She was a fraud.
Zach could smell a fake a mile away, and this woman, this black-haired woman with the mysterious blue eyes and hint of irreverence in her smile when she claimed to be London, was as phony as the proverbial three-dollar bill.
But he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He’d tried, but she kept swimming to the surface of his consciousness, toying with his thoughts.
Already in a foul mood because of the grand opening, he poured himself a drink from the bar in the suite he’d called home for the past few months, the very same set of rooms he was to have slept in on the night London had been kidnapped. The suite on the seventh floor looked different now, as the decor reflected the turn of the century rather than the 1970s, but it was still eerie remembering that night. Witt had raged, Kat had wept, and the rest of the children…the survivors…had cast suspicious glances at one another and the police.
He ran a finger along the smooth surface of the window, then pocketed his hotel-room key. He didn’t have time to reminisce and he resented Adria for brining back the pain of his checkered past.
Right now, Zach just wanted out. He’d held up his part of the bargain, which was to renovate the hotel, and now he wanted his due—the price he’d extracted from the old man before Witt had died.
It had been a painful scene. His father had tried to break the ice and admit that he’d been wrong about his faithless wife, but the words had gotten all tangled up and once again they’d ended up arguing. Zach had nearly walked out, but Witt had enticed him back.
“The ranch is yours, if you want it, boy,” Witt had declared.
Zach’s hand rested on the doorknob of the den. “The ranch?”
“When I die.”
“Forget it.”
“You want it, don’t you?”
Zach had turned and skewered his father with a stare intended to cut through steel.
“You always take what you want, if I remember right.”
“I’m outta here.”
“Wait,” the old man had pleaded. “The ranch is worth several million.”
“I don’t give a shit about the money.”
“Oh, right. My noble son.” Witt was standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a short glass of Irish whiskey. “But you still want it. What for?” His white eyebrows had raised a bit. “Nostalgia, perhaps?”
The jab cut deep, but Zach didn’t so much as flinch. “It doesn’t matter.”
Witt snorted. “It’s yours.”
Zach wasn’t easily suckered by the old man. He was smart enough to know the ranch had a price—a high one. “What do I have to do?”
“Nothing all that hard. Restore the old hotel.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t act like I’ve asked you to fly, damn it. You have your own construction crew in Bend. Move them over here or hire new people. Money’s no object. I just want the hotel to look as good as it did when it was built.”
“You’re out of your mind. It would cost a fortune to—”
“Indulge me. It’s all I’m asking,” Witt said, his voice low. “You love the ranch, I’m fond of the hotel. The logging operations, the investments, they don’t mean much, not to me. But that hotel has class. It was the best of its kind in its day. I’d like to see that again.”
“Hire someone else.”
Witt’s eyes narrowed on his son and he swallowed the last of his whiskey. “I want you to do it, boy. And I want you to do it for me.”
“Go to hell.”
“Already been there. Seems as if you had something to do with that.”
Zach’s throat tightened. He’d never seen eye-to-eye with the old man, but knew an olive branch when it was thrust under his nose. And this particular branch was attached by a silver chain to the deed to the ranch.
“Don’t let your pride stand in the way of what you want.”
“It won’t,” he lied.
Witt extended his big hand. “What d’ya say?”
Zach hesitated just a fraction of a second. “It’s a deal,” he’d finally said and the two men had clasped hands.
Zach had started to work on the hotel and Witt had changed his will. The project to reclaim the Hotel Danvers and refurbish the old building to its earlier grandeur had lasted over two years, and Witt had died long before it was finished, never realizing his dream. Zach had been able to spend most of his time at the ranch, until a year ago. Then the job had become so involved that he’d been forced to move to Portland to ensure that all the finishing touches were just right.
Now, he tightened the knot of his tie around his throat. He had to get through the grand opening, check a few last bugs, and then get the hell out of Dodge.
What about Adria?
Christ, why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? It seemed that she was always there, close to the surface of his thoughts, just as Kat had been. A curse, that’s what it was. For, like it or not, she did resemble his deceased stepmother. That black hair, her clear blue eyes, her pointy chin and high cheekbones, replicas of Katherine LaRouche Danvers. Adria wasn’t quite as small as his stepmother had been, but she was every bit as beautiful and had the same special grace that he hadn’t seen in a woman since Kat.
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.