See How She Dies (8 page)

His gut twisted as he remembered his ill-fated, one-night affair with his stepmother. The passion, the danger, the thrill that he'd never found with another woman. At the memory of his stepmother, a forbidden heat curled through his blood. She'd seduced him, taken his virginity, showed him a glimpse of heaven, then heaved him through the gates of a hell that was to be the remainder of his life. Not that he would've changed a thing.

So why did his one meeting with Adria Nash conjure up such vivid memories of what he'd tried to hide for so long?

He hadn't seen Adria since she'd appeared in the ballroom, all starry-eyed as she'd tried to convince him that she was his long-lost half-sister, but he knew she'd turn up again. Like the proverbial bad penny. They always did. She'd tried phoning him and he hadn't bothered returning her calls. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction or the false hope. She wasn't the first impostor trying to claim to be darling little London and she sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

Sticking two fingers under the stiff collar of his tuxedo, he growled at his reflection and wondered why he bothered with the stupid monkey suit at all. Formality. And he hated it. Just as he hated the party he was about to attend.

He glanced at his duffel bag. Packed and ready to go. He'd be out of here by noon tomorrow.

“Good riddance,” he muttered as he locked the door behind him and strode along the corridor to the elevators. He hadn't told the rest of the family about Adria's visit. No reason. They'd all just wind themselves in tighter knots than they had tied themselves into already. The old man's estate hadn't been settled yet and if the principal heirs got wind of the fact that another London impersonator had shown up…One side of his mouth lifted at the thought. He ran his thumbnail along the edge of the brass rail in the elevator car and considered dropping the bomb, then discarded the idea. He was well past toying with his siblings just to get a reaction.

The car stopped on the second floor and Zachary stared into the open doors of the ballroom. Guests, like flocking birds, had already collected. A sense of déjà vu crept over him as he heard the rustle of silk, the clink of crystal, and the murmur of soft laughter. There hadn't been an event in this room for almost twenty years; the last party had been Witt's sixtieth birthday.

Beneath his tuxedo jacket and shirt, his shoulder muscles bunched, as if he expected trouble. From the corner, a pianist in long tails was playing on a concert grand that gleamed like polished ebony. Zachary recognized the tune, the theme from a recent movie, but he didn't pay much attention.

Champagne flowed from a fountain that gurgled to a pool at the base of an ice sculpture of a rearing horse, the symbol for the Hotel Danvers. Pink roses floated in crystal vases and petals were strewn across linen table clothes. A fist knotted in Zach's stomach. This was too much as it had been on that fateful night when London disappeared.

He'd let Trisha handle the arrangements for the event, barely listening as she'd rattled off the guest list, the menu, the musicians, the artists, or anything else to do with the damned celebration. He'd told her to do what she wanted; he'd done his part in fixing up the old hotel and he'd stick around for the party, but that was it. He had no interest in the grand opening itself.

Now he wondered if he'd let loose a demon. This celebration was certain to evoke memories of the surprise party Kat had thrown for Witt on his sixtieth birthday. The twinkling white lights in the trees, the polished dance floor, the prestigious guest list, even the champagne, served in long throated glasses, were reminiscent of the fated celebration.

He swept past a table laden with hors d'oeuvres. Making a beeline toward the bar, he ignored his brother, who was waving for him to join a group of his friends. The men with him looked a lot like Jason. Neatly trimmed hair, impeccable and expensive tuxedos, polished shoes, bodies built at exclusive athletic clubs. Zachary was willing to bet they were all junior partners in some stuffy law firm in the city. Who needed them?

Insolently, Zach leaned an elbow on the bar. The bartender, barely twenty-one and sporting a thin mustache, trimmed beard, and gold earring, smiled. “What'll it be?”

“A beer.”

“Pardon?”

“Henry's. Coors. Miller. On tap or in a bottle, I don't care. Anything you've got.”

The bartender offered a patronizing smile. “I'm sorry, sir, we don't have—”

“Get some,” Zachary growled, and the bartender, though perturbed, spoke quickly to a passing waiter, who scurried off in the direction of the service elevators.

“Hey, Zach, great job. The place looks fabulous,” a female voice enthused from somewhere behind him. Zach didn't bother to respond.

Another woman—someone from the press, he thought—caught hold of his arm. “Just a few questions, Mr. Danvers, about the hotel—”

“I think my sister sent out a press release.”

“I know, but I have some questions.”

Zach was barely civil. “Speak to Trisha. Trisha McKittrick. She's the interior decorator.”

“But you were the general contractor.”

“She handled all the interior design.” Turning on his heel, Zach left the woman with her questions and glanced pointedly at his watch. Jason was going to make some sort of speech and be congratulated by the mayor, the governor, and someone from the historical society. Zach would stick around, get his face photographed a couple of times, then make good his escape.

Still waiting for his beer, Zach paced to the windows, frowning, wishing the evening were over. He shouldn't have agreed to stay. Damn, he was getting soft. There was a time when he would've told Jason explicitly what he could do to himself if his brother had asked that Zach be a part of this farce. As it was, probably because of some sort of egotistical pride in what he'd accomplished here at the hotel, Zach had reluctantly agreed.
You're as bad as the rest of them, Danvers, always hoping for a little glory.

“Mr. Danvers?”

Zach blinked and found the waiter carrying a silver platter with a long-necked bottle of Henry Weinhard's Private Reserve and a frosted glass. With a crooked smile, Zach grabbed the beer. “Don't need that.” He pointed to the glass as he twisted off the cap and dropped it onto the tray. “But I will want more than just this one.”

“At the bar, sir. When you're ready.”

“Thanks.” Zach took a long tug on his bottle and felt better. He glanced out the window and saw the stream of glossy white limousines waiting to pull up to the striped awning and deposit their guests, the elite of Portland, to the front doors. Men in dark tuxedos, women in jewels, furs, and silk emerged from their modern-day royal coaches and dashed into the hotel.

It was a joke.

He itched for a smoke and told himself to forget it. He'd given up that particular vice nearly five years ago. Leaning a shoulder against the windowpanes, he glared out at the night. Then he saw her. Like a ghost from his past, Adria Nash appeared on the opposite street corner. His insides twisted as he watched her weave through the clogged traffic, dashing among cabs, limos, and cars idling near the front door of the hotel. Wrapped in the same black coat she'd worn before, she sidestepped puddles and swept past the doorman.

So she'd had the guts to show up here.

With a final swallow, he finished his drink, left the empty bottle on the corner of the table, and moved quickly through the crowd. Several people tried to stop him; women offered him encouraging smiles and men looked up as he passed. He was probably the subject of more than one conversation, but he didn't really care that he was labeled the black sheep of the family or that people thought he'd reconciled with the old man just before Witt had died to get himself back in the will.

As he dashed through the double doors, he saw her, smiling at the hotel manager, assuring him she had an invitation.

“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.