by Lisa Jackson
He parked near the garage of a rambling Tudor home. Three stories of stone and brick with dark cross beams and a gabled roof, the house seemed to grow from the very ground on which it had been built. Exterior lamps, hidden in dripping azaleas, rhododendrons, and ferns, lined the drive and washed the stone-and-mortar walls with soft light. Ivy clung tenaciously to one of several chimneys and tall fir trees rose above a stone fence that guarded the grounds.
“Come on,” Zach instructed, leaning across her to open the door of the Jeep. He climbed out and led the way up a brick path and through a breezeway to the back door. “Bring back any memories?” he asked as he flipped on the lights of a huge kitchen.
She shook her head and he lifted a brow, as if surprised that she would admit that she couldn’t remember. “This is it—home sweet home.”
Swallowing hard, she looked around, hoping for a trace of remembrance, but the gleaming tile floor meant nothing to her—the glass doors of the cabinets, the hallways that angled in different directions, the plush Oriental carpets, nothing sparked any old, long-dead memories. “We can wait in the den,” Zachary said, watching her reaction. “Jason will be here soon.”
Adria’s stomach knotted at the thought of squaring off with the Danvers family, but she hid her uneasiness. The den, located in a back corner of the house, smelled of tobacco and smoke. Coals glowed from a stone fireplace and Zach tossed a piece of mossy oak onto the embers before straightening and dusting his hands. He shed his jacket and dropped it over the back of a leather chair. “What about this, hmm? Dad’s private room. You—well, London—used to play in here while Dad worked at the desk.” His eyes were challenging, his chin thrust forward.
“I—I don’t think so,” she admitted, trailing fingers on the timeworn desk.
“Gee, isn’t that a surprise,” he mocked. “The first of many, no doubt.” He propped a foot on the edge of the raised hearth. “Now, you want to get this over with and tell me your little story or wait for the rest of the clan?”
“Is there a reason you need to be so offensive?”
“This is just the start. Believe me, I’m the prince of the family.”
“That’s not what I read” she said, holding her ground. “Rebel son, black sheep, no-good, juvenile delinquent.” He wasn’t pulling any punches, so neither would she.
“That’s right, the best of the lot,” he admitted with a grin that lifted one side of his mouth. “Now, what’s it going to be, Miss Nash?”
“I don’t see any reason to repeat myself. We can wait for the rest of the family.”
“Your choice.” His gray eyes were glacial, as warm as an arctic sky as he gave her a cursory glance, then walked to the bar. “Drink?’
“I don’t think it would be such a good idea.”
“Might take the edge off.” He found a bottle of Scotch and poured a stiff shot into a short crystal glass. “Believe me, you’ll need it before they’re done with you.”
“It you’re trying to scare me, it’s a waste of time.”
He shook his head as he raised the glass to his lips. “Just warning you.”
“Thanks, but I think I can handle whatever it is they have to say.”
“You’ll be the first.”
“Good.”
Shrugging, he drained the drink and set the empty glass on the bar. “Have a seat.” Waving to a couch, he pulled off his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. Dark hair dusted his forearms, and despite the season, his skin was tanned. “Just for the sake of argument,” he said, “how much would it take to have you close your mouth and go home?”
“Pardon?”
He rested his hands on the bar and pinned her with an uncompromising glare. “I don’t believe in bullshit, okay? It’s a waste of time. So let’s cut right to the chase. You plan on making a big stink, start talking to the press and lawyers and claim that you’re London, right?” He poured another drink, but let it sit untouched on the bar.
“I am London. At least I think I am. And so far, I’d like to keep lawyers out of it.”
“Of course you’re London,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You don’t need to patronize me.”
“All right. Then we’re back to square one. How much money would it cost to change your mind and decide that you are, after all, just Adria Nash?”
“I am Adria.”
“So you want it both ways.”
“For now.”
“Until we accept you as London.” The fire popped loudly.
“I didn’t expect you to believe me,” she said, refusing to leap at his bait. Her stomach was jumping. Sweat collected at the base of her neck and dampened her palms, but she told herself to remain outwardly calm. Don’t let him get to you. That’s exactly what he wants. “I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t think I was—I am—your sister.”
“Half-sister,” he said with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Get it right. If you’re gonna do this thing, Adria, get all the facts and do it right.”
Rankled, she said, “I have the facts and I know all about your family.”
“So you decided to take advantage of your resemblance to my stepmother.”
“Maybe you should just see the tape.”
“The tape?” he challenged.
“Yes, the videotape that brought me here.” The tape that had been the catalyst but certainly not the proof—not all of it. Suddenly it seemed frail, as fragile as her father’s dreams and beliefs that she was some sort of modern-day princess. “I found it after my father died. He left it for me.”
“Can’t wait,” he muttered sarcastically. Glancing at her for a moment, he poured a second glass. “But we’ll wait to start the show.” He set her drink on the corner of a glass-topped coffee table, then snatched his off the bar and claimed his position at the window. He stood like a sentry, staring through the rain-drizzled glass.
Standing, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the powder room.”
“Powder room?” he said with a snort. “Kind of a fancy term for a farm girl from Montana.”
She stared at her hands for a second, then lifted her eyes to meet his. “You love this, don’t you?”
“I don’t love anything.” His gaze raked down the length of her body.
“Oh, but you enjoy baiting me. You get a perverse pleasure in taunting me, trying to trip me up.”
“You started this.” His lip curled slightly. “Find the ‘powder room’ yourself. See if you can conjure it up from all those hidden memories.”
Silently counting to ten, she grabbed her bag and hurried out of the room. The hallway was unfamiliar, but she turned to the right, rounded a corner, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw what could only be described as a shrine to the family of Witt Danvers. Pictures, plaques, and trophies resting in a glass case cut into the wall were displayed prominently.
She swallowed with difficulty when she spied a large portrait of the three of them: Witt, Katherine, and London. Could this be…? Adria’s heart caught and she touched the glass, her finger displacing a tiny sheen of dust. Seated in a wicker chair, Katherine was dressed in a wine-colored dress with a scooped neck and long sleeves. Diamonds encircled her throat and winked from her fingers. She held a grinning London, who appeared near the age of three. London’s wild hair fell in ringlets and she wore a pink velvet dress with a lacy collar and cuffs on the short, puffed sleeves. Witt stood behind them both, one hand placed possessively over his wife’s shoulder. He was smiling at the camera and his eyes seemed to twinkle mischievously.
“Dad,” she mouthed, though the word wouldn’t come. Could this have been her family? Her natural family. Her chest seemed to cave in on itself. “Oh, God.” Tears stung the back of her eyes and she felt her teeth sink into her lower lip. After all the years of not knowing, could she be looking at her family? Her throat grew hot and she blinked as she traced the line of Katherine’s jaw, so like her own, wi
th a finger and then looked into the child’s smiling face. True, there was a resemblance, though Victor and Sharon Nash had taken very few pictures when she was young.
Were you my mother? she silently asked the woman in the portrait and again she lifted her finger to the glass.
“Touching, wouldn’t you say?”
Startled, she jumped backward. She hadn’t heard Zach approach, didn’t realize he was standing behind her, one shoulder propped on the opposite wall, watching her reaction. Her heart drummed wildly in her chest. “I—I didn’t hear you.”
He lifted his shoulder. “What do you think of the family memorial?” Sipping his drink slowly, he gazed at the wall of pictures. “The Danvers family et al. Kind of reminds you of Ozzie and Harriet, doesn’t it?”
Adria stared at the case. There were diplomas and football trophies, an art school award for Trisha, an “outstanding student” certificate for Nelson, a swimming medal with Jason’s name engraved on it, and a key to the city issued to Witt Danvers. Surrounding the case were the pictures: shots of Witt with dignitaries, Witt with one or more of his children, Witt as a young man with his father, Jason in a football uniform, Nelson in cap and gown, Jason’s wedding, even Trisha dressed in a long formal with a scrawny, longhaired beau.
But there wasn’t one snapshot, not one, single, faded black-and-white Polaroid of Zachary. She couldn’t believe what her eyes told her and she searched again.
“I didn’t win too many popularity contests,” he explained, as if reading her mind. “The old man wasn’t into mounting mug shots.”
“I—uh—I didn’t expect to see this.” She motioned toward the wall.
“Who would?”
He gazed at the framed portrait of Witt and his second wife and daughter and Zach’s eyes seemed to lock with those of Katherine. A muscle worked in his jaw and Adria felt as if she were suddenly intruding, that this place was somehow sacred and intimate and she was, indeed, the interloper. The air seemed suddenly hard to breathe as Zach stared at Katherine.
“I couldn’t find—”
He snapped out of his reverie and the darkness in his eyes disappeared. “Around the corner. Second door on the left.”
She didn’t wait for other directions but hurried down the hall. Her steps were quick, as if she were running from something, something so private and dark that she felt a cold jab of dread.
In the bathroom she splashed cold water over her face. Don’t let them get to you, she told herself as she saw her pale reflection in the mirror. Don’t let him get to you. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that something menacing and evil existed here in this expensive home.
When she returned to the den, he was back at the window, staring out at the gloomy night.
Reminding herself that she needed at least one ally in a family that was certain to try and discredit her, she picked up the drink he’d left for her and took a sip that burned all the way down her throat. “Do you know why I came to you first?” she asked, hoping to break down the barriers that he’d erected around himself.
He didn’t answer, just glared out at the night as if the blackness was hostile.
“I thought you might understand.”
“I don’t understand anything fake.”
She plunged on. “You know what it’s like being on the outside.”
His shoulder muscles bunched and he took another swallow of his Scotch. “Don’t let a few pictures on the wall make you think that you and I have anything in common. So I was on the outside.”
“But you wanted back in.”
His back stiffened. “Get this straight, sister, I never wanted in. It was the old man’s idea.”
“Was it?” she asked, then decided that she wouldn’t learn anything if she didn’t push a little bit. “What did you do to him to have him disown you?’
“Why did it have to be something I did? Why not him?” He slid her a cold glance that cut to her bone, then looked back through the window.
“I’m just guessing,” she admitted, but her hands were shaking a little and she gripped the glass more tightly. Just being around him was unnerving; sitting calmly under his harsh stare was nearly impossible.
“Then figure it out yourself.”
“What happened, Zach?”
He turned on her then and his eyes, once so cold, had shifted subtly and she felt as if the temperature in the room had suddenly elevated. From the fire, the flames reflected on the hard contours of his face, the flickering shadows making the angles and planes appear harsher, rougher, but she felt another sensation as well, one that started deep within her and caused her heart to pound, a sensation she didn’t want to analyze too closely. She licked her lips.
“It’s really none of your business.”
Despite the knots in her stomach, she said, “I tried to find out what happened between you and Witt, but couldn’t dig up anything substantial. I thought it was because you were considered a suspect in the kidnapping, that somehow what had happened to you that night was confirmation that you were involved.”
He snorted. “That was probably part of it.”
“And the other?”
Zach’s jaw tightened and for a second she thought he might confide in her. Instead he turned back to the window and continued to glower. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does—”
“Leave it alone, Adria.” She heard the warning in his voice and decided it was better to back off. For now. But she was determined to find out Zach’s secret. More than ever, she wanted to find out what made Witt’s rebellious son tick. Maybe there was some truth to the rumors that he wasn’t really Witt’s boy, that his father was Anthony Polidori. And maybe there was more. The way he had stared at Katherine’s portrait had been chilling. There were far more secrets in this house than she’d guessed. She took another drink and slowly settled back into the cushions of the couch to wait.
Jason Danvers threw caution to the wind as he put his Jaguar through its paces. Speeding up the narrow, rain-slickened streets of the west hills, he tried to think rationally. He’d left the celebration early, after giving his well-rehearsed speech and spending enough time to dance with the mayor, a woman recently elected and surprisingly popular. He’d made small talk, accepted congratulations from the president of the historical society for refurbishing the old building, smiled at the appropriate times, and even managed a clever quote or two for the reporters of the Oregonian and Willamette Week. Finally, after two hours, he managed to stuff Kim into a cab and leave the celebration behind.
He felt sweat beading along his collar line and remembered Adria’s beautiful face, so much like Kat’s. Could she be the real thing—after all these years? Jason’s biggest fear—his worst nightmare—was that someone impersonating his long-lost sister would turn up and look so much like her that people might believe she was truly London. For nearly twenty years he’d sweated it out, suspecting that someday the impostor would waltz into Danvers Manor, calmly say she was the little lost princess, make a statement to the press, and start a legal battle over the fortune that would be tied up in court for decades.
Jason had thought his father, while alive, would be foolish enough to believe any beautiful, black-haired, blue-eyed woman who would smile at him and call him “Daddy.” But Witt had proved to be made of tougher stuff than Jason had given him credit for.
Soon after London’s disappearance, when the police, the FBI, and even Witt’s private eye, Phelps, had given up hope of ever locating the little girl again, Witt had determined he had to find her himself.
He’d bought some airtime on television and offered a million-dollar reward, no questions asked, if anyone could lead him to his little girl.
The television appeal had created chaos. Thousands of phone calls and letters had poured in not only from this country but from as far away as Japan, Germany, and India. All of the would-be heiresses had been fakes, of course, screened by Witt’s team of specialists and defrauded quickly, but the search had
cost millions of dollars, only to turn up fruitless.
Now, this new interloper was here and her resemblance to Kat was so damned creepy. It scared the shit out of him.
What if she’s really London?
That thought settled like lead in his gut, but he knew, damn it, he knew she had to be a phony.
The beams of headlights splashed against the window and Zachary felt a sense of relief knowing that his brother had finally arrived. Good. Jason could deal with Adria and Zach could get the hell out of town. He didn’t want or need to be so close to a woman who reminded him of Kat. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
“About time.” She was seated in a corner of the couch, her shoes kicked off, her knees drawn up beneath the silky folds of her gown.
As if she belonged. As if she were really a Danvers. As if she were London. Shit. He watched his brother’s car screech to a stop near the garage. “He’s not gonna be happy.”
“Neither are you.”
Zach caught the irony in her voice and felt the corners of his lips curve upward. She was something. Trouble was, he didn’t know what. But she’d rattled Jason and that, in and of itself, was a trait Zach respected.
The Jaguar’s powerful engine shut down and a door slammed.
“Still time to back out of this.”
“No way.”
Jason, like many lawyers, was one of the most consummate actors Zachary had ever met. Always aware of presence, drama, and effect, Jason never appeared surprised, unless it was to his advantage. Except tonight, when he’d been forced to face his deepest nightmare—that London, his half-sister, was back and ready to claim her portion of the estate, which just happened to be the lion’s share.
Jason’s expression was grim as he strode into the room, but he seemed composed. Not a hair out of place, his tuxedo as crisp as when he’d taken it from his garment bag, he’d managed to regain control of his emotions. With a smile as cool as November, he walked to the bar and poured himself a drink.
“Let’s just get down to it, shall we?” he said as he recapped a bottle of expensive Scotch.
