t…then she’d leave. Or she’d become Zach’s lover. Either way, she was risking emotional suicide.
She parked her battered car on the street near the old vegetable market where Stefano Polidori had first made his fortune. Located only four blocks from the Hotel Danvers, the market was now closed, and a new high-rise office building was being considered for the property.
Mario was waiting, leaning against a lamppost near an Irish pub. “I had just about given up on you,” he said.
She was uneasy, but managed to hide her case of nerves. “I said I’d be here.”
“I know, but I thought your friend might have persuaded you to stand me up.” He straightened and offered her an engaging, brilliant smile.
“My friend?”
Mario held the door to the bar open for her. “Zachary Danvers. Your brother.”
Adria’s stomach plummeted.
“Hasn’t he been playing the part of bodyguard?”
“He’s not playing anything,” Adria said as Mario followed her into the smoky interior. Laughter and loud conversation filtered out from the bar. Glasses clinked and pool balls clicked and darts zipped through the air. A jazz band was playing from a makeshift stage, but most of the music was drowned out by the raucous patrons.
Without asking, Mario ordered two Irish coffees before he got down to business. “My father and I were wondering if you had thought about our proposal.”
“A little,” she hedged as a slim waitress slid two glass mugs in front of them. “And the truth of the matter is that I can’t make any deals with you or your father.” With a thin plastic straw she stirred the green drizzle of créme de menthe into the whipped cream floating on her coffee.
“You don’t know that.”
“What I don’t know is who I am. But if I do find out I’m London, then I won’t be making any big demands on the company.”
His dark brows lifted in surprise. “You would own over half of it.”
“I’d still be the outsider.”
“But—”
“Where I come from, Mario, you look before you leap and I can tell you this straight out—I don’t have plans to sell or change anything at Danvers International. In fact, unless I find glaring incompetence, I probably won’t make any big waves.”
“That surprises me.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully, his dark eyes assessing.
“I believe in the old adage ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’” she said, thinking of the long, hot summer days under the blistering Montana sun and how many times her father had said those very words to her. Her father. The man who had raised her, who had often placed a hand on her shoulder in a tender gesture reserved for her. She missed him now and knew that even if Witt Danvers proved to be the man who had sired her, Victor Nash would always be her father.
“Tell me more of yourself,” Mario suggested, but Adria only smiled.
“It’s boring. Really. I grew up on a Montana farm. Worked all week, went to church on Sundays. End of story.”
“I doubt it,” he said slyly.
“Why don’t you tell me about you and your family—it has to be a lot more interesting than hauling hay and making jam.”
“You’re playing with me.”
“No, I honestly want to know,” she said. “Come on. What was it like growing up as Anthony Polidori’s son?”
Mario’s smile widened and his dark eyes sparkled. “It was hell,” he said mockingly. “Servants, chauffeurs, two houses in Portland, a condo in Hawaii, and a villa in Mexico. No child should suffer as I did.”
Adria had to laugh.
He told her interesting stories about private Catholic schools and nuns with quick tempers and long rulers that they were ready to rap against the palms and knuckles of those children whose piety wasn’t convincing. She heard about his mother’s early death, probably from the frustration of dealing with her hardheaded son and husband, and his own run-ins with his father.
“But you seem close now,” Adria observed.
“I was younger. Rebellious. Horny.” He shrugged. “You must know how that is…”
“Do I?”
“Your turn, Adria. Tell me about you.”
Staring into his d
ark eyes, she experienced a sudden rush of insight. No matter how she felt about him, this man would like to seduce her. “Why did you ask me to meet you?”
“There was the business about Danvers International,” he said, seeming amused that she would so quickly draw away from him. Obviously he liked a challenge. “But also, I wanted to meet you and get to know you better.” He took a swallow of his drink, frowned, and added sugar.
“Okay, but let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “I’m not a pushover.” She didn’t trust him but knew he could supply her with information on the Danvers family that might help her cause.
“I believe it.” He motioned to the waiter and indicated that he wanted another round. “I think we could learn a lot from each other.” His smile was decidedly wicked.
Trisha watched from the shadows of the alley across the street. She saw Mario with Adria and jealousy swarmed through her. Angrily she thought of how much she’d given up for him, how much she’d loved him, how much they had shared and suffered together. Obviously, it meant nothing to him.
Tears burned her eyes. She prided herself on her tough exterior, her ability to hide the pain that never seemed to go away, even with drugs and booze.
With trembling hands she lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into her lungs. She should have ended her affair with Mario years ago, but she never had been able to completely forget him. Just when she was certain he was out of her system, that she was over him, he’d call or send a single flower and she would run into his waiting arms. Even during her brief marriage she’d carried on with Mario in secret, lying to her husband, cheating on him, cuckolding him because she couldn’t give up her most deeply imbedded vice: Mario Polidori.
She’d been only a girl when she’d met Mario and it had been a thrill to see him behind her father’s back, behind his father’s back. He’d introduced her to wine and marijuana and in return, she’d given him her virginity in the backseat of his father’s red Cadillac Eldorado. Her interest in art had waned and she’d skipped lessons just to meet with him at the river, in a room rented by the hour, in a farmer’s field, wherever they could be wild and free and laugh at their stodgy old fathers and their silly feud.
The lump in her throat turned hard as she stared past the café curtains of the Irish pub. Mario tossed his head back and his teeth flashed as he laughed. Trisha’s stomach wrenched and her fingers balled into fists of frustration. She wouldn’t stay here and watch him humiliate her with that woman—the phoney claiming to be London.
At the thought of her half-sister, Trisha felt she might be sick. It would be hard losing Mario to someone pretending to be London. London, who had managed to steal all their father’s attention. London, born to be a beauty. London, the princess, the treasure of the Danvers family.
Nauseous, Trisha turned away from the damning view and headed back to her car. Tears came unbidden to her eyes and she silently swore that Mario would pay and pay dearly for this slap in the face. Tossing her cigarette into the darkness she ran to her car and tried to erase the image of Mario laughing and joking, sharing a drink and a smile with the imposter.
No doubt he would try to seduce Adria. Mario believed himself to be a great lover and Trisha certainly couldn’t argue with his skill in bed. Unfortunately, his appetite was insatiable and he’d never been faithful to her, not even when Trisha had turned up pregnant. She remembered that night with soul-jarring clarity.
She’d finally worked up the nerve to tell him about the baby after they’d made love in the motel near the airport.
His body was still dewy with sweat and she’d stretched out beside him, running her fingers down the sleek muscles of his arms.
“I have a secret,” she’d said as he reached for a pack of Winstons.
“Do you?” He struck a match, lit up, and blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. With a smile, he asked, “What is it?”
“Something special.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You’re going to be a father.”
Silence. Dead silence.
“In September,” she’d rushed on as his eyebrows pulled together and smoke drifted from his nostrils. Then he smiled—that winning, cocky grin, and she knew everything would be all right.
“A father. Me? Yeah, right.” His words were filled with sarcasm as he laughed. Slapping her on her naked rump, he added, “Good one, Trisha, you nearly had me believing that you were knocked up.”
Her back stiffened and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. She’d fantasized that he would smile and twirl her off her feet and promise to marry her when she told him of the baby. She’d even been silly enough to believe that their love—and this baby, this precious, precious baby—might put an end to the horrid feud that existed between their families. Love would conquer over hatred.
“You’re kiddin’, right?” he said when he saw the tears filling the corners of her eyes.
“I’m going to have a baby, Mario,” she said angrily as she’d climbed out of bed and threw her sweater over her head. “Your baby.”
He stared at her for several long seconds, the cigarette dangling neglected from his lips, the ash growing. “No—”
“It’s true! Whether you like it or not, we’re going to be parents!”
“Oh, God, Trisha, how could you do this?” he’d whispered, his dark complexion turning pasty white. He rubbed his forehead as if he were trying to erase the entire conversation.
“I didn’t do it. We did.”
“But are you sure?”
“I had a test at the free clinic.”
“Fuck.” He fell onto the mattress and cradled his head in his hands. “How could this have happened?”
“You know how it happened.”
“This couldn’t have come at a worse time. My old man’s—”
“For crying out loud, Mario. I didn’t plan it. Sorry if it’s inconvenient for you,” she snarled, hurting inside. The room shook as a great jet roared through the sky and Trisha felt like dying inside.
Jabbing out his cigarette in a tray, he looked up at her. As if finally realizing how distressed she was, he opened his arms and motioned for her to join him on the bed. “Come on, Trisha. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s a miracle,” she said, defensive of her unborn child. “A miracle.”
“ ’Course it is.”
She didn’t trust him and tears threatened to overtake her again. “You aren’t happy.”
“Sure I am” he said, though his voice sounded glum. “I…I was just shocked, that’s all. Hell, it’s not every day you get news like this.” He patted the bed beside him and she sat on the edge of the stained mattress. His strong arms surrounded her and she wanted to trust him again—to believe in their love. His breath, smoky and warm, teased her ear. “You want this—this baby?”
“Don’t you?”
“Oh, sure. Sure.”
She relaxed a little, though she wished she’d heard more conviction in his voice.
“I guess this is the part where I should ask you to marry me, huh?”
Sniffing back her tears, she nodded. “I think that’s the proper thing to do.”
“Hey, well, proper. That’s me. Okay, then I’m askin’. Trisha, will you marry me?”
“Of course I will,” she’d vowed, throwing her arms around his neck and tumbling into the bed with him. “I love you, Mario. I’ve always loved you and I will love you until the day I die.”
“That’s my girl,” he’d said, kissing her and patting the top of her head as if she were a child.
Two weeks later they’d broken the news to their parents and both Witt and Anthony had hit the roof.
According to Mario, Anthony had called his son a dumb fuck and forbade him from ever seeing Trisha again. If Mario wanted to fall in love and get married, there was always that nice Lanza girl who lived in the neighborhood; and if he wanted to be so stupid as to knock someone up, Mario should have his head examined. He’d been told to q
uit thinking with his cock and start listening to reason. Anthony had warned his son never to see Trisha again, and Mario agreed.
But Mario had broken that promise. The next week Mario told Trisha about the scene with his father. To Trisha, Mario had seemed spinelessly relieved.
Witt had been working in his den and had been even more furious than Mario’s father. When Trisha broke the news to her father, Witt had turned crimson and been consumed by a rage so deep, Trisha feared for her life.
“You’ll never marry Polidori,” Witt had vowed, rounding the desk and kicking an antique vase that had shattered into a million pieces.
“You can’t stop me!” Trisha could be just as bullheaded as her father.
“You’re underage, Trisha. Sixteen, for crying out loud! We could have that bastard up on statutory rape.”
“He loves me, Dad. He wants to marry me.”
“Over my dead body,” Witt insisted. “This is one helluva blow, but we can still take care of things. There’s still time.”
“What do you mean?” she had asked, refusing to understand. But her stomach had begun to flutter in anxiety.
“I know a doctor who’ll—”
“No!” she’d screamed. “I’ll never have an abortion! Oh, God, Dad, you can’t be serious!” Panic screamed through her blood. Lose the baby? No! She’d run away before she’d let her father snuff out the life of her unborn child. Protectively she held her middle.
“Either you take care of this my way or the boy gets arrested,” Witt insisted, his face twisted in hatred. “And don’t mess with me, Trisha, ’cause there’s nothing I’d like better than to see Polidori’s only son in jail.”
“You wouldn’t—”
Witt’s lip had curled and his blue eyes had gleamed with pure malice. “He defiled you, Trisha. Raped you and got you pregnant. He used you—like some common slut. And if you think I’ll allow you to have Polidori’s child, you can think again.”
“I won’t—”
Witt had raised his hand, intending to strike her, and Trisha let out a bloodcurdling wail.