A night bird cried plaintively and the forest with its ancient trees seemed to close around them, separating the rest of the world from this little stretch of water. “You were telling me about the feud,” she prodded and she saw the tension return to his hard features.
“It just goes on and on, doesn’t it? Good old Witt—the great man you hope to prove is your father—was as tough and single-minded as his old man. Witt was willing to do whatever he had to in order to preserve the Danvers fortune and name.
“You didn’t like him.”
“Never,” Zach admitted.
“But you respected him?”
“I hated the son of a bitch.” Zach stared at the river and in the pale moonlight, Adria could see his features, stark and harsh, set without a trace of remorse.
“What about your mother?”
He snorted, his lips thinning thoughtfully. “Eunice…she’s something. Complex,” he said as if weighing his words. “She says one thing and does another.”
Adria had heard the story of Eunice Patricia Prescott Danvers Smythe. As a young woman, Eunice had been the socially correct choice as a bride for Witt Danvers. Only child of rich parents, she had her own money, a quick wit, and regal bearing, though it was reported she had been cursed with a mind of her own. Some people had thought her spoiled and disdainful and a woman scorned. There were sketchy references to other women in Witt’s life, especially when he was younger, and Maria, the maid, had admitted that Witt’s affairs had been whispered about around town as well as into Eunice’s ear. Though she’d borne him two children, a son and a daughter, Witt hadn’t been satisfied with his willful wife and had spent many nights out.
Maria had mentioned that she’d overheard an argument in which Eunice had accused Witt of impotence, but it had to have been just the vindictive words of a bitter woman for it hadn’t proved true. Eunice had given Witt two more children, Zachary and Nelson.
From the beginning, there had been speculation about Zachary’s paternity. Zachary was still staring across the dark, angry river.
“Your mother seems to care about all of you,” Adria said tentatively.
“My mother left us.”
“Because she had no choice.”
His jaw worked. “That’s what she claimed.” He bent down, gathered up a rock, and hurled it over the river with all the pent-up fury in his muscles.
“You expected her to stay with your father?”
“No,” Zach said, his lips compressing in the darkness as he reached for another stone and flung it over the canyon. Then, as if sensing the futility of his actions, he walked to the base of an ancient fir tree and leaned against its rough trunk. “I expected her to take us with her.”
“But she couldn’t—”
“She wouldn’t, you mean. Back then, divorce courts and judges usually favored the mother, even if the father was as powerful a man as Witt Danvers. But Eunice was too scared to go public, too interested in saving face and getting as much money from Witt as her attorney could wangle. She had a lifestyle to maintain. The truth of it is, even when we kids were young, Eunice spent more time at the MAC club working out and socializing than she did with us. And then, once my father decided to divorce her, she didn’t want her reputation ruined by the fact that father was a womanizer and she’d had an affair with Polidori—” He cast a hard glance in Adria’s direction, assessing her reaction. “You didn’t really think I was naive enough not to know what people thought or deaf enough not to have heard the talk.” His smile was as cold as the bottom of the river. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard people conjecture that I was Polidori’s son. It’s just not true.”
She moved closer to him and stood beneath the drooping boughs of the massive tree. The smells of damp earth and spring water mingled in the air and carried with them the underlying scent of musk, unadulterated and male. The night was seductive as it folded, like a gentle black cloak, around them. “Even then there were blood tests. You could have proved that you were—”
“Are you kidding? Witt Danvers go to a doctor to prove that he had fathered his own son?” His voice was harsh, barely audible over the rush of water cutting through the trees. “You don’t have any idea what kind of man he was. A mean bastard who thought nothing of slapping his wife around, or controlling his kids with a belt, or buying up smaller businesses on the verge of bankruptcy for a song. He clear-cut forests, stripping the land bare, never once thinking about reforestation or erosion or anything but how the chain saw could bring him more money. Without batting an eye, he closed sawmills and logging camps, putting families out of work and never gave a damn, not if the bottom line told him there was a chance to make more money elsewhere. He was unbending and ruthless and proud of his power. He would never, never have submitted to paternity tests. You have to understand, Adria, that he didn’t care about anyone or anything except himself, the bottom line, his own damned pride, and London—hell, yes, he cared about London.” He turned and the moonlight caught in his furious eyes.
“You didn’t like her.”
“She was just a kid,” he said, staring at Adria’s face, his eyes moving slightly as if he were trying to find a flaw in her features, looking for certain proof that she couldn’t be the little girl he remembered. Adria’s heart kicked into double time and she found it suddenly hard to breathe. One of Zach’s fingers touched the side of her face, stroking her cheek as he stared at her. “London was precocious, stubborn, and smart as a whip. She had Witt wrapped around her little finger and she knew it. She followed me around like a damned puppy. I didn’t need it, but I wouldn’t say I didn’t like her. In fact I thought it was kind of funny the way the old man made a fool of himself over her.” He reached up and captured a strand of Adria’s hair. Her throat, suddenly scorched, closed in on itself. “I don’t know if you’re London,” he said slowly, his teeth flashing white in the darkness, “but if you are, it’s gonna make things a helluva lot more complicated.” He paused for a heartbeat, his eyes locking with hers. She swallowed hard and her pulse pounded in her throat.
In that forever instant she knew he was going to kiss her.
She gave a small sound of protest as he slowly lowered his head, but she didn’t stop him. His lips found hers in the darkness. Warm, anxious, burning, they molded over her mouth with a possession that was frightening.
Her heart drummed in her ears as his arms closed around her, dragging her close, forcing her to feel the heat of his blood, the fire in his loins.
Hot and hard, his body pressed hers and his tongue slid between her parted lips.
A pool of desire began to swirl deep within her.
She wound her arms around his neck, feeling the brush of the hair over his collar on the back of her hand, tasting the salt on his skin, smelling his musky scent, feeling the bulge in his jeans where he held himself so intimately against her.
He reached beneath her sweater, touching her abdomen before scaling her ribs with hard, work-roughened fingers.
“God, you feel good,” he moaned as he slipped his hand beneath the flimsy lace. She groaned, wanting more, knowing being with him was a mistake.
“Adria,” he ground out as the tip of one finger brushed against her taut, waiting nipple. He kissed her again, harder still. He shoved the jacket off her shoulders and pulled her sweater over her head.
Cool air swept up her abdomen. His mouth moved slowly and sensuously along her jaw and her neck, his tongue licking a hot path to the circle of bones at the base of her throat where her pulse hammered impatiently.
Adria sagged against the tree.
When he lifted his head and stared into her eyes, her bones turned to water. “I want you,” he whispered, his voice as tortured as the wind racing through the trees.
“I know.”
“We can’t do this.”