“I know.”
His hand cupped a breast and she closed her eyes and threw back her head, telling herself that she wouldn’t, couldn’t make love to him, but as his mouth surrounded her nipple, her will vanished as quickly as if it had been ripped from her by the angry wind before being carried far away. His supple tongue and lips suckled through the wet lace of her bra and her knees gave way. They tumbled to the ground, disturbing the thick carpet of needles beneath the tree. The river rushed at a furious, wintry pace, and Adria cradled his head closer, her fingers twining in the thick strands of his hair.
Dangerous thoughts mingled with reckless abandon. Why not make love to him? You don’t know if he’s your brother…you don’t know if he thinks of you as Kat.
“Adria, for the love of God,” he said hoarsely and buried his face in her abdomen. His breath was a tempting desert wind, trickling past the waistband of her jeans, touching the most feminine part of her. She kissed his crown.
He drew in a long, shaky gulp of air, then rolled away from her.
“Zach—”
“Leave me alone.”
“But—”
“For Christ’s sake, get dressed,” he ordered, not even looking over his shoulder.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right. Put your damned clothes on and pretend this didn’t happen.” He jumped to his feet, kicked the flashlight toward her, and started hiking up the path in the darkness.
Damn the man! He could be so maddening! Scrambling into her clothes, she refused to feel an ounce of remorse. She hadn’t tried to seduce him and what had been simmering between them for over a week was just starting to ignite. She knew she had to tread carefully, and that deep down, he was right. She couldn’t make love to a man who could be her half-brother, but she’d be condemned to hell before she accepted sole responsibility for the desire that sizzled between them. Grabbing the flashlight, she marched up the path, muttering under her breath as the small beam bobbed ahead of her and the rush of the river faded into the distance.
As she rounded a final bend in the trail, she spied the Jeep, headlights splashing twin beams on the grizzled bark of a huge trunk. Someone had carved initials into the rough bark, surrounding their art with an imperfect heart. How ironic.
As she climbed into the passenger’s side of the Cherokee, she shot a furious glare in his direction.
“That was a mistake,” he said.
“You’ll get no arguments from me.”
“Good.”
“Just don’t act as if I started it.”
“It just happened, okay? It won’t happen again.” But even as the words passed his lips, he knew they were a lie. There was no way in hell he could keep his hands off her.
Later, Adria saw no reason to tell Zach she was going to meet Mario Polidori. Zach had been furious when she’d mentioned that Mario had called. She decided she’d had enough with his overprotective attitude. Half the time he acted like her older brother, the other half he seemed as if he wanted to be her lover.
Warring emotions battled inside her and she decided she needed to get away from him to clear her head, to set her sights back on the path of her quest. She had to find out if she was London. If she was, she’d fight the entire Danvers clan to gain her birthright; if she wasn’t…then she’d leave. Or she’d become Zach’s lover. Either way, she was risking emotional suicide.
She parked her battered car on the street near the old vegetable market where Stefano Polidori had first made his fortune. Located only four blocks from the Hotel Danvers, the market was now closed, and a new high-rise office building was being considered for the property.
Mario was waiting, leaning against a lamppost near an Irish pub. “I had just about given up on you,” he said.
She was uneasy, but managed to hide her case of nerves. “I said I’d be here.”
“I know, but I thought your friend might have persuaded you to stand me up.” He straightened and offered her an engaging, brilliant smile.
“My friend?”
Mario held the door to the bar open for her. “Zachary Danvers. Your brother.”
Adria’s stomach plummeted.
“Hasn’t he been playing the part of bodyguard?”
“He’s not playing anything,” Adria said as Mario followed her into the smoky interior. Laughter and loud conversation filtered out from the bar. Glasses clinked and pool balls clicked and darts zipped through the air. A jazz band was playing from a makeshift stage, but most of the music was drowned out by the raucous patrons.
Without asking, Mario ordered two Irish coffees before he got down to business. “My father and I were wondering if you had thought about our proposal.”
“A little,” she hedged as a slim waitress slid two glass mugs in front of them. “And the truth of the matter is that I can’t make any deals with you or your father.” With a thin plastic straw she stirred the green drizzle of créme de menthe into the whipped cream floating on her coffee.
“You don’t know that.”
“What I don’t know is who I am. But if I do find out I’m London, then I won’t be making any big demands on the company.”
His dark brows lifted in surprise. “You would own over half of it.”
“I’d still be the outsider.”
“But—”
“Where I come from, Mario, you look before you leap and I can tell you this straight out—I don’t have plans to sell or change anything at Danvers International. In fact, unless I find glaring incompetence, I probably won’t make any big waves.”
“That surprises me.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully, his dark eyes assessing.
“I believe in the old adage ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’” she said, thinking of the long, hot summer days under the blistering Montana sun and how many times her father had said those very words to her. Her father. The man who had raised her, who had often placed a hand on her shoulder in a tender gesture reserved for her. She missed him now and knew that even if Witt Danvers proved to be the man who had sired her, Victor Nash would always be her father.
“Tell me more of yourself,” Mario suggested, but Adria only smiled.
“It’s boring. Really. I grew up on a Montana farm. Worked all week, went to church on Sundays. End of story.”
“I doubt it,” he said slyly.
“Why don’t you tell me about you and your family—it has to be a lot more interesting than hauling hay and making jam.”
“You’re playing with me.”
“No, I honestly want to know,” she said. “Come on. What was it like growing up as Anthony Polidori’s son?”
Mario’s smile widened and his dark eyes sparkled. “It was hell,” he said mockingly. “Servants, chauffeurs, two houses in Portland, a condo in Hawaii, and a villa in Mexico. No child should suffer as I did.”
Adria had to laugh.
He told her interesting stories about private Catholic schools and nuns with quick tempers and long rulers that they were ready to rap against the palms and knuckles of those children whose piety wasn’t convincing. She heard about his mother’s early death, probably from the frustration of dealing with her hardheaded son and husband, and his own run-ins with his father.
“But you seem close now,” Adria observed.
“I was younger. Rebellious. Horny.” He shrugged. “You must know how that is…”
“Do I?”
“Your turn, Adria. Tell me about you.”
Staring into his dark eyes, she experienced a sudden rush of insight. No matter how she felt about him, this man would like to seduce her. “Why did you ask me to meet you?”
“There was the business about Danvers International,” he said, seeming amused that she would so quickly draw away from him. Obviously he liked a challenge. “But also, I wanted to meet you and get to know you better.” He took a swallow of his drink, frowned, and added sugar.