by Lisa Jackson
“My pleasure,” Mario said smoothly. He was tanned and good-looking, with even features, curling black hair cut longer than fashionable, and eyes the color of obsidian.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” she said, deciding not to play games.
Anthony smiled and tapped his son on the knee with his cane. “She was surprised.” He patted her arm as the limousine pulled away from the curb. “You’ve not heard of the feud between the Danvers family and my own?” His voice was skeptical.
“A little,” she hedged, not wanting to give anything away.
“I bet.” For a few seconds he seemed lost in thought and only the soft sound of classical music filled the plush interior of the car. “Mario, where are your manners? Ask Ms. Nash if she cares for a drink.”
“Later, maybe,” she said, but Mario ignored her and poured a glass of wine from a bottle chilling in an ice bucket.
“Please, be our guest,” Mario insisted. Probably in his late thirties or early forties, Mario wore his good looks like an expensive suit. He seemed to pose as he sat across from her. As he handed her the stemmed glass of chilled wine, his fingers brushed hers for just a fraction of an instant but his gaze touched hers briefly before he removed his hand.
Staring out the tinted windows, Anthony clucked his tongue. “It’s sad, this feud,” he admitted, “but it can’t be helped. It goes back for generations, you see. Starting with Julius Danvers and my father.”
That much Adria understood. Maria, who had worked for the Danvers family for years, had told her of Stefano Polidori and how he became the rival of the Danvers family.
The original patriarch of the Danvers family, Julius Danvers, made his money and the beginning of the family fortune in the late 1800s. An immigrant logger who had the foresight to acquire all the timber-rich land he could beg, borrow, buy, or, in some cases, steal, he not only founded a company to harvest the raw timber that was abundant in the state, but also built a chain of sawmills that eventually stretched from northern California to the Canadian border north of Seattle.
It had been rumored, but never proven, that Julius was a mean son of a bitch who was willing to kill any man who tried to thwart him in his quest for unrivaled power in the timber-rich Pacific Northwest. His guilt in several “logging accidents,” which took the lives of some of the men not particularly loyal to him, was always assumed, but never proved.
Already a wealthy man by the turn of the century, Julius diversified into shipping and hotels, spreading the family fortune into new industries. He opened the elegant Hotel Danvers in downtown Portland in time for the Lewis and Clark Exposition of 1905. The hotel, rumored to be the most lavish in Portland, became home to the elite who traveled to the city on the Willamette River.
Though Julius never finished the ninth grade, he was also instrumental in establishing Reed College, the first college in Portland, where his children attended school and earned diplomas as well as social standing.
Julius was famous for his hard, cruel streak, and it was generally thought that he’d won favors from politicians, judges, and policemen, thereby having more than his share of important men hidden deep within his gold-filled pockets. Julius was careful to align with the powers-that-be in the city and state in order to assure that nothing would ever stand in the way of his ambitions or threaten his family.
His biggest competitor was Stefano Polidori, an Italian immigrant, one of the few in Portland, who had started his career by working on a truck farm in southeast Portland. Stefano had sold vegetables from a cart and later a truck, saving every penny and eventually buying several farms as he could afford them. As the city and his business grew, he opened a highly successful open-air vegetable market and later a restaurant. Eventually he had accumulated enough money to build a hotel that rivaled the Hotel Danvers in turn-of-the-century charm.
The Polidori family, too, became rich, and as Stefano added to his fortune and diversified his investments, he stepped on Julius’s toes by outbidding him on prime real estate along the river or by convincing conventioneers that his hotel was better able to serve their needs than the Hotel Danvers.
Stefano and Julius became bitter rivals.
Julius couldn’t believe Stefano could do anything more than sell tomatoes and lettuce from a cart. But Stefano was as shrewd and tough as his fiercest competitor. Like Julius, Stefano used his wealth to purchase rungs on the gold-plated social ladder of Portland.
The rivalry and hatred between the two men and their families deepened as the years passed.
“I’ve heard about Julius as well as your father,” Adria ventured as the limo turned into the parking lot of the riverfront restaurant.
“Stubborn men, both of them.” Anthony sighed loudly. “We all blamed Julius for my father’s death, you know.”
She’d read of the fire, of course. It had been a major news story in 1935. The cause of the blaze had been a grease fire that had started in the kitchen, but some journalists wondered if Stefano’s death had truly been an accident, or if Julius Danvers had somehow masterminded the blaze that had burned the hotel and surrounding buildings to the ground.
Upon his father’s grave, and in full view of the press, Anthony Polidori, the new patriarch of the family, had sworn vengeance against the murdering Danvers family.
“Here we are,” he said, motioning to the restaurant. “A friend of mine owns it.” The door of the limo was opened by the driver and Anthony, barely using his cane, walked down the plank docking leading to the front doors.
As they entered they were greeted loudly by the maître d’. Voices from the kitchen staff and waiters shouted out greetings as well. In this Italian restaurant, Anthony had no enemies.
“So good to see you,” the maître d’ enthused. “Your table’s ready. Please come this way.” They were led up a short flight of stairs to a private, glassed-in room on the second story that offered a 360-degree view of the bridges spanning the murky Willamette River.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Anthony asked.
“Very.” Adria nodded as the maître d’ pulled out a chair for her.
“The Willamette River is the lifeblood of the city.” Anthony gazed through the windows as if he could never get enough of the panorama of the Willamette River and the skyscrapers rising off the western shore.
Without waiting for him to order, a slim waiter brought wine and crusty Italian bread. “The usual?” he asked as he poured three glasses.
“For all of us,” Polidori responded.
“Why did you want to see me?” she asked as the waiter disappeared.
“Haven’t you guessed?” Anthony’s dark eyes twinkled devilishly and he chuckled.
Mario came to the rescue. “It’s because we know you’ve come to Portland for your birthright. That you’re claiming to be London Danvers.”
Adria took a sip of the Chianti. “Why would you care?”
“Try the bread,” Anthony ordered, ignoring her question for the moment. “It’s the best in the city. Probably in all of the Northwest.” He reached for a slice himself.
“Does the Danvers family still bother you?”
She was rewarded with one of his smiles. “I always care what happens to the family of my old rival.” He glanced up at her and dusted the crumbs from his fingers. “It was a shock to me when the little girl was abducted and yet I was considered a suspect.” Shaking his head at the folly of it all, he added, “Despite my protests and alibi, Witt and his henchman, Jack Logan, seemed to think I had something to do with the girl’s disappearance. Even Mario, though he was in Hawaii at the time, was regarded as a suspect. The fact that the second son, Zachary, claimed he was roughed up by some Italians immediately put my family at the top of the list of possible kidnappers. Never mind that the two men whom he claimed to have attacked him had airtight alibis and were seen at several restaurants around the city.” He wagged a finger in the air. “Didn’t matter. A Danvers had made the accusation and in this town that makes a difference-a big
difference.” He raised his palms to the ceiling. “So, I would like to clear the Polidori name. And, if you are indeed London, I would like to help you.” He bit into his bread and sighed happily, as if he’d forgotten the conversation, but Adria knew differently. When she didn’t respond, he said, “I doubt the Danvers family is eager for you to be their half-sister.”
She hedged. “There’s been a little resistance.”
Mario snorted a laugh at her understatement. “A little? Come on.”
Waving off his son’s sarcasm, Anthony said, “Of course, I know nothing of your financial situation, but it’s no secret that the Danverses are exceedingly wealthy and influential. If they decide to fight you on this-and believe me, they will fight you like wounded wolves, with everything they’ve got-I’m willing to help you.”
“Help me?” she said, not sure she understood correctly.
“Absolutely.”
Mario leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes squinting thoughtfully in her direction. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Our family has some power in this town, too. In fact, we think our lawyers are the best in the city. If you need legal help, or a loan-”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” It was beginning to sound as if they wanted her in their camp and she suddenly felt anxious.
“Do you want to prove you’re London or not?” Anthony asked and his dark eyes gleamed with a frosty inner light that was as cold as death.
“Of course.”
“Then you should take my offer.”
She wanted to turn him down flat. Though he and Mario were both trying their best to be charming, she felt as if he was attempting to orchestrate the conversation and push her into a position where she’d be in debt to him forever. However, she wasn’t foolish enough to reject his offer outright. Not yet. She’d learned that patience was a virtue, though sometimes hard to attain. The fact of the matter was that she was in no position to turn away help of any kind. Though the Polidoris had axes to grind with the Danvers family, she needed allies in her search-any allies she could get. She had only to think of the dead rat to remind herself. “You’re very generous.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Not quite. You know, most of the family still thinks you were behind London’s kidnapping.”
Polidori’s smiled faded. He studied the red wine in his glass. “I had nothing to do with the kidnapping. I would never hurt a child. Anyone’s child.”
“What about Robert Danvers?” she asked the old man.
Polidori snorted. “Julius’s oldest son had a boating accident, if I recall.”
“Some people think you arranged it.”
“People like to make something of nothing.”
She plunged onward. “Julius had three children. Only one-Witt-survived.”
With a long sigh, Anthony said, “Julius’s second boy, Peter, was killed in the war.” He frowned. “I had nothing to do with that, either, you know. Though I’m sure the Danvers family would like to think I was in league with Mussolini and Hitler, I didn’t hire the Nazis to shoot Peter’s plane down. Nor did I do anything to the boat that Robert was driving on the river the summer he was killed. The way I heard the story was that he’d been drinking heavily and came too close to the shore of the Columbia. His boat crashed against the rocks. In the accident, his neck was broken. He was killed instantly.”
“An accident that left Witt as the only Danvers heir.”
“Precisely. Look, if I was so vile as to have arranged all these deaths, why wouldn’t I kill Witt as well?”
Adria considered, then decided to gamble. “Maybe you wanted him to twist in the wind a little. There are rumors about your rivalry with Witt. It isn’t out of the question to think that you might want to watch one of Julius’s sons face a little pain in his life.” She didn’t mention Anthony’s affair with Witt’s first wife, Eunice, but it hung on the air between them-suspended by invisible threads of innuendo.
Anthony shook his head. “You think I’m some big Mafia don, is that it?” he asked and exchanged looks with his son.
“I don’t know you at all,” Adria pointed out. “In fact, I wasn’t sure I should come here.”
“And why is that?”
Leaning closer to him, she said, “Because, Mr. Polidori-I thought you might have wanted to talk to me to get information on the Danvers family for your own purposes.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“There’s a reason you asked me to dinner and I don’t think it’s because you think that I’ve had a lack of Italian cuisine while growing up in Montana.”
One graying brow lifted. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“It is rumored that if London Danvers does appear, she’ll inherit a good portion of Danvers International.”
Here it comes.
“Many of our business interests are in direct competition with the Danvers Corporation and I was hoping, should you come to inherit part of the fortune, that you might be willing to sell off some of the smaller industries.” Resting his elbows on the table, he propped up his chin. “I’m specifically interested in the Hotel Danvers.”
Her heart dropped to the floor. The hotel? She thought of the ballroom with its glorious chandeliers, the old elevator, the time and money put into renovating the old building to its original state.
“You brought me here to…what? Bribe me?” She shook her head and laughed at the pomposity of this man, who, though he was loath to admit it, was very much like several members of the Danvers clan. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take a number and stand in line. A few people in the Danvers family are already in a bidding war. They seem to think that I can be bought off.”
“Can you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Ahh…an honorable woman. With noble intentions.” His eyes flickered dangerously.
“I just want to find out the truth.”
16
Zach smelled trouble. It sizzled in the air, like electricity before a lightning storm, and drew him back to Portland.
Jason’s panicked phone calls hadn’t caused him to climb into his Jeep and head west over the mountains. Pressing business worries weren’t the reason. Nor had his concern that he’d lose the ranch if Adria proved to be London been his impetus. No, the reason he’d driven like a madman across the mountains had been something more basic, more primal, an urge deep in his guts that he couldn’t suppress and didn’t want to name.
“Idiot,” he ground out as he glowered through the raindrops drizzling down the windshield. The lights of Portland shone like tiny beacons, leading him closer.
To what?
Adria.
He ground his teeth together and his fingers clenched the steering wheel, gripping hard. He didn’t even know where she was staying.
It was after ten by the time she returned to her hotel room. She kicked off her shoes. Rubbing one foot, she sat on the bed and glanced at the mini refrigerator. Didn’t want to go there. She picked up the receiver with her free hand. As she dialed the number Nelson had left with someone at the front desk, she cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear. The phone rang five times and she was about to hang up when he answered.
“Nelson Danvers.”
“This is Adria,” she said. “You called?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yes, I, uh, thought we should meet. You know, to talk, to get to know each other. I was hoping maybe tonight if you can make it. I’d be willing to come downtown and meet you in the bar of your hotel.”
She glanced at the clock. Why not? It was early and she wasn’t the least bit tired. In fact, the dead rat and then her dinner with the Polidoris had set her nerves on edge and she needed to calm down. She told him she’d meet him in twenty minutes and hung up before she noticed the note-a single piece of paper folded, with her name scratched on the back-lying on the bureau. Oh, God! No one had slipped this piece of paper under the door.
Dread settled in the back of her throat.
Hands shaking, she snatched up the note and opened it. DIE BITCH.
A chill slithered down her spine. Her skin crawled in apprehension. Her lungs were suddenly tight and she nearly dropped the paper onto the floor.
Pull yourself together!
Taking in a deep breath, she decided that the message didn’t bother her as much as the frightening fact that someone had delivered the simple piece of paper to her locked room. The same person who had let himself into her room at the Hotel Danvers, the same creep who had left the dead rat and locket downstairs. Her stomach turned at the thought. He knew where she was staying and worse yet, could come and go as he pleased, while she was away or while she was sleeping.
Panic tore through her but she tamped it down. Yes, she would have to go to the authorities and soon, but for now she couldn’t let some chickenshit letter-writer get to her. She reminded herself that she didn’t scare easily. She’d grown up on the farm and her father had taken her hunting, fishing, and even rock climbing in the Bitterroots. She’d skinny-dipped in Flathead Lake and branded cattle, smelling the searing flesh, hearing the cows bawl, as she learned to be tough. She’d shot the rapids as well as her.22 and she’d watched as her favorite horse had to be destroyed after shattering his leg. She’d faced the threat of losing her home and the death of all her loved ones and, by God, she wasn’t going to let anyone get the better of her. Not by writing silly little notes. Damned coward. She folded the stupid threat and tucked it into her purse with the other one that she’d crumpled, then smoothed flat and decided to keep. Maybe she’d show them both to Nelson and see what he had to say.
Within ten minutes, she was downstairs in the bar, at a private table near windows that looked onto the street. She watched the steady stream of traffic moving slowly between red lights. Pedestrians carrying umbrellas and wrapped in winter coats with the collars turned against the wind dashed along the sidewalks. Always in a hurry.