“This is only an educated guess,” Anthony said, dropping his spoon and lifting his cup to his lips. “But I think you’ve probably made the early morning news broadcasts as well.”
The maid silently deposited a basket of muffins onto the table, then slipped quietly back to the kitchen. “From now on, son,” Anthony suggested as he reached for a bran muffin, “let me know when you plan to see Ms. Nash.” He broke the muffin in half and spread a sparing amount of butter on it. “I just might be able to save you and the family a lot of embarrassment.”
Zach paced from one end of the den to the other, stretching the telephone cord to its limit. He muttered curses under his breath and nearly slammed the receiver down.
“If I could just set up an interview with Ms. Nash at her convenience—” Ellen Rigley wheedled. She was pushy, a reporter who didn’t seem to understand the word no. Zach glanced out the windows to the acres of ranch land that spread as far as the eye could see. It wasn’t enough land. There wasn’t enough to hide Adria.
“I’m sure she wants her side of the story told—”
Zach held firm and stared down at the front page of the local newspaper that lay open on the desk. Adria’ s picture was on page one, along with an old photograph of Witt, Kat, and London. The headlines were thick and black and seemed to scream—WOMAN CLAIMING TO BE DANVERS HEIRESS ATTACKED.
It hadn’t taken the press long to react. They’d only been at the ranch two days and it was already a madhouse.
Zach felt as if he were trying to plow through quicksand. The faster he went, the farther he tried to get, the deeper and deeper he sank until he felt as if he were choking and there was no way out. No way to save Adria.
Great, he thought sarcastically. Being this close to Adria and keeping his hands off her was hell; trying to keep her from getting herself killed was proving to be nearly impossible. The woman was already talking about returning to Portland, for crying out loud, when the bump on her head was still fresh, her stitches not yet healed.
The all-business female voice hadn’t given up. “—so I could fly out this afternoon or tomorrow morning, meet her at the ranch and—”
“I told you Ms. Nash has no comment.” Zach had enough.
“I need to talk to her, Mr. Danvers.” She was obviously trying to bully him. “Adria Nash showed up claiming she was London Danvers, then was attacked in a tiny motel way out of the city by an unknown assailant. The Post wants to have an interview with her so she can tell her side of the story—”
Zach slammed down the receiver and pressed a button for the answering machine to pick up. He was tired of reporters and police and the whole mess. The phone jangled instantly and Zach, ignoring the impatient ring, threw his keys onto the counter.
He’d just returned to the ranch house after spending three fruitless hours at the office. A bevy of reporters had kept Terry busy on the phone or shown up and made themselves at home, swilling and complaining about his coffee, waiting for a quote from Zach. He’d given one, largely unprintable, and most of them had taken the hint and slunk out the door with their tails between their legs. But a couple of tough, salty types had lingered, hoping that he’d crack and give them some bit of news that would make their copy different from the others that were being written into word processors around the nation.
Zach had given up trying to get any work done, told Terry to close up shop for the rest of the week, stuffed some papers into his briefcase and tucked a couple of blueprints under his arm. He’d locked the press out of his office, climbed in his Cherokee and driven like a madman back to the ranch, to the eye of the storm. He would have turned off the phones to the house except that he wanted to stay in contact with the sheriff’s department in Clackamas County, and the police in Portland. Then there was Sweeny’s report. Zach’s stomach clenched at the thought of it. Two days had passed since he’d talked to the slimy private investigator and, according to Jason, there was still no word.
The sleaze-ball detective was probably holding out on him. Or Jason was.
Ever since the attack on Adria, Zach trusted no one.
Yanking his jacket from a hook near the pantry, he stormed down the hall and out the back door. A blast of icy air greeted him and though the snow had melted at the lower elevations, a fine layer of white powder was visible in the foothills. The sky was clear, the sun high but without any warmth, and only a few clouds clustered around the highest peaks of the surrounding mountains. On any other day, he’d be glad for the bracing air and cool promise of winter. But not today.
The ranch wasn’t impregnable, and before he’d thrown out the reporters and photographers who had insisted upon hanging around the front porch, he hadn’t been able to hear himself think.
Fortunately, Manny had decided to take matters into his own Native-American hands. Wearing his well-practiced, stern-Indian expression, he’d wrapped a thick, horsehair blanket over his shoulders and positioned himself in his pickup at the front gate. A no-nonsense rifle was propped against his dashboard and a NO TRESPASSING sign had been posted on one of the weathered fence posts, in full view of the road.
No one suspected the .22 wasn’t loaded or that Manny Clearwater was the self-proclaimed worst shot in the county and one of the easiest-going guys Zach had ever met. His severe countenance, shaded by a black felt hat decorated with silver and feathers, was enough to keep even the most ambitious reporters off the property.
For now.
Zach had envisioned bringing Adria here until she’d healed and hoped that the news about her attack would die a quick but quiet death. But his plan had blown up in his face and it seemed as if the entire world knew where she was.
Including the man who wanted her hurt. The muscles in the back of his neck drew together and his jaw clenched so hard it ached. Since she’d declined police protection, Zach had made it his personal responsibility to keep her safe. And alive. But it seemed as if the world, and Adria herself, were against him.
The bottom line was that she wasn’t safe here. And that bothered him. It bothered the hell out of him.
He found Adria by the stables, the sunlight catching in her blue-black hair. Forearms bridged over the top fence rail, she watched a herd of mares and half-grown foals picking at the sun-bleached stubble of the field.
A whirlwind, laden with thick dust, danced across the dry paddock, picking up a few dead leaves and spinning them across the ground while the horses moved lazily from one tuft of dry grass to the next. Their hides were dusty and uneven, already beginning to change to the thick, longer coats of winter.
Unaware that he was behind her, she shifted, leaning on her opposite leg, her face turning in profile. His gut clenched at the sight of her and he told himself to forget that she was a woman. “You’re a popular lady. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
“Why do you think I escaped out here?” She ran a finger along the dusty edge of the top rail and her cheeks had turned a deep shade of pink with the cold. “At first I talked to them, but the questions got too heavy, so I decided to take a break.”
“Manny’s keeping them at bay down at the gate—the answering machine should catch anything we need to know about.” He propped a foot on the bottom slat and stood next to her. Pretending interest in the ridge of mountains on the horizon, he asked, “How’re you feeling?”
“Kind of like an eighteen-wheeler drove up my back.” Smiling a little, she showed off the hint of a dimple that he found incredibly sexy. “But I’ll live and I’m afraid that’s going to disappoint a lot of people.”
“Don’t even say it.”
But she wasn’t finished. “You know, Zach,” she continued, turning to face him as the breeze teased soft, curling strands out of the band that held her hair away from her face, “I can’t stay here forever.”
“It’s only been a couple of days.”