He lifted his shoulder. “What do you think of the family memorial?” Sipping his drink slowly, he gazed at the wall of pictures. “The Danvers family et al. Kind of reminds you of Ozzie and Harriet, doesn’t it?”
Adria stared at the case. There were diplomas and football trophies, an art school award for Trisha, an “outstanding student” certificate for Nelson, a swimming medal with Jason’s name engraved on it, and a key to the city issued to Witt Danvers. Surrounding the case were the pictures: shots of Witt with dignitaries, Witt with one or more of his children, Witt as a young man with his father, Jason in a football uniform, Nelson in cap and gown, Jason’s wedding, even Trisha dressed in a long formal with a scrawny, longhaired beau.
But there wasn’t one snapshot, not one, single, faded black-and-white Polaroid of Zachary. She couldn’t believe what her eyes told her and she searched again.
“I didn’t win too many popularity contests,” he explained, as if reading her mind. “The old man wasn’t into mounting mug shots.”
“I—uh—I didn’t expect to see this.” She motioned toward the wall.
“Who would?”
He gazed at the framed portrait of Witt and his second wife and daughter and Zach’s eyes seemed to lock with those of Katherine. A muscle worked in his jaw and Adria felt as if she were suddenly intruding, that this place was somehow sacred and intimate and she was, indeed, the interloper. The air seemed suddenly hard to breathe as Zach stared at Katherine.
“I couldn’t find—”
He snapped out of his reverie and the darkness in his eyes disappeared. “Around the corner. Second door on the left.”
She didn’t wait for other directions but hurried down the hall. Her steps were quick, as if she were running from something, something so private and dark that she felt a cold jab of dread.
In the bathroom she splashed cold water over her face. Don’t let them get to you, she told herself as she saw her pale reflection in the mirror. Don’t let him get to you. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that something menacing and evil existed here in this expensive home.
When she returned to the den, he was back at the window, staring out at the gloomy night.
Reminding herself that she needed at least one ally in a family that was certain to try and discredit her, she picked up the drink he’d left for her and took a sip that burned all the way down her throat. “Do you know why I came to you first?” she asked, hoping to break down the barriers that he’d erected around himself.
He didn’t answer, just glared out at the night as if the blackness was hostile.
“I thought you might understand.”
“I don’t understand anything fake.”
She plunged on. “You know what it’s like being on the outside.”
His shoulder muscles bunched and he took another swallow of his Scotch. “Don’t let a few pictures on the wall make you think that you and I have anything in common. So I was on the outside.”
“But you wanted back in.”
His back stiffened. “Get this straight, sister, I never wanted in. It was the old man’s idea.”
“Was it?” she asked, then decided that she wouldn’t learn anything if she didn’t push a little bit. “What did you do to him to have him disown you?’
“Why did it have to be something I did? Why not him?” He slid her a cold glance that cut to her bone, then looked back through the window.
“I’m just guessing,” she admitted, but her hands were shaking a little and she gripped the glass more tightly. Just being around him was unnerving; sitting calmly under his harsh stare was nearly impossible.
“Then figure it out yourself.”
“What happened, Zach?”
He turned on her then and his eyes, once so cold, had shifted subtly and she felt as if the temperature in the room had suddenly elevated. From the fire, the flames reflected on the hard contours of his face, the flickering shadows making the angles and planes appear harsher, rougher, but she felt another sensation as well, one that started deep within her and caused her heart to pound, a sensation she didn’t want to analyze too closely. She licked her lips.
“It’s really none of your business.”
Despite the knots in her stomach, she said, “I tried to find out what happened between you and Witt, but couldn’t dig up anything substantial. I thought it was because you were considered a suspect in the kidnapping, that somehow what had happened to you that night was confirmation that you were involved.”
He snorted. “That was probably part of it.”
“And the other?”
Zach’s jaw tightened and for a second she thought he might confide in her. Instead he turned back to the window and continued to glower. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does—”
“Leave it alone, Adria.” She heard the warning in his voice and decided it was better to back off. For now. But she was determined to find out Zach’s secret. More than ever, she wanted to find out what made Witt’s rebellious son tick. Maybe there was some truth to the rumors that he wasn’t really Witt’s boy, that his father was Anthony Polidori. And maybe there was more. The way he had stared at Katherine’s portrait had been chilling. There were far more secrets in this house than she’d guessed. She took another drink and slowly settled back into the cushions of the couch to wait.
Jason Danvers threw caution to the wind as he put his Jaguar through its paces. Speeding up the narrow, rain-slickened streets of the west hills, he tried to think rationally. He’d left the celebration early, after giving his well-rehearsed speech and spending enough time to dance with the mayor, a woman recently elected and surprisingly popular. He’d made small talk, accepted congratulations from the president of the historical society for refurbishing the old building, smiled at the appropriate times, and even managed a clever quote or two for the reporters of the Oregonian and Willamette Week. Finally, after two hours, he managed to stuff Kim into a cab and leave the celebration behind.
He felt sweat beading along his collar line and remembered Adria’s beautiful face, so much like Kat’s. Could she be the real thing—after all these years? Jason’s biggest fear—his worst nightmare—was that someone impersonating his long-lost sister would turn up and look so much like her that people might believe she was truly London. For nearly twenty years he’d sweated it out, suspecting that someday the impostor would waltz into Danvers Manor, calmly say she was the little lost princess, make a statement to the press, and start a legal battle over the fortune that would be tied up in court for decades.
Jason had thought his father, while alive, would be foolish enough to believe any beautiful, black-haired, blue-eyed woman who would smile at him and call him “Daddy.” But Witt had proved to be made of tougher stuff than Jason had given him credit for.
Soon after London’s disappearance, when the police, the FBI, and even Witt’s private eye, Phelps, had given up hope of ever locating the little girl again, Witt had determined he had to find her himself.
He’d bought some airtime on television and offered a million-dollar reward, no questions asked, if anyone could lead him to his little girl.
The television appeal had created chaos. Thousands of phone calls and letters had poured in not only from this country but from as far away as Japan, Germany, and India. All of the would-be heiresses had been fakes, of course, screened by Witt’s team of specialists and defrauded quickly, but the search had cost millions of dollars, only to turn up fruitless.
Now, this new interloper was here and her resemblance to Kat was so damned creepy. It scared the shit out of him.
What if she’s really London?
That thought settled like lead in his gut, but he knew, damn it, he knew she had to be a phony.