Suddenly chilled, she tried to rub her arms, but his hand was digging into her muscles. “But I can’t—”
“Of course you can. You’ve waited nearly twenty years to find out the truth—I think you can wait a few more days.
“Come on, Adria. Give yourself a little time to pull yourself together.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him he couldn’t run her life, but she couldn’t find the words. And she was frightened. More frightened than she’d ever been in her life. “This is just temporary, right?”
A slow, wicked smile spread across his beard-darkened chin. “I’m not holding you hostage, if that’s what you mean.”
Nervously, she licked her lips. “That’s what I mean,” she said.
“You can come and go as you please.”
“But my car—”
“I’ll send for all your things. Including that bucket of bolts you call a car—after I have it checked by my mechanic.”
“It’s fine,” she protested.
“It’s on its last legs.”
“Please, I need the car—”
“It’ll get there. In a couple of days. In the meantime there are plenty of vehicles at the ranch—cars, trucks, hell, we’ve even got a tractor if you get desperate.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so,” he said, but the laughter faded from his eyes. “Come on, Adria. Give it a rest for a few days.”
She was touched by his kindness and wondered fleetingly if his concern was genuine or if he was just doing his duty, babysitting her and keeping her out of trouble. “You…. uh…you don’t have to do this, you know.”
He let go of her wrist and grabbed the wheel. Lines of worry etched across his forehead. “Of course I do.” He didn’t add that he planned to stick to her like glue, that he was afraid for her life, that he felt sick with guilt because he hadn’t followed his gut instincts when he’d known, he’d known, that he should never have let her out of his sight.
The sun, rising over the craggy, snow-covered mountains, sent harsh rays through the valley. Zach switched on the radio and glanced at the passenger side of the Jeep where Adria, tucked in the blanket, was resting her head against the window and breathing steadily, as if she was soon to give in to exhaustion and fall asleep.
Good. He tromped hard on the accelerator and the Jeep leaped forward. His jaw was clenched so hard it felt like granite and he swore silently that if he ever found out who’d done this to her, he’d kill the bastard with his bare hands.
21
“Idiot! What did you think you were doing?” Anthony Polidori wanted to rap his son over the head with his cane. He hadn’t struck his son since the boy announced that he’d knocked up the Danvers girl years ago, but right now Mario deserved a swift, hard dose of reality—a swift kick wouldn’t hurt either! Clamping his jaw shut, Anthony jabbed his cane in the soft grass of the backyard.
“I just wanted to feel her out—”
“I’ll bet. That’s the problem with you. Women. Any woman. For the love of God, stay away from her—you’re only causing trouble!” Anthony wondered what he’d done to deserve such a stupid son. Stiffly he crossed the backyard and tried to rein in the anger that had kept him awake all night—ever since the phone call from his informant watching the Nash woman. He knew there would be trouble and he’d been proved right.
He paused by the tennis courts where he’d spent so many hours coaching his only boy. Now dandelions and long grass grew through the cracks in the cement courts. A climbing rosebush, untrimmed, sprawled up the tall fence, mistaking the mesh of chain links for a trellis. Dear God, where had the time gone? Had it all been spent feeding that hateful beast called “the feud?” Had he lost all sense of what was real? He remembered the years of hoping that his son would someday grow into a shrewd businessman, a leader capable of handling the considerable businesses that his own father had passed to him and he had hoped to hand down to his son—his only child, but Mario had never been much interested in business. He’d been an athlete, and even while he was in school his decided lack of brains—or at least of discipline—had been evident. That was the problem, the boy—well, man now—had enough gray matter if he only knew how to or wanted to apply it. But he never had. Aside from a little gambling business he’d run for a time, Mario hadn’t worked a day in his life. Life had been too easy for him. Handsome by Hollywood standards, skilled on the tennis court or racing down the ski slopes, Mario had seen no reason to study and learn; his showing in school could only be described as poor, but he’d developed a way with girls. All girls. Including Trisha Danvers.
When Trisha had gotten pregnant—which was probably part of the slut’s scheme to trap Mario and make life miserable for her father—Anthony had been furious with his son, but had blamed Mario’s considerable lack of judgment on his youth. But this…this courtship of the Nash woman was asking—no, begging—for trouble, especially since the girl had been attacked last night. Mario was long past the time when Anthony could write off his stupid actions as part of the folly of adolescence.
With a heavy sigh, Anthony said, “The police have already been here asking questions and guess who I got a call from? Remember Jack Logan—the police captain, now retired? He was a detective sergeant at the time of the Danvers kidnapping. Apparently he’s still working for the Danvers family and more than happy to start in on us again.”
Mario seemed unruffled. He showed no outward signs of remorse. “How was I to know she’d be attacked? Jesus, Dad, I didn’t have a clue! How could I?” His dark brows slammed together. “Don’t tell me one of your men was behind it!”
“Of course not!” Anthony snapped and felt a quick pain under his breastbone, the same pain that shot through him whenever he was under a great deal of stress. He took a deep, calming breath and ignored the irritating little jab. “We’re in negotiations with her, aren’t we?”
Mario’s lower lip protruded thoughtfully and he shook his head. “Apparently not. She claims she’s not interested.”
“But she will be, if we make it worth her while.” Anthony was sure of himself. He’d played this game before. Many times. And he always won. “But we must be careful,” he said, gesturing futilely with his hands. “We must use a little decorum, be patient and cautious so as not to tip our hand.”
“What’s the point? She already knows what we want. You told her yourself that you were interested in the old hotel. I wasn’t tipping anything.”
“No?” They walked along the kick path leading through the rose garden to the back of the house. Mario held the door of the breakfast room open for his father and Anthony, able to breathe now that his heartbeat was regular again, climbed up the stairs. He sat in his usual chair, spooned some sugar into his coffee cup, and tossed the morning edition of the Oregonian onto Mario’s plate. The paper landed squarely over Mario’s neatly sliced grapefruit.
“What the—” Mario stopped when he saw the picture of a cheap motel and below it a smaller photograph of Adria. Even in grainy black-and-white she was beautiful; the smooth lines of her face and her wide eyes reminded him that he wanted her.
“Read it,” Anthony advised as he snapped his napkin across his lap, then waited impatiently while the maid brought juice and coffee. “You’ll find your name in paragraph three, I think. A Detective Stinson is coming by to take your statement this morning. She’s with the Portland Police Bureau and she’s handling her end of the case because Ms. Nash seems to be the target of some rather nasty letters.” He stirred his coffee, rattling the cup with his spoon.
Mario’s mouth flattened into a thin line of disapproval as he read the article and realized that he had been the last person to see Adria before she was assaulted.