by Lisa Jackson
“You said your name was Nash—?” the manager asked with a friendly smile as he scanned his list.
“Actually, it’s Danvers.”
The manager’s smile didn’t waver. “Danvers? Then you’re related.”
“Yes—”
“It’s all right, Rich. She’s with me.” Zachary grabbed hold of Adria’s chilled fingers but didn’t bother to smile.
She looked at him with those clear blue eyes that seemed to cut straight to his soul. “Thanks, Zach,” she said, as if she’d known him all her life.
The tightening in his chest warned him that he was making a colossal mistake—he could feel it in his bones—but he helped her leave her coat with an attendant guarding the closet and walked with her into the ballroom. He felt almost as much a traitor as he had on the night he’d slept with his stepmother; that same sense of doom, of stepping onto a path that had no beginning or end, was with him, and yet he let her link her arm through his.
More than one head turned in her direction. She was as beautiful as the woman whom she claimed was her mother. Her black hair gleamed, as it brushed against the bare skin of her back. Her dress, white and shimmery, fell off one shoulder, draped across her breasts, nipped in at her waist and flared again over her hips to sweep the floor.
“What’re you doing here?” he demanded when they were out of earshot of most of the guests.
“If you would have called me back I would have explained.”
“Sure.” He didn’t believe her.
“I belong here.”
“Like hell!”
She smiled tightly. “Why’d you come to my rescue?”
“I didn’t.”
“Sure you did. Otherwise old Richard would have tossed me out on my ear.” A waiter stopped to offer them each a drink and Adria took a fluted glass from the silver tray. Zach shook his head and the waiter disappeared through the crowd. “Face it, Zach, you saved me.”
“I just avoided a scene.”
Her smile was bewitching. “That’s what you thought I’d do—create a scene?”
“I know it.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Except that you’re a gold-digging fraud.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Sure I do.”
“Then why not let me make my ‘scene’ and let me hang myself.” She sipped from her drink, somehow managing a smile for the eyes of the curious.
“Bad publicity.”
“Since when do you care?”
“This family has had enough scandals,” he said.
“And I thought you didn’t care about the family name.” Her eyebrows arched in a sensual manner that caused a tightening in his groin.
“I don’t.” He watched her closely. She wasn’t as confident as she pretended to be. There were questions in her eyes, but also a challenging light that dared him to defy her. As beautiful as Kat, with full lips and high cheekbones and eyebrows that arched over those mysterious blue eyes, she was sensual and earthy. Yet there was an innocence about her that had never been a part of Katherine LaRouche Danvers. Even at her most vulnerable, Kat had seemed to play a part, and that role was always sexy and manipulative.
“You can prove you’re London?” he asked, deciding to get to the point.
“Can and will.”
“Impossible.”
She lifted a bare shoulder and sipped slowly from her glass as the pianist found the notes of an old Beatles tune and managed to strip the melody of any hint of nostalgia. Laughter drifted to the ceiling where the chandeliers sparkled with a million tiny lights—just as they had nearly twenty years before.
Zach ignored the sense of déjà vu that threatened to swallow him whole.
“I think you should introduce me to the rest of the family.”
“Is that why you came here tonight?”
She smiled slowly and Zach’s heart nearly stopped. “I came back to see you, Zach.”
Just like Kat. His chest squeezed tight, but he wouldn’t be fooled. “I doubt it. Don’t try and pander to my male ego, all right? It won’t work.”
Smiling as if she knew he was joking, she said, “You’re the only one I could approach, the only family member who might believe me, give me a chance.”
“You’ve got that wrong, sister. I don’t believe you at all. I don’t care who you are or what your game is, but I don’t believe that you’re London. Now, you can sell your story to the press if you want to, and you can tell it to the rest of my family, but even if you turned out to be the Queen of England, I won’t give a damn.”
“You’re a liar, Zachary,” she said in a tone that chilled him a little because she was at an advantage. Obviously she’d done her homework and she knew a helluva lot more about him that he did about her.
“Fine. Meet the rest of the clan. They’re charming.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her through the knots of guests, raising eyebrows and causing whispers to follow in their wake.
Much as it bothered her, Adria let Zach propel her through the crowd. She knew that showing up tonight would be the best way to capture every member of the Danvers family’s attention. She held out a slim hope that she’d find an ally within the family, someone who would be honest with her. She’d thought that person might be Zachary because of everything she’d read about him; how, soon after his sister’s kidnapping, he’d been disinherited. How he was always at odds with his father. How he’d struck out on his own and made a small fortune out of a bankrupt construction company that he’d managed to turn around. There was a time when he’d been thrown out of the family, but somehow he’d weaseled his way back in. Street-smart with a ruthless edge, Zach always seemed to land on his feet.
She recognized Jason from the photographs she’d studied. He was tall and raw-boned with red-brown hair flecked with gray. His expression was serious. Caught in conversation with a reed-thin woman about half his age, he glanced up at the commotion, took one look at Adria and hesitated for just a second, his eyes narrowing as if to focus. The skin beneath his tan paled and he swallowed with sudden difficulty before he recovered to look the part of a poised, successful attorney.
Adria wasn’t surprised by his reaction. She knew of her uncanny resemblance to the woman who was supposed to have been her mother; saw in the fear flashing through Jason’s blue eyes that he recognized it, too.
“I think you might want to meet someone,” Zach said, as they approached.
“Excuse me a minute,” Jason whispered to his thin blond friend. The girl’s gaze slid to Adria and small wrinkles appeared between her perfectly arched brows. “I’ll be just a little while, I promise, Kim.”
With a thrust of her lower lip, Kim didn’t move, obviously ready to meet Adria’s challenge.
Zach’s fingers clenched around Adria’s arm, as if he expected her to bolt. “This is Adria Nash—my brother, Jason.”
“Have we met?” Jason asked.
“In another lifetime,” Zach intervened. “Adria thinks she’s London.”
Kim’s mouth rounded a little, but Jason managed to smile. “Another London. How perfect, considering the circumstances.” His voice was as cold as his eyes. “Let me guess—you showed up tonight to make a big splash, be sure that the reporters and photographers saw you?” He took a swallow from his glass and observed her over the rim. “Am I right?”
“Actually, she showed up last week,” Zach said as he released her arm.
Jason turned on his brother. “And you didn’t say anything?”
“I thought she might go away.”
“Just go away.” Under his breath Jason muttered something about thickheaded fools. A ruddy stain began to crawl up the back of his neck as he pinned Adria under a harsh, uncompromising glare. “How’d you get in here?”
“I said she was with me,” Zach intervened.
Jason’s lips flattened over his perfect teeth. “You let her in and you don’t know what she plans to do? Or are you in on it,
too? Is that it?”
Zach didn’t bother to answer, just lifted a shoulder.
“You just like to see the rest of the family squirm, don’t you?”
“She’s a fake,” Zach said flatly. “Let her do what she wants.”
“Not here. Not now.” Jason lowered his voice, suddenly aware of more than a few curious glances cast in his direction. “Don’t you know what the law firm for the estate will do if—” His blue eyes suddenly sharpened on Adria and it was all she could do to keep from shrinking away from that hate-filled glare. “Take her upstairs. To your suite—no, better yet, to my house. You’ve got a key.”
“No one’s taking me anywhere,” she said.
“You started this,” Zach reminded her.
“Which means we’ll do things my way,” she countered, knowing she had to appear strong—any sign of weakness in front of the Danvers clan would be suicide.
One side of Zach’s mouth lifted in a crooked, amused grin. “Maybe you are London after all. She was a stubborn thing, too.”
“Just get her out of here. I’ll meet you at the house.”
“What about Nicole?” Zach asked and watched his brother’s mouth tighten at the mention of his wife. Theirs was a rocky marriage at best.
“She’s out of town. Visiting relatives in Santa Fe.”
Zach didn’t ask any questions. Why Jason’s wife was away on one of the most important nights of her husband’s life didn’t concern him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Adria stated. “And don’t talk about me as if I’m not here. As far as I’m concerned, I have as much right to be here as the rest of you.”
“She has a point.”
“Get her out of here, Zach.”
“As I said, Jason, I’m not budging,” Adria insisted, unmoved by the older Danvers brother’s anger. She hadn’t grown up on the Montana range without learning a thing or two about arrogant, self-important men. She could be just as headstrong as any man when it came to something she believed in and she was certain…well, nearly…that she was London Danvers.
Adria noticed the glint in Zach’s eyes and she realized that he was enjoying watching his brother lose his cool. Jason, the attorney. Jason who had married well. Jason who seemed to be the one in charge of the family fortune.
“This is not the time or the place—”
“Then name them,” she said firmly and caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Kim, the waif-thin blonde, inched closer, listening to every word.
“What?”
“The time and place, name them.” Adria wasn’t backing down, not after she’d come this far, swallowed all her doubts, and found her nerve.
“My God!” another male voice whispered behind her and Adria turned to find a man, tall, blond, and lanky, with startling blue eyes that widened when he caught sight of her face. “She looks just like—”
“We know, Nelson,” Jason said, obviously irritated.
“Nelson, this is Adria Nash,” Zachary drawled as if enjoying his family’s discomfiture. “She’s here claiming to be London.”
Nelson looked quickly from his oldest brother to Zach. “But she couldn’t be. Not really. Everyone knows that London was killed…”
“Everyone assumed,” Adria cut in.
Jason’s temper snapped. He glared at Zach. “You got her in here, you get her out.”
“Maybe I’m not ready to go.”
“If you want anyone in this family to listen to your story with an open mind, you’ll haul your sweet ass out of here,” Jason ordered.
“I’ll take care of her.” Zach’s hands were coiling around her arm again but she jerked away from him.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” she said, suddenly defiant.
“Then why are you here?” Jason asked. “If not for a piece of the pie, for someone to take care of you, why didn’t you stay wherever it is you came from?”
“Because I need to know.”
“So this isn’t about money?”
She didn’t answer and Jason smiled without a trace of warmth. His companion, the woman he’d called Kim, watched her with interested eyes.
“It’s always about money, Adria,” Jason said as the pianist took a break and the music suddenly stopped. “No reason to lie about it.”
Before she could respond, Zach had grabbed her and this time he didn’t let go. No amount of wriggling could pull her arm free and rather than make a scene, she allowed herself to be shepherded from the familiar ballroom. She knew she’d been here years before; everything was nearly the same. The lights, the music, no…there had been a band instead of a solitary pianist and the champagne glasses had been a different shape. And there were other changes as well: there had been a huge green cake ablaze with sixty candles and the ice sculpture had been of a running horse rather than a rearing stallion. And the rose petals had been cast upon the floor, creating a fragrant pink carpet.
Surely she was remembering Witt’s sixtieth birthday, her last night with her parents—or was she only dreaming, caught in the fantasy that was London Danvers? In the past few months she’d read every newspaper article, studied every photograph, read every word she could find about the Danvers family. She recognized her half-brothers from the pictures she’d seen of them and would have recognized her parents, had they still lived.
Witt had never given up believing that his favorite daughter would return to reclaim her heritage and he’d left a million-dollar reward for anyone who could find her; he’d also provided for London in his will, and his estate was rumored to be valued at well over a hundred million.
The money wasn’t important, she told herself as Zachary retrieved her coat, but she was determined to find out the truth, and damn the consequences.
Gold digger! Bitch! Fraud!
Watching from the shadows of a tiny alley, Katherine LaRouche Danvers’s killer stared after the car that sped away. Rain drizzled relentlessly from the sky, gurgling in the gutters, dripping from the eaves, doing nothing to soothe the white-hot rage that was being experienced by Katherine’s killer.
Hadn’t Katherine’s death been enough?
Why would this spawn of the she-devil show up now?
If Adria Nash did prove to be the bitch’s daughter, then everything would be ruined, the Danvers fortune splintered…but, of course, she was a fraud. She had to be.
The fists of Katherine’s killer were clenched so hard they ached. Near the curb there was the scratch of tiny claws, barely discernible over the gurgle of water in the gutters and downspouts. Glancing down, the killer spied a wet, half-crippled rat, long tail dragging behind, slide toward a crevice in the sidewalk. Tiny eyes caught in the reflection from the street lamps and blood dripped from a wound near one motionless back leg.
“Go away,” the killer hissed, rattled for a second before thoughts of Adria Nash and her outrageous claim returned.
Calm down. Collect yourself. You can handle this. Haven’t you always? The family owes you a big debt and they don’t even know it.
“She’s not London.”
Probably not. Most likely not. But you can’t take a chance. You’ve worked too hard to let it fall apart now. You have to stop her.
“She’s not London.”
Perhaps so, but she’s the right age, isn’t she? And she’s the spitting image of Kat. You saw the features of her face; she has the same bone structure, identical cheekbones and eyes. And her hair. Could it be more like Kat’s? She’s a dead ringer.
Rage curled white-hot at the thought of Katherine. Beautiful. Sexy. Sleek. No wonder she’d turned so many heads. Women had found her strangely fascinating; men had felt the eroticism that was so innately a part of her.
A bad taste crawled up the throat of Katherine’s killer.
It couldn’t happen.
The Danvers fortune couldn’t be destroyed.
A pitiful squeak caught the killer’s attention.
The rat again!
It was too large or w
ounded to squeeze through the crack in the curb. The frightened rodent was eyed as it hobbled quickly back and forth, searching anxiously for a way out of the alley. Its pinkish nose quivering in the darkness, tiny teeth ready to be bared if it were to be cornered, the rat scurried to the relative safety behind a parked van. With a new deadly calm, the killer moved closer to the drenched beast and it, sensing fear, panicked and slithered into the gutter, searching frantically for a way to escape.
“You can’t get away,” the killer whispered, but wasn’t thinking of this near-dead rat, but about the beautiful woman who had just slipped away into the night.
But she would be back.
It was inevitable.
And one way or another, this new London, whether a fraud or the real thing, would have to be destroyed. If she wouldn’t leave on her own, then she would simply have to die.
So Adria Nash looked like Katherine Danvers?
Enough that she could be considered a dead ringer?
The trapped rat was eyed again.
Exactly.
6
“What makes you think you’re London?” Zachary shifted down for a light that reflected red on the rain-washed streets The engine of his Jeep idled and the wipers slapped drops of water from the windshield.
“I have proof.” Well, that was a little bit of a lie, but not a big one.
“Proof,” he repeated, easing up on the clutch as the light changed. He punched the throttle and the Jeep started climbing through the steep, twisting streets of the west hills. As she gazed out the window, staring past the thick branches of fir and maple, Adria saw the city lights winking far below. “What kind of proof?”
“A tape.”
“Of what?”
“My father.”
“Your father—meaning Witt?” He took a curve a little too fast and the Jeep’s tires skidded before holding firm.
“My adoptive father. Victor Nash. We lived in Montana.”
“Oh,” he said derisively, “that clears that up.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
He slid her a glance that silently called her a fool as they crested a hill and he turned sharply into a drive complete with electronic gates that whirred open when he pressed a numerical code into a key pad.
