by Lisa Jackson
Just because Zach might be her half-brother didn’t mean he was safe. He was a predatory man, a man who would take any challenge, a man with a wild streak that he hadn’t yet tamed, a man who wouldn’t care one bit if she were his half-sister. There was an animal side of him—pure male and extremely lethal—that defied the bounds of kinship. He was sexy and rough and seemed about as stable as a blasting cap.
No wonder she was attracted to him. It had been the flaw in her character to be attracted to rough-and-tumble, irreverent boys and men all her life.
“You’re an idiot,” she told her reflection as she stood barefoot on the tan carpet that had worn thin near the door.
So if she couldn’t trust Zachary, who in the family could she trust? No one. Just as they couldn’t trust her.
Half dressed in her lacy slip, she walked back into the tiny bathroom where her dress hung on a hook in the door. She’d found the dress in a boutique that handled “previously worn” items. A white, silky confection with a designer label, the gown fit her perfectly. She’d never owned such a creation before, never spent so much money on one dress—and a used one at that!
Her adoptive mother had been a frugal, God-fearing woman who didn’t believe in women wearing ornaments of any kind—no jewelry save a gold wedding band or a gold cross suspended from a necklace and clothes that were practical, shoes that were sensible and sturdy.
Not so her father. Unlike his wife, Victor had been a dreamer, always expecting a larger crop than the land would yield, always certain that the next year, life would become easier.
And she’d believed him. When she’d discovered his secret, that he thought her to be London Danvers, she’d grabbed that gold-plated carrot he’d swung before her nose and held on with a death grip.
She’d done her research, read every clipping on the Danvers family and the kidnapping, searched through all the old papers in her father’s desk, called her deceased Uncle Ezra’s secretary, searching, digging through every scrap of information, praying she’d find some irrefutable evidence that either proved or disproved that she was the little lost princess. Ezra Nash, a lawyer known to bend the law, had handled the adoption. Either he hadn’t bothered with records, or they’d long-since been destroyed, or there was a secret surrounding her birth that he’d wanted to keep hidden.
She’d fought the anticipation that had raced through her bloodstream when she’d learned that she might be London Danvers, that she might finally discover her true identity. She told herself the chances that she was the missing heiress were a billion to one, but in the end, she’d followed her heart—her father’s dream—and driven her beat-up Chevy steadily westward to Portland, London’s hometown. She’d nearly convinced herself that she was London Danvers, believed that she would finally find her family, and after the initial shock had worn off, they would welcome her with open arms. Now, as she tilted her head and screwed on the back of her zirconium earrings, she bit her lower lip. The teardrop earrings sparkled in the light, as if they were diamonds, but they were fakes, made to look like expensive jewels when they were really cheap and common.
Like you.
No! She wouldn’t believe the speculation she’d heard all her life from the people in the small town where she’d grown up. Wouldn’t!
She ran a brush through her hair and started working with the long, black curls. Wild, “witchy hair,” her adoptive mother had often called the long, riotous waves that Adria didn’t bother taming, and she was right.
She planned to crash the party celebrating the grand opening of the Hotel Danvers. It was time to face the family. She’d tried to call Zachary Danvers after their first meeting in the ballroom, but hadn’t been able to get past the hotel reception desk and though she’d left messages, Zachary hadn’t seen fit to call her back. She hadn’t bothered trying to reach anyone else in the family. She knew too much about them to try and trust any of them. Zachary was the one with the least to lose, the only one of Witt’s children to make something of himself on his own; the others—Jason, Trisha, and Nelson—had, from what she’d read, been content to stay in Witt’s shadow, doing his bidding, waiting, like vultures, for him to die.
But Zach was different and had been from the beginning when there had been speculation about his paternity. He’d been in trouble with the law and he and the old man had been rumored to be at each other’s throats. When Zach was still in school, there had been a major blowup and rift, though she never found out why, and Zach had been thrown out of the house and disowned. Only recently, before Witt’s death, had he been back with the family.
Adria figured that someone who had been on the outside so long would be her most likely ally. So far, she’d been wrong. So tonight, she’d make public her claims and if nothing else, get the Danvers family’s attention.
She was a fraud.
Zach could smell a fake a mile away, and this woman, this black-haired woman with the mysterious blue eyes and hint of irreverence in her smile when she claimed to be London, was as phony as the proverbial three-dollar bill.
But he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He’d tried, but she kept swimming to the surface of his consciousness, toying with his thoughts.
Already in a foul mood because of the grand opening, he poured himself a drink from the bar in the suite he’d called home for the past few months, the very same set of rooms he was to have slept in on the night London had been kidnapped. The suite on the seventh floor looked different now, as the decor reflected the turn of the century rather than the 1970s, but it was still eerie remembering that night. Witt had raged, Kat had wept, and the rest of the children…the survivors…had cast suspicious glances at one another and the police.
He ran a finger along the smooth surface of the window, then pocketed his hotel-room key. He didn’t have time to reminisce and he resented Adria for brining back the pain of his checkered past.
Right now, Zach just wanted out. He’d held up his part of the bargain, which was to renovate the hotel, and now he wanted his due—the price he’d extracted from the old man before Witt had died.
It had been a painful scene. His father had tried to break the ice and admit that he’d been wrong about his faithless wife, but the words had gotten all tangled up and once again they’d ended up arguing. Zach had nearly walked out, but Witt had enticed him back.
“The ranch is yours, if you want it, boy,” Witt had declared.
Zach’s hand rested on the doorknob of the den. “The ranch?”
“When I die.”
“Forget it.”
“You want it, don’t you?”
Zach had turned and skewered his father with a stare intended to cut through steel.
“You always take what you want, if I remember right.”
“I’m outta here.”
“Wait,” the old man had pleaded. “The ranch is worth several million.”
“I don’t give a shit about the money.”
“Oh, right. My noble son.” Witt was standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a short glass of Irish whiskey. “But you still want it. What for?” His white eyebrows had raised a bit. “Nostalgia, perhaps?”
The jab cut deep, but Zach didn’t so much as flinch. “It doesn’t matter.”
Witt snorted. “It’s yours.”
Zach wasn’t easily suckered by the old man. He was smart enough to know the ranch had a price—a high one. “What do I have to do?”
“Nothing all that hard. Restore the old hotel.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t act like I’ve asked you to fly, damn it. You have your own construction crew in Bend. Move them over here or hire new people. Money’s no object. I just want the hotel to look as good as it did when it was built.”
“You’re out of your mind. It would cost a fortune to—”
“Indulge me. It’s all I’m asking,” Witt said, his voice low. “You love the ranch, I’m fond of the hotel. The logging operations, the investments, the
y don’t mean much, not to me. But that hotel has class. It was the best of its kind in its day. I’d like to see that again.”
“Hire someone else.”
Witt’s eyes narrowed on his son and he swallowed the last of his whiskey. “I want you to do it, boy. And I want you to do it for me.”
“Go to hell.”
“Already been there. Seems as if you had something to do with that.”
Zach’s throat tightened. He’d never seen eye-to-eye with the old man, but knew an olive branch when it was thrust under his nose. And this particular branch was attached by a silver chain to the deed to the ranch.
“Don’t let your pride stand in the way of what you want.”
“It won’t,” he lied.
Witt extended his big hand. “What d’ya say?”
Zach hesitated just a fraction of a second. “It’s a deal,” he’d finally said and the two men had clasped hands.
Zach had started to work on the hotel and Witt had changed his will. The project to reclaim the Hotel Danvers and refurbish the old building to its earlier grandeur had lasted over two years, and Witt had died long before it was finished, never realizing his dream. Zach had been able to spend most of his time at the ranch, until a year ago. Then the job had become so involved that he’d been forced to move to Portland to ensure that all the finishing touches were just right.
Now, he tightened the knot of his tie around his throat. He had to get through the grand opening, check a few last bugs, and then get the hell out of Dodge.
What about Adria?
Christ, why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? It seemed that she was always there, close to the surface of his thoughts, just as Kat had been. A curse, that’s what it was. For, like it or not, she did resemble his deceased stepmother. That black hair, her clear blue eyes, her pointy chin and high cheekbones, replicas of Katherine LaRouche Danvers. Adria wasn’t quite as small as his stepmother had been, but she was every bit as beautiful and had the same special grace that he hadn’t seen in a woman since Kat.
His gut twisted as he remembered his ill-fated, one-night affair with his stepmother. The passion, the danger, the thrill that he’d never found with another woman. At the memory of his stepmother, a forbidden heat curled through his blood. She’d seduced him, taken his virginity, showed him a glimpse of heaven, then heaved him through the gates of a hell that was to be the remainder of his life. Not that he would’ve changed a thing.
So why did his one meeting with Adria Nash conjure up such vivid memories of what he’d tried to hide for so long?
He hadn’t seen Adria since she’d appeared in the ballroom, all starry-eyed as she’d tried to convince him that she was his long-lost half-sister, but he knew she’d turn up again. Like the proverbial bad penny. They always did. She’d tried phoning him and he hadn’t bothered returning her calls. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction or the false hope. She wasn’t the first impostor trying to claim to be darling little London and she sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.
Sticking two fingers under the stiff collar of his tuxedo, he growled at his reflection and wondered why he bothered with the stupid monkey suit at all. Formality. And he hated it. Just as he hated the party he was about to attend.
He glanced at his duffel bag. Packed and ready to go. He’d be out of here by noon tomorrow.
“Good riddance,” he muttered as he locked the door behind him and strode along the corridor to the elevators. He hadn’t told the rest of the family about Adria’s visit. No reason. They’d all just wind themselves in tighter knots than they had tied themselves into already. The old man’s estate hadn’t been settled yet and if the principal heirs got wind of the fact that another London impersonator had shown up…One side of his mouth lifted at the thought. He ran his thumbnail along the edge of the brass rail in the elevator car and considered dropping the bomb, then discarded the idea. He was well past toying with his siblings just to get a reaction.
The car stopped on the second floor and Zachary stared into the open doors of the ballroom. Guests, like flocking birds, had already collected. A sense of déjà vu crept over him as he heard the rustle of silk, the clink of crystal, and the murmur of soft laughter. There hadn’t been an event in this room for almost twenty years; the last party had been Witt’s sixtieth birthday.
Beneath his tuxedo jacket and shirt, his shoulder muscles bunched, as if he expected trouble. From the corner, a pianist in long tails was playing on a concert grand that gleamed like polished ebony. Zachary recognized the tune, the theme from a recent movie, but he didn’t pay much attention.
Champagne flowed from a fountain that gurgled to a pool at the base of an ice sculpture of a rearing horse, the symbol for the Hotel Danvers. Pink roses floated in crystal vases and petals were strewn across linen table clothes. A fist knotted in Zach’s stomach. This was too much as it had been on that fateful night when London disappeared.
He’d let Trisha handle the arrangements for the event, barely listening as she’d rattled off the guest list, the menu, the musicians, the artists, or anything else to do with the damned celebration. He’d told her to do what she wanted; he’d done his part in fixing up the old hotel and he’d stick around for the party, but that was it. He had no interest in the grand opening itself.
Now he wondered if he’d let loose a demon. This celebration was certain to evoke memories of the surprise party Kat had thrown for Witt on his sixtieth birthday. The twinkling white lights in the trees, the polished dance floor, the prestigious guest list, even the champagne, served in long throated glasses, were reminiscent of the fated celebration.
He swept past a table laden with hors d’oeuvres. Making a beeline toward the bar, he ignored his brother, who was waving for him to join a group of his friends. The men with him looked a lot like Jason. Neatly trimmed hair, impeccable and expensive tuxedos, polished shoes, bodies built at exclusive athletic clubs. Zachary was willing to bet they were all junior partners in some stuffy law firm in the city. Who needed them?
Insolently, Zach leaned an elbow on the bar. The bartender, barely twenty-one and sporting a thin mustache, trimmed beard, and gold earring, smiled. “What’ll it be?”
“A beer.”
“Pardon?”
“Henry’s. Coors. Miller. On tap or in a bottle, I don’t care. Anything you’ve got.”
The bartender offered a patronizing smile. “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have—”
“Get some,” Zachary growled, and the bartender, though perturbed, spoke quickly to a passing waiter, who scurried off in the direction of the service elevators.
“Hey, Zach, great job. The place looks fabulous,” a female voice enthused from somewhere behind him. Zach didn’t bother to respond.
Another woman—someone from the press, he thought—caught hold of his arm. “Just a few questions, Mr. Danvers, about the hotel—”
“I think my sister sent out a press release.”
“I know, but I have some questions.”
Zach was barely civil. “Speak to Trisha. Trisha McKittrick. She’s the interior decorator.”
“But you were the general contractor.”
“She handled all the interior design.” Turning on his heel, Zach left the woman with her questions and glanced pointedly at his watch. Jason was going to make some sort of speech and be congratulated by the mayor, the governor, and someone from the historical society. Zach would stick around, get his face photographed a couple of times, then make good his escape.
Still waiting for his beer, Zach paced to the windows, frowning, wishing the evening were over. He shouldn’t have agreed to stay. Damn, he was getting soft. There was a time when he would’ve told Jason explicitly what he could do to himself if his brother had asked that Zach be a part of this farce. As it was, probably because of some sort of egotistical pride in what he’d accomplished here at the hotel, Zach had reluctantly agreed. You’re as bad as the rest of them, Danvers, always hoping for a little glory.
“Mr. Danvers?”
Zach blinked and found the waiter carrying a silver platter with a long-necked bottle of Henry Weinhard’s Private Reserve and a frosted glass. With a crooked smile, Zach grabbed the beer. “Don’t need that.” He pointed to the glass as he twisted off the cap and dropped it onto the tray. “But I will want more than just this one.”
“At the bar, sir. When you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” Zach took a long tug on his bottle and felt better. He glanced out the window and saw the stream of glossy white limousines waiting to pull up to the striped awning and deposit their guests, the elite of Portland, to the front doors. Men in dark tuxedos, women in jewels, furs, and silk emerged from their modern-day royal coaches and dashed into the hotel.
It was a joke.
He itched for a smoke and told himself to forget it. He’d given up that particular vice nearly five years ago. Leaning a shoulder against the windowpanes, he glared out at the night. Then he saw her. Like a ghost from his past, Adria Nash appeared on the opposite street corner. His insides twisted as he watched her weave through the clogged traffic, dashing among cabs, limos, and cars idling near the front door of the hotel. Wrapped in the same black coat she’d worn before, she sidestepped puddles and swept past the doorman.
So she’d had the guts to show up here.
With a final swallow, he finished his drink, left the empty bottle on the corner of the table, and moved quickly through the crowd. Several people tried to stop him; women offered him encouraging smiles and men looked up as he passed. He was probably the subject of more than one conversation, but he didn’t really care that he was labeled the black sheep of the family or that people thought he’d reconciled with the old man just before Witt had died to get himself back in the will.
As he dashed through the double doors, he saw her, smiling at the hotel manager, assuring him she had an invitation.
