Because, damn it, she found Zachary sensual and disturbing and like no man she’d ever met before. Was he trying to help her? Or had it all been an act?
Her head began to pound. Was Zach really Witt’s son? Oh, who cared? Did it matter? All she needed to know was if she was really Witt’s daughter. Zach’s paternity wasn’t something she needed to think about. Zachary Danvers wasn’t anyone she needed to think about.
She picked up the newspaper lying in sections on the small table in her room and snapped it open. With furious fingers, she flipped through the pages and stopped at the section marked Rooms For Rent. Tomorrow, first thing, she’d find a new place to live, then she’d waltz into the Oregonian and tell a tale that would leave the reporters hustling as they scrambled to get her story into the next edition. Later she’d talk to the television and radio news stations.
If the Danvers family wanted to play hardball, so be it. She was more than ready to pitch them a curveball the likes of which they’d never yet seen.
Trisha parked in her usual spot, between the garage and the cabin in the woods of the Polidori estate. A gardener’s cabin that was supposed to be unoccupied, Mario had converted the little vine-covered cottage that had served as their secret rendezvous for over twenty years. Her heart was beating a light little tempo and she chided herself for being foolish as she ducked under the dripping clematis and knocked softly on the front door before turning the lock.
He was waiting for her. Backlit by the lights in the kitchen, he strode across the dark living room and her breath caught in her throat. Though she’d grown cynical and callous over the years, the sight of Mario never ceased to cause a wave of anticipation to race through her blood.
He was bare-chested—his jeans hanging low over his hips. “You’re late,” he said in the smoky voice that had always caused her bones to turn liquid.
“Problems at home.”
“Forget them.” He reached over her shoulder and pushed the door so hard that it slammed in the casing before the lock latched. His arms surrounded her and his lips crashed over hers—hot, hungry, possessive. Trisha shivered in anticipation and closed her mind to everything but this one vital man. She needed a few hours to forget about Adria and London and the whole sordid mess.
If Adria could prove she was London, all of Trisha’s dreams would be shattered, her life destroyed.
Unless she could be stopped.
Adria nearly jumped from the bed when the alarm jangled at six A.M. She felt as if she’d barely drifted off after a night of tossing and turning and worrying subconsciously that someone was sneaking into her room. Sleep had been nearly nonexistent and her mind had swum with images of rats with big teeth, strangers hiding in the shadows, and Zachary—sometimes as her enemy but more often than not as her lover. Over and over again she remembered the night in the Jeep when he’d kissed her with a raw animal passion that made her insides turn to hot, soft wax. Because of the fear she felt, because she knew she was being followed and watched, because someone was out to terrorize her, she was more drawn to Zachary Danvers.
It was ridiculous, of course. She couldn’t want him. Her fantasies were only because he was the sexiest man she’d been around in a long while and the simple fact that he was forbidden fruit—a rough man she couldn’t have.
“Character flaw,” she told herself as she brushed her teeth and saw her tousled-haired reflection in the mirror over the sink.
She stepped under the hot spray of the shower until she was awake. Today was the day she was going to the papers. A knot of dread twisted her stomach at the thought. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she’d been foolish. Talking to the press was inevitable.
But first things first. She needed a permanent residence. She dressed quickly and, armed with yesterday’s paper, she walked out of the room and stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart jolted and she could barely find her tongue as her gaze collided with Zachary Danvers’s interested gray eyes. Still in the clothes he’d worn the night before, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his chin shadowed with more than a day’s growth of beard, he rubbed the crick from his neck and gave her a crooked smile.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, as if they saw each other at the crack of dawn each and every day.
“What’re you doing here?” she managed to ask.
“Waitin’ for you.”
Another jolt. “Why?”
“I thought someone should hang around, you know, and scare away the bad guys.”
“Did you?”
“You didn’t have any trouble, did you?”
“And that was because of you?”
He shrugged. “Only a few people saw me. The early risers this morning. Jogger and guys with briefcases off to important meetings.” He stretched, his tall body seeming to grow longer and leaner as he reached over his head, then winced as the cramps left his muscles. “So, no one bothered you?”
“No one called, but I asked the desk to take messages.”
“Maybe I could buy you breakfast.”
She slid a glance in his direction. They were alone in the elevator and he seemed to fill it with his presence. For once there wasn’t a trace of hostility in his eyes and she was tempted to let down her guard a bit even though he had the innate and maddening ability to make her see red at the drop of a hat. Be that as it may, she needed one friend, one contact in the family, someone who didn’t outwardly hate her, and yet being close to Zach was dangerous on an entirely different and deeper emotional level.
As the elevator ground to a stop and the doors whispered open, Adria stepped into the lobby and let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. She paused at the desk to ask for her messages. The clerk offered her a plastic smile. “You’re a popular lady,” he said, handing her a stack of eight or ten pieces of paper.
“What’s this?” she asked aloud as she fingered the pages: Mary McDonough from KPTV news, Ellen Richards with a local magazine, Robert Ellison, a reporter for the Oregonian. Her throat tightened. “Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” she said to Zach just as a short balding man pushed himself out of a chair half hidden by large-leafed ferns.
“Are you Adria Nash?” he asked with a smile. Beside her, Zach tensed. “I’m Barney Havoline with the Portland Weekly.” He shoved a card at her and she checked it quickly, her fingers curving over the crisp edges. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but rushed on, “I heard that you’re in town, claiming to be London Danvers. Is that true?” He clicked on his microphone and grinned at her as if she were his long-lost friend.
Zach took a step closer to her.
Adria managed a thin smile. “That’s essentially true, yes.”
“And how do you know you’re the Danvers heiress?”
“I found out from my father.”
“Witt Danvers?”
“No, my adoptive father. Listen, Mr. Havoline, I don’t know how you found out why I’m in town or where I’m staying, but—”
“Can you prove you’re London?”
“—I was planning to call a press conference later in the day and explain everything.”
He flashed her a smile and she was aware that several patrons of the hotel were staring at them; even a bellboy had stopped to watch the unfolding drama.
“Really,” Havoline insisted. “This will take just a little while. I only have a couple more questions.”
“She said later,” Zach cut in, stepping between the pushy reporter and Adria.
“But we’re here now,” Havoline insisted. “I could buy you both a cup of coffee or breakfast…and who are you?” he asked, before his eyes met Zach’s and the light dawned on his face.
“Your worst nightmare.” Zach’s expression had turned murderous.
“What—”
“Get out.”
“Zachary Danvers.” The reporter’s eyes gleamed as if he realized he had more of a story than he’d first guessed. “So this woman could be your long-lost—”