by Lisa Jackson
“Yes!” she screamed, not daring to utter that she loved Anthony as she’d never loved Witt and the hands around her face pushed harder. Pain jolted through her brain.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“At least he’s a man, Witt! He knows how to satisfy a woman!”
He roared back and this time the hand that came down against her cheek landed so hard she heard bones crack. A moan escaped her throat.
“A man, eh?” Witt thundered. “I’ll show you a man.”
She’d shivered as he’d held her down with one hand and undid his belt with the other. He’d never beaten her before, but now she was certain he was going to flay her until her skin was raw. Swallowing all of her pride, she whispered, “Don’t, Witt…please…”
“You deserve it.”
“No.” She got one hand free and held it up to protect her face. “Don’t-”
He hesitated, his shirt undone, his breathing hard and fast.
“You’re a whore, Eunice.”
“No-”
“And you deserve to be treated like one.”
Still straddling her, he took her hand and guided it to his fly. “Undo it.”
“No, I-” She withdrew her hand and then held back a little scream as she saw his muscles flex beneath his shirt. He slid his leather belt out of the loops and for a second she saw the flash of a silver buckle-a running horse with sharp little hooves, made of metal that could cut and scar. Oh, God. Pain jolted through her body. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“Take the zipper down.”
“Witt, no-”
“Just do it, Eunice. You’re still my wife.”
“Please, Witt, don’t make me do this,” she whispered and watched as his nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. How had they ever come to this? How had she ever thought she loved him.
“Now!”
Her hands were shaking and she felt revulsion when she noticed the bulge beneath his fly. He was enjoying torturing her and had become hard, after months of impotence, months of silent fury. He’d blame the business, then her, and now he was wreaking his vengeance.
The zipper slid down with a sickening hiss.
“You know what to do. Do for me what you do for Polidori. Show me what it takes to make that filthy bastard come.”
“Witt, no, I don’t want-” He grabbed her by her hair and his eyes glowed with evil rancor. Thick fingers knotted in her French braid as it fell loose.
“We’re going to do what I want, Eunice. You’re going to make me feel good, Eunice, no matter what it takes, no matter how it hurts.” The fingers pulled hard on her hair. “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll never run back to that bastard again!”
Sick to her stomach, she had closed her eyes and given herself up to her husband and all his perversity.
“Mom?” Nelson’s voice broke into her painful reverie.
Startled, she cleared her throat and quickly reached for her napkin to dab at her eyes.
Nelson was staring at her. Her baby. The last of her children. The boy conceived during that night of hell. Never once had there been any question of Nelson’s paternity. Even now, staring at her, his carved features set with worry, he was the spitting image of his father as a young man, a man Eunice had thought she’d loved, a man she could barely remember. Witt Danvers with all his energy, his ambitions, his vision for Portland had seemed the perfect match. Though she wasn’t a dainty woman, he hadn’t minded, probably because she was from the “right” family, had a small fortune of her own, and he felt that she would help and support him.
“It will be ours one day,” he’d said, smiling from a penthouse apartment and looking down at the city. “Every block will have a building with the Danvers name!” She’d believed in him then, trusted him. Until the other women. And the fact that after two children his sex drive at home had dwindled.
Anthony had been the balm for her ego and she’d stupidly fallen in love with him.
“Are you all right?” Nelson asked, snapping her back to the present. His handsome face was etched in concern, his blond brows beetling to form one line. So like Witt. Poor child. Despite the rough, humiliating way Nelson had been conceived, Eunice had loved him, as she’d loved all her children.
“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile. As she stared up at her son now, she thought all the agony and humiliation had been worth it. Clearing her throat, she took her boy’s hand. “Now, tell me what you know about this girl-the one who claims she’s London.”
“There’s not much to say. No one knows anything, except what we heard last night.”
Eunice stirred her coffee as Nelson unburdened himself and she heard the sketchy details of the woman pretending to be London Danvers. Nelson was worried, but that was nothing new; he’d been born worried. As a child he’d had a wild imagination, dreamed of fantasy worlds, and as an adult he was always trying to prove himself-as if he silently knew that he hadn’t been wanted, that he’d been created during an act of violence. His job with the public defender’s office was just to show the populace that although he had been born with a silver spoon wedged firmly between his Danvers gums, he still cared about the little people.
She would help him, of course-as she would help all her children. To make up for the years when she hadn’t been there, when she’d been banished to the role of unfit mother and Jezebel. Witt’s power and money had seen that she had been forced to watch from the outside as he molded her children into little carbon copies of himself.
Of course, it hadn’t worked. Her offspring were too strong-willed on one hand, and too weak on the other. Jason was the most like Witt in personality and he, too, seemed to care little about anything other than the Danvers name, the Danvers money, and the Danvers corporation. Trisha would never really be her own woman. Witt had taken care of that a long time ago. Zach…She smiled as she thought of her second son. He was special. He’d been a thorn in Witt’s side from the minute he was born and Eunice had reveled in her son’s rebellious nature. Nelson was more of a conformist, but he’d only gone along with Witt for his own purposes.
The divorce had been ugly, most of it replayed in the newspapers. Eunice was portrayed as a bored, rich woman who had partaken of numerous affairs, including sleeping with her husband’s sworn enemy. She hadn’t had the energy or the resources to fight Witt’s power, so she’d agreed to a nice little settlement and left her children with their beast of a father. Even now, as she thought about how Witt had manipulated her into losing her darlings, her teeth clenched in silent rage. She should have known better than to have pushed him so far; she should have sacrificed herself and lived with his mood swings and impotence and rage, so that she would never be separated from the children, but she’d been cowardly and accepted his token alimony-blood money-and left.
Her life had never been complete. Even when she’d remarried, she’d been restless and there hadn’t been a night she hadn’t gone to bed feeling guilty as sin and lonely for the chubby little arms and adoring eyes of her babies.
As for her affair with Polidori, it had cooled and cracked as quickly as hot glass dipped in ice water once Witt got wind of the situation. She often wondered if Anthony had used her. If he’d seduced her for the express purpose of tormenting Witt. She blinked rapidly and once again fought the threat of hot tears.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” Nelson said, touching her lightly on the shoulder.
“Right as rain,” she replied, refusing to break down. “Now, come on. Surely we can find out more about this imposter who’s posing as London.”
Adria zipped her huge purse shut, then closed her eyes and rotated her head, straightening the kink that had tightened between her shoulder blades. She’d learned a lot about the history of the Danvers family. They were powerful and influential and had been for over a hundred years. Some of the scandals had been reported to the press, others had only been hinted at, but she felt as if she’d made progress. She had names and dates and more in
formation than she’d ever found in Montana.
She’d started her search in 1974 at the time of the kidnapping and worked backward and forward, learning as much as she could. She wasn’t finished; the Danvers name littered the newspapers before and since the kidnapping, but she needed a break. Gathering her papers, she left her table by the window on the second floor.
Outside, the sun had won the weather battle. Beams reflected off the puddles on the sidewalk and the breeze had died. A few clouds drifted over the sky, but the day, for winter in the Pacific Northwest, was mild. She decided to walk south to the Galleria, an old department store that had been converted to several stories of shops.
She found a café on the first floor.
She’d just picked up the menu when she spied Zachary and her breath caught at the base of her throat. Without a word or an invitation, Zachary picked up the chair opposite hers, turned it around, set it back down, and straddled it.
In the few hours they’d been apart, she’d forgotten how imposing he was. Dressed down in faded Levi’s, flannel shirt, and jacket, he was formidable nonetheless. He hadn’t bothered to shave and his features bordered on harsh. He seemed distinctly displeased as he folded his arms over the back of the chair and glared at her.
“You lied to me.”
“Did I?” she asked as she ignored the sexy slope of his jaw.
“Big time. You didn’t stay at the Benson.”
“Is that a crime?”
“I really don’t give a damn where you stay, but the rest of the family seems to think it’s important.”
“Then I must worry them.”
“Appears so,” he drawled, his gray eyes cloudy.
“What about you? If you don’t ‘give a damn,’ then why are you here?”
“I got elected.”
She wasn’t buying it. She didn’t think that Zachary was the kind of man who let anyone talk him into doing something he opposed.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard.”
She had to hold onto her temper. “You followed me.”
He shrugged and the tense little smile that touched the corners of his mouth infuriated her.
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m here to extend you an invitation.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but a waitress, dressed in a white blouse, black skirt, and bow tie, appeared to take their order and the conversation lagged for a few minutes.
“You weren’t invited here,” she told him once the waitress turned her attention to the next table.
“Just like you weren’t invited last night.”
“Why are you following me?”
“You make some members of the family nervous.”
“You-do I make you nervous?”
He hesitated and stared at her with such scrutiny that she wanted to squirm out of his range of vision. Cold, assessing gray eyes searched her face. “You bother me,” he admitted, tilting his head back, “but you don’t worry me.”
“You still don’t believe me.”
“You don’t believe it yourself, not really.”
There was just no winning this argument. Zach Danvers was obviously like a terrier with a bone and he believed what was convenient. Fine, she told herself, let him think what he wants, but the cynical disbelief in his eyes made her uncomfortable. She took a sip from her water glass and decided she should try to make some peace with this man. He was her only link to the family.
“You said something about an invitation,” Adria reminded him as she buttered a slice of sourdough bread.
“The family thinks it would be a good idea if you would stay in the Hotel Danvers.”
She should have expected as much, but she hadn’t. “So it’s easier for them to spy on me.”
“Probably.”
“Well, you can tell the family to go to hell.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “Already have.”
“Look, Zach. I don’t like being manipulated, I hate being followed, and I detest the feeling that Big Brother is watching me.” She broke off a piece of bread and chewed it.
“You came looking for us, remember?”
That much was true. With a sigh, she blew her bangs out of her eyes. She shouldn’t have let her temper get the better of her. She was tired from too little sleep on a sagging mattress, grumpy from lack of food, and her nerves were strung tight as piano wires at the thought of facing the Danvers family, her family, again.
“I just want you to help me find the truth.”
“I know the truth,” he said.
“If you’re so sure, why are you following me?”
Zach studied her another long minute. “I think you’re going to stir up a hornet’s nest the likes of which you’ve never seen before and I think you’ll regret it.”
“My mistake to make.”
“I’m just warning you.”
“About what?” She leaned her elbows on the table and pushed her face closer to his. “I’ve had months to think this through, Zachary. I had doubts, of course I did, but I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering who I am.”
“What if you find out you’re not London?”
Her smile was slow and sexy and caused Zach’s diaphragm to cram hard against his lungs. “I believe in crossing bridges when I come to them.”
The waitress brought their orders and Adria dived into her soup with a vengeance.
“Jason thought you might be more comfortable at a suite in the hotel.” Zach took a bite of his sandwich.
“Concerned for my health and safety, is he?” she mocked.
Zach lifted a shoulder.
“Tell him ‘thanks but no thanks.’ The cost’s a little too high.”
“The room is gratis.”
“I wasn’t talking about money.” Her eyes met his for an instant and again Zach felt an unwanted tug on his gut. She was getting to him, with her clear blue eyes, sexy smile, and quick wit. He didn’t say another word until they were finished with their meal and he insisted on paying. She argued, of course, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and in the end, she gave up, deciding that she’d forgo the small battles for the larger ones to come, or so she’d said.
The streets were crawling with people by the time they started walking back to the library. Cars, trucks, bicycles, and pedestrians clogged the alleys and sidewalks. Adria yanked the rubber band holding her hair away from her face and shook the loose curls free. Zach’s mouth went dry as the wild blue-black strands shimmered in the sunlight. She looked so damned much like Kat it was eerie.
“So what was it that caused the rift between you and your father?” she asked as she shifted her shoulder bag from one arm to the other.
“I was a pain in the neck.”
She let out a little laugh. “That, I believe.”
“Always getting into trouble with the law.”
“Oh.”
“Witt didn’t approve. He wanted all of us to graduate at the top of our class from an Ivy League school…or if we couldn’t get in, then Reed College would do since it’s kind of a family tradition…afterward we were to finish law school and join a prestigious firm.”
“You’re a lawyer?” She knew better, of course, but wanted to see his response.
“Not hardly,” he said with a distasteful snort.
“But you just said-”
“I didn’t really count, though, remember?” His face was set in a hard expression she was beginning to recognize, though he didn’t look contrite, nor did he seem to want to elicit her sympathy. His eyes were hard, his chin thrust forward as if he were about to prove his worth.
But to whom?
“Just what is it you do, when you’re not renovating hotels?”
“Come on, Adria, don’t play stupid. It doesn’t wash. You already know that I’m a builder. I spent a lot of years remodeling houses, then ended up fixing the ranch. I guess I just stayed on.”
“The family’s ranch?”
&nbs
p; He shot her a look. “Yep.”
“You run it, now?”
“You already know this.”
“What about building?”
“Still have a construction company. In Bend.”
“A jack-of-all-trades?”
“I do what I have to.” They reached the park surrounding the library. Cocking his head toward the building, he asked, “So did you dig up all the dirt on the family?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“And then you’ll know if you’re really London.”
“I hope so.”
His lips compressed. “I can save you a whole lot of time and money and effort-you’re not.”
A breeze feathered through her hair. “How can you be so sure?”
“Practice,” he said.
She lifted a finely arched brow in a gesture that mimicked his stepmother’s so perfectly that his stomach squeezed. “So are you going to follow me around for the rest of my life?”
“I’m just waiting for an answer.”
“An answer?” she asked, squinting a little as the sun was behind his shoulder.
“That’s right. What’s it going to be, Adria?” he asked, unable to camouflage the contempt in his voice. “Are you content to stay in that dump on Eighty-second or are you going to gamble and move into a higher-rent district and take the all-expenses-paid suite at the Hotel Danvers?”
This one is different.
No one could dispute that she looked so much like Kat. The eyes, the hair, the cheekbones, the smile…Damn it all to hell! Why now? Why?
A fist pounded the steering wheel and the car shimmied and shivered along the familiar, rain-slickened streets of the West Hills. Heart hammering, the driver grasped the steering wheel in a death grip, straightening the wheels while disturbing images of Katherine LaRouche Danvers came to mind.
So supple.
So sexy.
So assured of her sexuality-that with a come-hither smile or naughty laugh she could cause any man, any man, to do her bidding.
And she’d been right.
Bile rose in the driver’s throat with the erotic pictures that Kat could evoke.
But it had all changed in the end.
A smile toyed at the edge of the driver’s mouth as the car approached a traffic light.