Behind his sunglasses, Anthony’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully “This isn’t news. It’s predictable.”
Mario’s dark eyes twinkled and he reached over and stole the fruit cup his father always saved for the last part of his meal. Annoyed, Anthony motioned to the maid, who had already anticipated his request and was scurrying off to the kitchen.
“There’s always someone claiming to be London.”
Mario rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “But you should see this one. She’s the fuckin’ spittin’ image of her old lady. Katherine—wasn’t that her name?”
Anthony’s spine stiffened a bit. He didn’t like foul language—not at the table, and he wasn’t in the mood to be jerked around by his son. It was hard to read Mario these days. “So she resembles—”
“Not only resembles—the way I hear it, she’s a mirror image!”
Anthony set down his fork as the maid brought a second cup of fruit and a plate for Mario. He was enjoying himself, grinning as he sliced into a fat sausage, ignoring all sense of decorum as he set his elbows on the table.
“Maybe I should meet—what’s-her-name?”
“Adria Nash. Hails from some hick town in Montana. I’ve got a couple of guys working on it.”
“How’d you find out about her? I haven’t seen a word in the paper or heard anything on the news.”
“She hasn’t gone public yet, but probably will. One of our men spotted her at the grand opening of the hotel. She came in with Zach Danvers, then made the rounds meeting the ‘family.’” Mario took a sip from his cup. “Jason nearly hit the roof.”
“I’ll bet,” Anthony said dryly. “How authentic is she?”
“Could be the real thing.” Mario skewered his father with a hard look. “You know, lots of people think you kidnapped the girl.”
Anthony picked up the remainder of his croissant. “If I’d taken her, do you think she’d be walking up to the Danvers family right now and announcing that she was their long-lost sister?” He saw his son blanch and felt a glimmer of satisfaction. “What does Trisha think? Is she worried?” he asked coldly.
A small muscle worked in the side of Mario’s cheek. “How should I know?”
“Aren’t you still seeing her?”
“You took care of that a long time ago,” his son said with more than a trace of bitterness.
“Trisha Danvers is like the rest of them. She doesn’t give up. Not ever. When she wants something, she goes for it, and, my boy, she wants you. She always has, and she also used you to get back at her father. You were a pawn, son.”
Mario’s eyes sparked with a deadly rage.
Anthony snapped his newspaper open and wondered about the woman who called herself London Danvers. He’d have to find out everything there was to know about her. “Maybe we should invited Miss Nash over,” he said, flicking a gaze over the top of the paper. Mario had elbowed his plate aside and was brooding.
“Why?”
“For old time’s sake.”
“Witt’s dead. What could it mean to you?”
Anthony didn’t bother answering. How could he explain to his son that feuds never ended? No matter how many of the players died, the vengeance continued and festered. As long as there was anyone named Danvers left in Portland, Anthony wouldn’t be satisfied.
He was pleased with the news that another London Danvers had shown up.
Adria knocked on the door of the small apartment in Tigard, a suburb just over the west hills of Portland. Within minutes she saw a dark eye in the peephole and quickly the bolt was thrown. The door opened and a small Chicano woman with graying black hair twisted into a bun and incredibly white teeth stood over the threshold.
“Mrs. Santiago?”
“For the love of Mary,” the woman whispered, crossing her ample bosom. “You are the image of the missus.”
“Could I come in?” Adria asked. She’d already called the woman, Maria Santiago, who had worked for the Danvers family until her retirement shortly after Witt’s death. She’d explained her business and Maria had reluctantly agreed to see her.
“Please, please—” Maria stepped out of the way and waved her inside the tiny rooms. “Sit down.”
Adria perched on the edge of a floral couch that was worn around the edges and Maria settled into a rocker by the window and put her feet onto a stool.
Adria had already explained on the phone why she was in Portland. She’d sketched out her story, explaining that she was adopted, that she wanted to find her roots, that all the records were destroyed, and Maria, obviously lonely, had offered to speak with her.
“I don’t mean to ask you to break confidences,” Adria said, “but there’s just so much I don’t know about the Danvers family. I thought you could help me.”
Maria rubbed her chin and stared out the window to the parking lot. “A few years ago, I would not have said a word,” she admitted, “but then, the mister, he died, and Jason, he fired me. Now—” She rubbed her hands anxiously together. “What is it you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Ahh. That would take some time. There is so much.”
Adria couldn’t believe her good luck. She smiled at the pleasant little woman. “I’ve got the rest of my life,” she said and sat back to listen.
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time she returned to the Orion and her head, as well as her tiny tape recorder, was filled with facts about the Danvers family, secrets, and the answer to some mysteries, including the feud with the Polidoris.
She considered celebrating with a glass of wine and a hot bath in the hotel room because tomorrow she’d have to move to a cheaper, and less high-profile, place. After settling in, she had other important business to attend to. Since the Danvers family wouldn’t recognize her, it was time to go to the police and press. As soon as she found a more permanent address, she’d contact the authorities and grant an interview with someone from the local newspaper to start the ball rolling. Then, of course, she’d have to speak with the lawyers for Witt’s estate. She wasn’t looking forward to any of the interviews, but she’d get through them.
She’d be called a gold digger, a fraud, an opportunist, and an imposter. Lawyers would call her, attorneys with “her interests” at heart. She wasn’t interested. Not yet. The press would make her life a circus. The Danvers family would go after her with all the money they had behind them. They would try to dig up any rumors that might discredit her and they would look into her past, digging, always digging and looking for any glitch in her story, any inaccuracies in their attempts to disprove that she was London.
That’s what she wanted.
And what about Zachary?
Oh, Lord, yes. What about Zachary?
In her room, she stripped off her clothes, poured herself a glass of Chablis, then slid into a tub of hot water. She sipped her wine slowly and considered her half-brother.
Sexy.
Smart.
Rough.
Big trouble.
Zach Danvers was a man to avoid unless she wanted to lose her heart.
15
Half an hour later, as she eased out of the tub and buffed her skin dry with one of the Orion’s thick towels, Adria wondered about her mission—her quest to find her true identity. Was she London Danvers? Did it matter if she was? Did she really want to be related to any of those people—the Danvers kin? None of them appealed to her.
Except Zachary.
Not that she trusted him. He was no better than the rest, but she couldn’t wedge his image out of her mind. Rugged, whereas his brothers took pride in being polished; outwardly irreverent, while Nelson took pains to look as if he played by the rules. Zachary was arrogant because he didn’t give a damn; Jason was arrogant because he thought he deserved the money and power into which he’d been born.
Zachary was different.