by Lisa Jackson
“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.
She hadn’t planned to order a drink, but receiving the package and note had definitely changed her mind. She was sipping a rum and Coke when Nelson appeared. She almost didn’t recognize him, as she’d always seen him impeccably dressed in expensive suits. Tonight his hair was uncombed, windblown and damp from the rain, and he wore a wool sweater, black jeans, and a black leather jacket that looked brand new, as if he’d bought it for the occasion.
Whereas Zachary was rough-and-tumble and wore his I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude comfortably, Nelson seemed out of place in clothes a little too fashionable to be casual. An enigma.
Nelson glanced nervously around the room before he spied her. Relief crossed his face as he threaded his way quickly through the tables. He seemed paler than she remembered, less self-assured, and there was a little-boy quality to him that she hadn’t noticed before.
“Adria!” His face broke into a warm smile as he dropped into the chair opposite her. The waiter was there immediately and he ordered a Scotch on the rocks. “You must think it’s strange that I called you,” he said, wiping a few drops of rain from his jacket.
“I expected it.”
“Did you?”
“You’re just the first. I’d guess that everybody in the family will want to have his or her say. You know, try and convince me that it’s in my best interests to leave town.”
His smile didn’t even falter, though she thought she saw a flicker of ice in his warm blue eyes. “Well, I hate to say it, but it would make it a helluva lot easier on you.”
“Mmm. So I should just turn tail and run?”
“Not exactly.”
“And then I’d be back to square one.”
“Is that so bad?”
“I think so, yes,” she said, her temper frazzling. “Do you know, have you any idea, how many years I’ve been trying to find out who I am? Where I came from?”
The waiter brought his drink and Nelson fingered the glass. “So it doesn’t matter if you’re London, as long as you find out who you are.”
“I am London.”
He eyed her speculatively. “Okay, London,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm, “what is it you want from us?”
“I already told you—recognition.”
“And, with the recognition, your inheritance.”
“Look, Nelson, I don’t expect you or the rest of your family to roll over and take me in with no questions asked. That wouldn’t make sense.”
“No…”
“And I realize I’m not the first one to make the claim that I’m your half-sister.”
“Not by a long shot.”
Adria spread her hands over the table, as if in supplication. “All I want is a chance. I don’t know what your family’s doing, but I imagine everyone is trying his damnedest to prove me a fake. I figure you’ve got a team of lawyers and investigators working on this day and night.” His eyes shifted away from hers and she knew she’d been right about one thing. She was being followed, by some detective hired by the family. A knot tightened in her stomach, but she managed to appear calm. “So if you get any information that conclusively says I’m not London Danvers, just let me know and I’ll back off. I’ll take blood tests, lie detector tests, DNA tests, anything, to help sort this out. Give me a call when your PI reports back to you.”
“How do you know about—?”
“Only makes sense.” She sat back against her chair and regarded him coldly. “It’s what I would do if the situation were reversed.”
“You could go away from this empty-handed.”
“That’s not exactly a news flash.” She stared at him steadily and he blinked before finding interest in his half-empty glass. “I just have to know the truth, Nelson. Maybe you aren’t interested in that, but I’d say it’s a shame if the public defender wasn’t looking for it around each and every corner.”
He took a quick swallow of Scotch and Adria thought that he, of all the children, looked the most like his father. Witt had been a bigger man, but he had the same startling blue eyes, aristocratic, straight nose, thick hair, and square jaw. Aside from the similar facial features, the resemblance ended, however. Nelson was decidedly different from Witt—or at least what she imagined Witt to have been from all the articles and newspaper reports she’d read of him, the pictures she’d seen. Witt Danvers had been imposing and ruthless and cruel. Nelson seemed to have a gentler side to his character and Adria guessed there had been little, if any, gentleness in Witt Danvers. Whatever tende
rness had been trapped in his black soul had been given only to his youngest child: to London. His little treasure.
She felt suddenly sick and surprisingly empathetic for this man sitting across from her. All Witt’s children bore emotional scars that might never heal. But she wouldn’t learn anything if she showed any sign of weakness, if she let her emotions get the better of her. “What if I do turn out to be London?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. “What would you do then?”
“I don’t know…it’s impossible to even consider it. She’s been dead too long…at least dead to me. Us. The family.”
“If I do turn out to be dear little London, you’ll have to see me day after day and have to deal with me regarding all the family business, won’t you?”
“I don’t work for the company.”
“You’re on the board of directors. You aren’t high-profile, but you’re involved. Sure, Jason pulls all the strings, but you and your sister are always hovering in the wings.” When he didn’t respond, she plunged on, determined to make her point. “I could be helpful to you, you know. I read somewhere that you’d like to go into politics. If you assisted me in uncovering the truth, it would look good on your record, wouldn’t it?” She winked at him, as if they were co-conspirators. “The headlines could be a veritable bonanza of goodwill—which wouldn’t hurt you in the final ballot count. I can see them now: DANVERS BROTHER FINDS LONG-LOST SISTER; or NELSON DANVERS PROVES WOMAN IS HIS HALF-SISTER. CANDIDATE FINDS LONG-LOST RELATIVE. It could go on and on.”
Nelson’s eyes grew wary.
“Then again,” she said, with a lift of her shoulder, “if I really do turn out to be London, I could throw a monkey wrench in all your ambitions. You’re probably banking on getting your share of the fortune.” She clucked her tongue and wondered what it was about him that made her second-guess herself.
“You know, Adria, I came here hoping that we could settle things. I don’t need to be threatened.”
“Glad you brought it up, ’cause neither do I.” Reaching into her purse, she retrieved the nasty little notes she’d received and slapped them onto the table. “Someone has been sending me notes and…gifts, if you would call it that.”
The color seeped from his face. “Who gave these to you?”
“Don’t know. Notice that they’re not signed. The mark of a true coward.”
“How’d you get them? Were they delivered?” he asked, a muscle ticking near the corner of his jaw.
“One turned up on my bureau. The other, a nasty little surprise, was left at the desk. Not many people know that I’m a guest here, Nelson, but obviously you did, so I assume the rest of your family does as well. My guess is that the guy you’ve got following me reports back to you and you all know when I’m out of my room.” She glared at him. “Give the family a message—it won’t work. I won’t back off. I’ve been told that I’ve got a stubborn streak that becomes obvious when people try to force me into doing what they want.” She leaned across the table, bringing her face closer to his. “The bottom line is this—the more you push, the harder I’ll push right back. These”—she pointed to the letter—“are a waste of my time, and the package just evidence that someone needs to see a shrink.”
“I have no idea where those letters came from,” he said, blinking hard, as if trying to put his thoughts in some sort of order. “And a package—what was in it?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to know. Why don’t you give your siblings a message for me, okay? Tell them to knock it off. I’m about ready to go to the police and the press as it is and this is just one way of pushing me right through the open doors of the Oregonian. I know of several columnists who would have a ball with this story and probably a dozen freelance reporters who would cut off their right arm if they could create a little controversy in this town. They’d love to shake up the social strata a bit by writing an exposé of some sort on the Danvers family.” She took a long drink from her glass. “What do you think?”
“What I think, Adria,” Nelson said, his voice surprisingly low and calm, “is that you’re just like all the rest. A fraud.”
“And what I think is someone in the family is running scared.” She tapped a fingernail on the letters. “Really scared.”
“You don’t even know that they’re from the family.”
“Who else?”
She folded the notes and put them in her purse. She didn’t like pushing so hard, but she had no choice. Someone in the family had decided it was time to play hard ball. Was it Nelson? She didn’t think so, but she didn’t know much about him. If Nelson were really her half-brother, she’d feel sorry for him, wearing his expensive suits during the day, and his new black leather jacket at night, while holding on to a job he didn’t want just because he was a part of the political game started long ago by his father. She suspected that even though good old Witt was in the grave, Nelson was still trying to prove to his father—or to himself—that he was truly worth something after all.
“Is there anything else you wanted to know?” she asked.
“Why don’t you just leave us alone?”
“I can’t.”
“This is your mission, right?”
“You got it, Nelson.” Since the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, she stood. “Look, this doesn’t have to be a battle,” she said.
“Of course it does.” He stared up at her and his eyes seemed suddenly lifeless. She wanted to wiggle away from his dead gaze, but she didn’t. “If you know anything about our family, you know it does.”
“As long as we understand each other.” She motioned toward the bar. “Don’t worry about the bill. I charged it to my room.”
Nelson watched as she walked briskly out the double glass doors. He’d made a mess of things. He’d hoped to befriend her and weasel a little information from her, but she’d turned the conversation around and he’d been nearly tongue-tied. He was usually calm around women, immune to them for the most part, but occasionally he found one who could rattle him and Adria Nash, whoever the hell she was, had done more than her share of rattling.
He had the horrible premonition that she was London. Not only her looks, but her manner spoke of arrogance and power. He’d expected a shy little hick from Montana, a girl interested in scamming a few bucks and beating a hasty retreat, but there was more to her than met the eye and that scared him shitless.
Straightening his collar, he caught his reflection in the beveled mirror over the bar. Another murky gaze met his and locked and Nelson felt the back of his throat turn to cotton. There was passion in that stare—unreined, raw sexual energy that hit him with an intensity that knocked the breath from his lungs. He felt the same dark stirrings he’d tried to deny for years, held the stranger’s gaze for just an instant, and turned quickly on his heel. He didn’t have time for any one-night stands. Besides, they were much too dangerous. He had his career to think about and he couldn’t, for the sake of one wet tongue sliding down his spine, give in to the dark desire that had been his curse for as long as he’d been interested in sex. One night could put his entire future in jeopardy. Especially now.
Ignoring the heat that crept into his loins and brought a sheen of perspiration to his upper lip, he left the bar and hunched his shoulders against the cool October breeze. Briskly, before he gave in to the sexual demons still burning through his mind and he turned around to meet with the sensual stranger, he walked the few blocks to the Hotel Danvers where his car was parked. Without a second’s hesitation, he called Jason from the cellular phone in his Cadillac. “I just met with Adria,” he said, looking over his shoulder as if he expected someone—the potential one-night stand, perhaps—to be staring through the windows. “I’m on my way to your house.”
“Great!” Jason slammed the phone down and rotated the kinks from his neck. It had been one hell of a day. He’d been in meetings all day, but his mind hadn’t been on business. No. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Adria Nash—the proverbial fly in the fucking oint
ment.
How could the family get rid of her? There was something about her that got his blood up and he imagined himself either knocking her senseless or making love to her or both. He got hard just thinking of shoving her onto the bed and giving her the fuck of her life. “Get a grip,” he muttered. Even thinking about a sexual involvement with her was a ridiculous, treacherous notion and had probably started because she reminded him of Kat. Guilt, ever his companion, ate at him.
He was waiting for a call from Sweeny and he’d already had a run-in with Kim, who was making demands upon him, begging him to get the divorce he’d so foolishly promised her. He didn’t need the added aggravation and now Nelson was losing it. The kid was about to go around the bend with this Adria/London thing. Usually even-tempered, Nelson was coming damned close to becoming unhinged. Jason checked his watch and frowned. “Come on, Sweeny,” he said before pouring himself another drink and tossing it back.
Ten minutes later the phone rang. Jason picked up the receiver on the second ring and heard Sweeny’s nasal drawl. “I’ve done as much checkin’ in this shit hole as I can,” Oswald announced without so much as a greeting. “Our friend Ms. Nash has been a busy woman. After discovering the tape from her father, she checked out every library book in the county on the timber business and the hotel business as well as shipping and real estate.”
Every muscle in Jason’s body tightened. Danvers International. “So she’s done her homework.”
“Hell, yes, she’s done her homework, even got herself some goddamned extra credit, if you ask me. She ordered books from other libraries all across the Northwest—Seattle, Portland, Spokane, Oregon City, and newspapers, too. Contacted all the majors in three or four states. As I said, the lady’s been busy.”
Jason’s insides seemed to congeal. He’d hoped she was a bimbo, a low-class gold digger out for a quick buck.
Sweeny was still saturating him with the bad news. “Now you have to remember that she graduated with honors from the college she attended. Summa cum laude.”
