by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Burying his face in the crook of her neck, holding her close, he willed himself to think of her not as a woman, but as a person to whom fate had handed a crushing blow. She clung to him and cried like a child, her tears raining down his chest. He told her it would be all right, that of course London was alive, that someday they would all see her again, but even as he said the words, he believed them to be lies.
When at last the racking sobs quieted, he lifted his head. “You should go back to the room, take some sleeping pills-”
“I can’t. I don’t want to be alone. Please, Zach, don’t make me go. Let me stay with you. Just hold me. Please.” Her words held the echo of doom, but he couldn’t deny her and when she turned her face up to his, he kissed her trembling lips, knowing that he was about to cross a threshold from which there was no return. Life would never be the same. The truth would be blurred with lies, but he kissed her and she responded, her body quivering in fear and desire.
His brain thundered and his blood turned to liquid heat as she let her fingers slide down his scarred back, along the slope of his spine and lower still to his buttocks. He felt his already stiff cock rise to the occasion, knew there was no turning back as she tugged and the buttons holding his cutoffs together popped in a ripple and her hands were upon him. Warm and soft, her fingers brought a magic that he never dreamed existed.
They tumbled on the bed together, lips searching, tongues eager and before he could consider all the consequences of his actions, Zachary stripped her of her nightshirt, ripping the buttons from their holes as the seams of the soft fabric gave way. Then he gazed at her breasts, felt the gentle pressure of her fingers on his spine, and watched as she licked her lips. He could barely breathe when she ran her tongue across his nipples and anxiously parted her legs, lifting her hips to rub her dewy nest of curls to his crotch.
He thought he might come all over her. “Kat-”
“Just do it, Zach. Please.” Her fingers dug deep into his muscles.
Closing his eyes, he entered into that moist, dark warmth. A primal cry rumbled from his throat and he couldn’t stop himself. In three long strokes it was over; Zachary came fast and hot and fell against her, realizing dimly that he’d just doomed himself to a living hell. No son dared lose his virginity to his father’s wife and expect to survive.
But he didn’t care. He wrapped himself in her warmth and kissed her again, more sure of himself. He’d take it slower with her this time, learn from her and be the best damned lover she ever had.
Zach couldn’t remember when he’d slept so soundly. He moved slightly and felt another body, warm and soft and naked. With a smile, he remembered the night of lovemaking and he rolled over to find Kat, her eyes half open, staring at him. Dawn was breaking over the horizon and soon the ranch hands would be up; she had to leave.
“I wondered how it would be with you,” she said as she slid a finger along the scar that was still visible near his hairline. Though she smiled, a sadness lingered in her eyes.
“How was it?” He nuzzled her check. Though it was dangerous to be with her, he couldn’t give up. He’d made love to her three times last night, and he’d woken up with a hard-on. Maybe there was still enough time for a quick…
“It was the best, Zach,” she said, though her face remained troubled and he knew she was lying.
He touched her hair, brushing soft curls off her face and wished he could stop the agony that pinched the corners of her mouth. As if reading his thoughts, she began to weep; tears suddenly starred her lashes and he pulled her closer to him, holding her naked body next to his. “Don’t worry.”
“I can’t help it, I-”
“Shh. We’ll find London.” He felt suddenly strong, as if he could change the world. “I’ll find her.”
“Oh, Zach, what can you do-”
“You’d be surprised.” His hands found her breasts and he toyed with a nipple that stiffened expectantly under the gentle teasing of his fingers. “Let me show you-”
She broke off suddenly, her eyes wide. “Do you hear anything?”
“No-”
“I do.” She scrambled away from him. “I hear something-”
Zach listened and groaned at the sound of an engine whining as some kind of vehicle-most likely a truck-approached.
“Probably Pete coming early. He does that sometimes,” Zach said, already aroused again. God, he couldn’t get enough of her. He let one hand rest on the curve of her waist.
“You sure?” she asked.
“Mmm.” He listened again and felt his heart knock a bit. The engine wasn’t the deep rumble of a truck, but the smooth purr of an expensive car’s engine as it sped down the lane. An expensive car like a Lincoln Continental. “Oh, God.”
Gravel crunched and brakes squealed.
“Witt,” Katherine mouthed.
“No-” But even as he denied it, he heard the car door open and brisk footsteps sound on the path. Footsteps he’d recognize anywhere. Authoritative footsteps belonging to his father. Footsteps of doom. “Damn it, Kat! You’ve got to get out of here.”
But it was too late. The front door opened and the footsteps continued the short distance to the master bedroom. Kat froze at the muted rap of fingers against wood.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God, oh, God.”
“Leave. Through here.” He was pushing her now, toward the open French doors. She rolled out of bed, grabbed her torn nightshirt and was stepping outside when Witt’s voice reverberated through the rooms. “Katherine? Are you here?” There was a worried edge to his voice.
“Go!” Zach reached for his cutoffs as he heard the first door in the hallway open, then close. Only a few more seconds.
The door to his room opened just as Kat disappeared through the doors.
His father looked gigantic. Zach didn’t bother feigning sleep and Witt didn’t say a word, just looked at the rumpled sheets and sniffed at the lingering odor of Katherine’s perfume. His mouth flattened to a white line of fury and an ugly tic developed under his eye. “Get out,” he said under his breath. Zach rolled off the bed as his father’s fist collided with his face. Pain exploded in his jaw. “You no-good bastard!”
“Witt!” Kat stood in the doorway, her fingers curling over the brass door handle. “Don’t. It…was my fault.”
“Your fault? You forced him to screw you?” He slammed Zach against the wall. Zach’s head smacked against the plaster and pieces of stucco crumbled to the floor. Pain ripped all the way down his spine. “You fucking son of a bitch!” Witt snarled, shaking the life from him as the mirror over the bureau rattled. “I always suspected you were no son of mine and now I’m sure of it. Get out before I kill you!”
Zach staggered toward the door. His eyes barely focused and he felt something sticky and wet running down the back of his head.
“You can’t do this!” Katherine cried and Zach heard a slap that made his stomach turn over. He turned and saw the welt forming on Katherine’s cheek and Witt’s stunned expression, as if he couldn’t believe that he’d struck her.
“Don’t you ever touch me again!” she said, backing outside.
“I’m sorry. Christ, Katherine, I swear, I’d never do anything to hurt you-”
He took one step toward her but she kept backing up. “Stay away from me, Witt. I mean it,” she said, before turning and running into the grayish dawn. Witt’s great shoulders slumped and he sagged against the wall. He turned damning eyes up at his son. “Now look what you’ve done, Zach,” he said, barely able to breathe. With an expression straight from hell, he loosened his tie then reached for his belt buckle. Zach remembered the times he’d been whipped by a thin leather strap. Not again. He wouldn’t suffer like he had when he was eight, leaning over the bed and biting his lower lip until it bled to keep from crying out as his father flayed him with the stinging leather. No way.
“Leave now and don’t ever…” Witt, suddenly ashen, reached into his pocket, fumbled for a
vial of pills and popped the top. He stuck one of the tablets under his tongue. “Don’t ever come back here.”
“I won’t,” Zach promised, jaw clenched in determination. Injustice burned through his veins and he held his father with his remorseless stare. “You’ll never see me again.”
Witt’s blue eyes were cold, his fury evident in the white lines of strain near his mouth. “That’s the way I want it, boy.” He took one menacing step toward his son. “However, if I find out that you had anything to do with your sister’s kidnapping, I swear I’ll personally hunt you down like the lying dog you are and rip you apart with my bare hands.”
Zach stumbled back toward the door. His head throbbed, his jaw ached, and he glared at the man he’d called father all his life. He had to leave. Now. Run as far and fast as he could. And if he never saw Witt Danvers alive again, it would be much too soon.
PART FIVE
1993
11
Adria woke up to the squeal of hydraulic brakes and the thrum of a huge engine as a truck idled in the parking lot. With a groan she rolled out of the bed and surveyed her shabby surroundings. It certainly wasn’t the Ritz, or the Benson, or the Hotel Danvers, for that matter. But it would have to do.
The pipes were rusty, the drain of the tub stained, but she closed her eyes to the flaws of the Riverview and quickly showered under tepid water. She towel-dried her hair, tamed it by snapping a rubber band around a ponytail, and ignored her makeup bag. She didn’t need to look glamorous when she planned to spend the day in the library, the offices of the Oregonian, the historical society, and the Portland Police Bureau if need be. But as she glanced in the mirror, she remembered the family portrait and her heart began to thud. All night long she’d tossed and turned, thinking of the portrait and of Zach as he’d stared so intensely at Katherine, as if he wanted her approval.
“Dysfunctional,” she told herself. “The whole family. And you want to be a part of it. Stupid, stupid girl.”
With an eye on the silk dress in its plastic casing, she yanked on a sweatshirt, a pair of worn jeans, and slipped into ancient Reebok running shoes. She grabbed an oversized purse that doubled as a briefcase and was out the door.
Reading an old city map, she drove to the drive-in window of a McDonald’s and while waiting for her coffee, reacquainted herself with Portland.
Basically the city was divided by the river, and the east side spread away from the banks of the Willamette in a careful grid that was infrequently interspersed with winding streets or slashed by a freeway. The west side, however, was more difficult. Though the streets ran north-south and east-west, they were older, more narrow, and tended to follow the contour of the Willamette River, or meander through the hills that rose steeply from the water’s shore.
She paid for the coffee, took a sip, and drove steadily westward, through the low-rising office buildings and shops toward the river and the twin spires of the Convention Center. As she drove she wondered what her half-brothers and-sister were doing.
At that thought, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Worried blue eyes stared back at her. Was she really London Danvers, or was this all a fierce joke that her father had played on her? Well, it was too late to start second-guessing herself. For now, she was London Danvers and Jason, Nelson, Trisha, and even Zachary were not only her enemies, but her closest blood kin.
She studied the traffic behind her and had the crazy notion that she was being followed. But no car seemed to be tailing her, at least none that she could identify. She stepped on the accelerator. Tires singing on the metal grid, her Nova sped across the Hawthorne Bridge. Unfortunately, she had to drive downtown again, close to the Hotel Danvers, to the building only three blocks down the street from where the offices of Danvers International were housed.
She parked her car in a corner lot, finished the coffee, and grabbed her bag. Though the sun was making a valiant effort to warm the wet streets, the wind was cold as it blew down the Columbia River Gorge, rolled across the Willamette, and whistled through the narrow streets of the city.
She hurried up the steps to the library doors and felt a chill against the back of her neck, as if someone were watching her. “You’re just being paranoid,” she told herself, but couldn’t shake the feeling.
“Something happened last night at the grand opening.” Eunice Danvers Smythe had the uncanny ability to read Nelson like a book. He was edgy and restless and chewed at the corner of his thumbnail. Dressed in a sloppy T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days, he hadn’t shaved or bothered to comb his unruly blond hair and his lips were pinched. “Something went wrong,” she guessed again, shooing her Persian cat off one of the chairs.
“You could say that.” Nelson was slouched in a chair across the table from her in the morning room of her home in Lake Oswego. He’d called from his condo and been on her doorstep in less than the fifteen minutes it took to make the drive within the speed limit.
“What is it?”
“Another imposter.” Nelson ignored the newspaper sitting next to his plate.
“London?”
“So she claims.”
Sighing, Eunice sipped from her coffee cup and stared past Nelson and through the bay window over his shoulder. The lake, reflecting the clouds that had moved quickly in from the west, was a desolate, steely gray. A rough winter wind caused a few whitecaps to surface. On the opposite shore, like bony fingers, empty boat slips jutted into the cold water.
“She’s a fake,” Eunice surmised.
“Of course she’s a fake, but she’s trouble just the same. When the press gets wind of this, the shit’s really going to hit the fan. It’ll start all over again…the speculation and dredging up of the kidnapping. Reporters, photographers…just like before.” He plowed both hands through his thick blond hair.
“It’s always going to be a problem,” Eunice said with a little smile that she reserved for her children. “But it’s something you have to deal with. And it might help you. If you’re really interested in running for mayor someday-”
“Governor.”
“Governor.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “My, my, but aren’t we ambitious.” She didn’t mean to sound scathing, just concerned.
His eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, but he wasn’t laughing. “I suppose we are. We’d both go through hell and back to get what we wanted, wouldn’t we?”
She ignored that little dig. “You could use the adverse publicity to your advantage, if you’re smart.”
“How?”
“Welcome her with open arms,” she said, and Nelson stared at her as if she’d suddenly lost her mind. “I’m serious, Nelson, think about it. You, defender of the downtrodden, you, seeker of truth, you, the one-day politician-listen to her story, try to help her and then…well, when she’s proved a fraud…you don’t even denounce her, not really, just explain to the press that she was an opportunist.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Something to think about.” She added cream to her coffee-not too much, as she prided herself on working out and keeping her body in shape, then watched the clouds swirl to the surface. “Come on now,” she encouraged, blowing across her cup before she took a sip. “Tell me about her.”
Cradling the warm porcelain between her fingers, Eunice waited. Nelson would tell her everything. He always did. It was his way of trying to be special to her. After the divorce from Witt, all the children suffered and she felt an incredible sense of guilt for their pain. She’d never wanted to hurt the children-they were her most precious possessions. Never would she intentionally wound any of them. It had been Witt she had hoped to cripple, but he seemed to have survived the divorce, even thrived as a businessman, and had taken that slut of a young girl for his second wife. Suddenly her special blend of French roast seemed to curdle in her stomach.
Nelson scraped his chair back and stood near the windows. Throwing out a hip, he gazed through the glass. Though he’d called her, begged to come by and
unburden himself, she sensed that he regretted his decision to open up to her. He’d always been volatile-not so openly hostile as Zach had been-but energized by a pent-up anger just under the surface, a blasting cap primed to explode. She wondered if he even had a clue about how he’d been conceived, but held her tongue.
Nelson was the child who should never have been born. She and Witt were estranged when she’d gotten pregnant. Witt had finally found out about her affair with Anthony Polidori and all hell had broken loose.
“You stupid, stupid bitch!” Witt had roared when he’d discovered the truth. He’d sensed that Anthony had been in his house, his room, his bed, though Anthony had slipped away minutes before.
Witt had slapped her so hard her head had snapped back on her neck and she’d stumbled to fall back on her bed. He was on her in an instant, pinning her to the mattress with his enormous bulk. “How could you?” he’d yelled, straddling her and crushing her face between his meaty hands. She was a big woman, a strong woman, but no match for him. “You lying, cheating bitch, how could you?”
She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks and through his fingers, and she knew that he might kill her. His palms squashed her cheeks and she stared up at eyes bright with rage and hatred. Saliva collected in the corners of his mouth and his lips were pulled into a snarl of malice.
“I…It just happened,” she’d choked out.
“Like hell! You’re my wife, Eunice, my wife! The wife of Witt Danvers. Do you know what that means?” He gave her head a little shake and she mewled a protest. She could barely breathe. “You may not like me-”
“I detest you!” she spat.
“So you go crawling to Polidori. Taking off your panties and spreading your legs and screwing his brains out. Why? To get back at me?”
