by Lisa Jackson
“Not that I know.” Trisha angled her head, wrinkling her nose as she eyed her work. “But no one thinks she was in on it, otherwise she would have demanded money. And her checking account hasn’t been touched. Still has a couple of hundred dollars in it. She’s got savings, too, over at First National, I think. Nearly a thousand dollars. Still there.”
“How do you know so much?”
Trisha glanced at him a second. “I listen. At keyholes and open doors and air shafts.”
For the first time, Zach was interested in what his sister had learned. For years he’d thought Trisha totally self-absorbed. He assumed that she didn’t care about anything other than herself, her manicure, and her latest boyfriend or a new mind-expanding high. Though lately, come to think of it, she hadn’t gone out much. After the fiasco with Mario Polidori…Zach squinted at his sister. She was pretty, he supposed, with her thick reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. She wore too much makeup and her clothes too tight, but there was something about her that was appealing. For the most part, though, she was a pain in the ass.
At twenty, she was still taking art classes, had moved out of the house three or four times and had always returned with a broken heart, busted for drugs, or flat broke. Sometimes all three. The drug busts—mainly marijuana and once in a while a little hash—were handled discreetly and without arrest by good ol’ Detective Jack of the Portland police, and Witt had always covered her bad checks and escalating credit card balances. The broken hearts weren’t so easily mended. Trisha had a long track record of picking losers. Including Mario Polidori.
No matter what the circumstances of her latest source of rebellion, Trisha always returned—tail between her legs, fingers stretched toward Daddy’s wallet. Zach figured it was because the world, with its demand of rent and electricity payments, was too difficult for his sister. She was better off having Daddy pay the bills.
He leaned back in the chaise and regarded her. Already, she had a pinched set to her mouth that reminded him of his mother. In the past few years, ever since the Polidori mess, Trisha had changed. Zach didn’t know exactly what had happened between Mario and her, but he’d heard arguments that had reverberated through the timbers of the old house and Zach had guessed that Mario Polidori had used his sister to get back at Witt. Trisha had been an innocent, but more than willing, accomplice in the war of hate that had existed between the families for nearly a century. The feud didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. Not that Zach cared.
“You know, Zach,” Trisha said, spinning her easel around so he could see her work, a caricature of him as a laid-up, unshaven, generally slovenly teenager lying on a chaise lounge and swilling Coke. A blaring radio and can of Colt 45 were propped on a nearby table. “You’d better be careful.”
“Very funny,” he remarked, pointing at her picture.
“I’m not the only one who can see through you, you know.” She stuffed her charcoal back in its box. “Kat and Dad, they’re on to you. There’s a lot of talk about boarding school or sending you off to the ranch to and I quote, ‘work his butt off and keep him out of trouble.’”
“No way,” he responded. He gazed up at the thin clouds moving in from the west.
“Any way you look at it, boarding school or shoveling shit at the Lazy M beats MacLaren,” she said, mentioning the Oregon school for underage male criminals.
“Is that where they think I’ll end up?”
“I don’t know what they think, but it’s my guess, Zach. You haven’t exactly been easy to live with since you got out of the hospital and that stunt with the reporters—”
He grinned, rubbing the swollen knuckles of his fist with his other hand.
“—you’re not winning friends.”
“The guy deserved it.” Zach could still hear questions, see the cameras pointed at him as he’d tried to get out of Witt’s Lincoln and away from the reporter who had appeared from behind the hedge.
“Can you explain why you were attacked on the night your half-sister—”
He’d reacted and his fist had slammed into the guy’s jaw with a bone-jarring crunch. Blood had spurted. Pain had ricocheted up Zach’s arm and the man had fallen, groaning to the ground. There was already talk of a lawsuit.
Now, as if reading her brother’s thoughts, Trisha sighed and gathered up her easel.
“You think I kidnapped London?” he asked, telling himself he didn’t care one way or the other.
Shaking hear head and staring pointedly at the scar that still edged his face, she said, “I don’t know what you did that night, but you’re not telling the truth…not all of it, and you’re going to end up taking the blame for this one unless you come clean.”
The muscles in the back of his neck tightened because he’d thought the same thing. “Since when are you the goddess of virtue?” He took another gulp of beer, drained the Coke can and crumpled it in his fist.
Trisha pinned him with eyes that had seen too much pain for so short a life. “You don’t know anything about me, Zach. You’ve never even tried to get to know me, have you? Look, I was just trying to do you a favor, but forget it.” She headed back to the house. “I made a mistake. It’s your funeral.”
Katherine’s eyelids stuck together. Her mouth tasted like she’d been licking an ashtray and her head pounded above her temples. She forced one eye open and sunlight streaming through a partially open window, nearly blinded her. Groaning, she rolled over and wondered about the sadness that was a horrible weight on her heart.
She was in her own bedroom and…Oh, God…the reality came crashing back to her fragile brain. London was gone, abducted nearly two—or was it three?—weeks before. Desperation, like the horrid beast it was, clawed at her from the inside. She needed a cigarette. With numb fingers she reached to the bed table and found an empty pack of Virginia Slims, which she flung onto the floor. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t take this, day after day. The bumbling policemen, the useless FBI, and the media. Damn the media. The few reporters who had gotten past the guards had asked questions that made her heart bleed and the fire in their eyes, all looking for a story, and insensitive to her pain…No wonder Zach had punched out a reporter and broken a photographer’s camera as he’d returned to the house from the hospital.
She stood on unsteady legs, then drew the drapes open a little farther. Two squad cars and a plain, stripped-down Chevrolet were scattered on the circular drive. Farther away, past the sloping front lawns and tended rose gardens, she caught a glimpse of the front gates where the vultures gathered. Two or three cars were parked in the shade of an ancient oak that spread its branches over the brick wall which kept the scavengers at bay.
“I hope you all rot in hell,” she muttered, letting the drapes fall back into place.
What time was it? Bleary eyes focused on the clock. Two in the afternoon. She’d slept seventeen hours, drugged by Doc McHenry’s sleeping pills and God-only-knew what else. Somehow, some way, she’d have to pull herself together. With or without London.
That thought caused her knees to buckle and she grasped the edge of the bureau to steady herself. She’d find her baby. She had to. She couldn’t trust the federal government or the police, and Witt, well, he hadn’t been much help. The fact that he would no longer sleep with her, insisting that she needed her rest, bothered her. She knew the real reason. He was afraid that she would require more than a pat on the head, that she might need a kiss, a hug, even her husband to make love to her to comfort her.
God, she needed a cigarette.
Running her tongue over filmy teeth, she forced herself into the bathroom, where she stripped off the nightgown that she’d worn for days and turned on the shower. Before stepping under the hot spray, she got a glimpse of her reflection and cringed. No makeup, hair lank, her once-curvy body beginning to look gaunt from lack of food. Hazily she remembered Maria, the cook, coming into her room, trying to force soup of some kind down her throat.
In all her life, Katherine had never once le
t herself go; she believed that her greatest commodity was her body and she spent hours in the gym, with a masseuse, at the hairdresser, having her nails manicured. Her clothes were always flattering—a little sexy, but classy and pressed.
But now she looked like hell.
She stepped into the warm spray and let the hot water run over her hair and skin. Closing her eyes against the dark depression that settled over her whenever she thought of London, she leaned against the slick tiles. She couldn’t let this get her down because she was London’s only chance. If she gave up on her daughter, everyone else would as well.
Sobs burned deep in her throat and, telling herself that she could allow herself the freedom to cry, to grieve a little by herself, she let the tears drizzle down her cheeks, their salty tracks mingling with the rivulets from the shower as the steam billowed around her.
As long as she was alone, she could wail and scream and gnash her teeth in frustration, but when she was with the others, then she had to pretend to be strong.
An hour later she’d made it downstairs. Her hair was washed, blown dry and brushed until it shined, her teeth were polished, her makeup impeccable, her shorts and top a blue that matched her eyes. She grabbed some orange juice from the refrigerator, ignored Maria’s pleas that she eat breakfast, and found out that Witt and the police were holed up in the den with strict orders not to be disturbed. Fine. Turning her back to Maria, she splashed a couple of shots of vodka into her juice, swallowed two double-strength Excedrin, reached for a new pack of cigarettes, and tucked the Wall Street Journal under her arm.
She was ready, or so she thought, but the intensity of the daylight made her reach for the sunglasses she kept in a drawer near the French doors. Outside, there wasn’t a breath of breeze and the sun beat mercilessly against the cement and brick that skirted the pool.
She heard a noise, glanced up, and realized, as she passed by the ferns and rhododendrons flanking the path, that Zachary was swimming laps. He knifed through the water like an athlete and his wounds, still visible against his tanned skin, had healed enough to allow him easy, even strokes.
A knot of something akin to desire unwound in Katherine’s stomach. Of all of Witt’s children, Zachary held the most appeal. He didn’t look like the rest of the Danvers brood—his skin was a darker shade, he was more muscular in build, and his eyes were a stormy gray rather than the clear blue that seemed to be a Danvers trademark.
His nose wasn’t straight and arrogant like Witt’s, but Katherine had decided that was because it had been broken at least three times—once recently on that horrid night when London was abducted, once during a motorcycle accident, and another time during a fistfight in junior high. The kid had been twice Zach’s size but had left with two black eyes and a swollen cock when Zach’s pointed boot had connected with the kid’s groin. Zach had gotten the worst of it; not only had his nose been broken but his ribs as well, and the boy’s father, a lawyer, had threatened to sue. Fortunately, Witt had bought him off—which was exactly what the lawyer-father had hoped for.
Irreverent and sexy as hell, Zach was attractive on more than one level. Katherine dropped onto a chaise lounge, propped up her feet, and watched her stepson glide through the water. Sleek, sinewy muscles, damp and gleaming in the sunlight, moved effortlessly. She wondered if his skin was tanned everywhere or if, beneath the ragged cutoffs, his buttocks were a lighter shade.
Since she’d taken her marriage vows, Katherine had never been unfaithful to Witt. Even in the past few years when he’d all but stopped trying to make love to her, she’d ignored the desire that curled restlessly through her blood when she saw a particularly interesting male. She’d had opportunities, plenty of them over the years—some suggested by Witt’s closest friends—but she’d laughed off the passes as if they were bad jokes and never given in to the lust that had some nights nearly driven her mad.
But she was tempted by Zachary. No doubt about it. She wasn’t alone. He could protest it as loudly as he wanted, but he was attracted to her. The last time they’d been together, when her temper had gotten the better of her and she’d forced him to dance with her at Witt’s party, she’d felt the hardness between his legs, saw the stain of embarrassment on his cheeks, knew that he’d responded to her.
Stop it! He’s Witt son, for crying out loud! Your stepson! With shaking fingers she peeled the cellophane from her pack of cigarettes, shook out a Virginia Slim, and lit up. He didn’t look her way, didn’t acknowledge that she was near the pool, just kept swimming as if he would never stop.
Blowing smoke to the sky, she tried to turn her thoughts away from her secret attraction to Zach. However, if she wasn’t considering his seduction, her mind turned back to London and the deep depression that enveloped her whenever she thought of her little girl. Where was she? Still alive? Huddled and scared? Or dead already, brutally murdered? Oh, God, she couldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t! “London,” she whispered, her eyes filling with sudden tears again.
She took a long sip from the cool orange juice and hoped the vodka would calm her nerves. If only someone would hold her, place strong arms around her, whisper in her ear that everything would be all right…that London was safe and would be returning home. The inside of her chest seemed to cave in on itself.
She needed someone. Anyone. Zach.
Gritting her teeth against the mind-paralyzing fear that had been her constant companion for weeks, she snapped the paper open and pretended interest in the bond market when all the while she watched Zach over the top of the newspaper. Her eyes were hidden by her sunglasses and she was certain that Zach didn’t know that as she stared at him, she was beginning to plan his seduction.
Zach’s lungs burned and his shoulder was beginning to ache. He’d been in the pool fifteen minutes, hoping Kat would finish her drink and leave, but he’d had no such luck. It looked as if she’d parked herself indefinitely. He was relieved she’d finally emerged. It was weird for her to be locked in her room, hardly venturing out.
But then, these days, everything at the house was weird. The cops and FBI, the reporters clustered around the gates, Witt’s quiet rage and Kat’s isolation. Jason had moved back to the house and paced like a caged animal; Nelson, after following him around for a few days, had holed up in his room.
Zach didn’t trust anyone and thought people were always staring at him, as if he had any idea what had happened to London and the damned nanny.
Surfacing, he tossed the water from his hair and took in a huge gulp of air. He hoisted himself out of the pool and stood dripping because his towel was at the other end, near Kat, and ever since the party he’d wanted to avoid her. He was uncomfortable around her, partly because being near her reminded him of his fear for London, but partly because he was embarrassed about what had happened on the dance floor that night. He was even more humiliated because Kat knew that he’d gone to a hooker. A whore. Like he had to pay for it!
He’d had plenty of chances with girls his age, but he hadn’t been interested in some giggling ninny who would let him touch her tits in exchange for his class ring or some such garbage. Girls were always looking to fall in love and he wasn’t interested. He didn’t believe in love and knew he never would love anyone. His parents and his siblings had convinced him that love was a foolish notion. It just plain didn’t exist.
The cement was hot against the bottoms of his feet as he jogged the length of the pool and snatched up his towel. He was still sore and knew with his bruises and scar, he looked like hell.
Kat glanced up and offered him a blinding smile that caused his diaphragm to slam into his lungs. “You’re feeling better,” he said weakly, knowing she expected conversation.
“Yeah.”
She lifted her sunglasses to squint up at him. God, she was beautiful. Her lips were a slick, glossy pink and her cheekbones were carved gently. Standing above her, he could see down the column of her throat and lower still to the deep cleft between her breasts. Her tan line, faded so
mewhat, was still visible and if she moved just the right way, he was certain he’d catch a glimpse of her nipples. “No permanent damage?” she asked, as if she really cared.
“Looks that way.” He swiped the towel over his face and through his hair, trying to ignore the raw sensuality that seemed to radiate from her. Hell, why was she looking at him like that?
“That’s good. I was worried about you.” She stretched and the motion seemed somehow feline in the hot sun. A hot summer breeze kissed the back of his neck.
“Were you?” He didn’t believe her and he was suddenly wary.
She swallowed and licked her lips. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. “Yes…there’s so much that’s happened, some of it so awful.” Tears moistened her eyes and for the life of him he felt sorry for her. “Anyway, I know I’ve treated you badly—that display at the hotel was uncalled for. I was drunk and angry and…oh, God, Zach…I’m making a mess of this, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”
“Forget it,” he said, feeling his face turning a darker shade of red.
“I will. If you’ll forgive me.”
Jesus, what was going on here? He cleared his throat and glanced at the shadows shifting beneath the trees. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” Again the smile, though this time there were teardrops drizzling down her cheeks and he realized how devastated she was about the loss of her child.
He felt awkward and stupid for even thinking about her in any way sexual. She was grieving, for Christ’s sake. Nervously, he knotted the towel in his hands. “I…uh, look, don’t worry about London. She’ll turn up.”
“You think so?” She sounded so hopeful.
Did he do that—give her a sense of false hope about a poor little girl who might already be dead? He felt absolutely wretched. “I dunno, but…everybody’s looking for her…” It sounded lame, even to his own ears, and he noticed the ghost of pain crossing her eyes. Hell, he was just no good at this!
