“Of course, Mr. Danvers.”
“She’ll take phone calls, and guests can wait in the lobby after she screens them, but no one, not even Jason, is to rescind this order. If anyone tries, I want to be notified immediately. I’ll be in my usual rooms. And she doesn’t need to register. She’s my guest.”
“Yes, Mr. Danvers,” the manager said crisply. He slid the key across the desk to Adria and she, grinding her teeth together in frustration, accepted it. For the time being. Just until she could rent a car and relocate.
Zachary wasn’t finished. “I’ll take her bag up myself and as far as you know, the person who’s in the rooms is a VIP and no one, I mean no one, is to know that she’s here.”
Adria started to protest, but held her tongue. Let him do this. It would take only a few more minutes and then she would be totally independent. Or would she? A contrary part of her heart begged to differ as she watched him, all quiet authority and rugged good looks. Telling herself that she could force herself to be immune to him, she followed Zach into the elevator, where his presence all but dominated the little car, and up to the sixth floor to a corner suite with several rooms, fireplace, private veranda, and Jacuzzi. He tossed her bag onto the couch and locked the door behind him. It clicked so loudly she nearly jumped.
“I’d feel better if I stayed with you,” he said, cocking his head at the floral couch where her bag rested.
“I think, under the circumstances, that would be a big mistake,” she said, but already, her pulse was jumping. The thought of being alone with him caused a warm, wanton sensation deep in the pit of her stomach.
“I can’t protect you if I’m not with you,” he said. The distance between them was only a few feet and she could barely stand it.
“And I can’t protect myself if I am with you.” She rested her rear against the ledge of the window. “This has gone too far, Zachary, and I’m not blaming you. It happened between us and it was a mistake…I can see that now, but I don’t know, I’m just not sure that I can trust myself if you’re here with me.” She spoke from the heart and she felt as if she were shredding inside because a part of her longed to be held by him, to kiss him, to feel his hands upon the crook of her waist. She bit her lip before she said something that she shouldn’t.
“This is your call, Adria,” he said, his voice low and soft, almost a caress.
Her heart shattered. She remembered the feel of his hands on her, the taste of his skin, the way he sighed against her ear. “Then it’s the way it has to be.”
Zach’s shoulders stiffened and the brackets around the corners of his mouth grooved deep. “I’m in 714.”
Her throat closed in on itself at the mention of the suite from which London had been stolen all those years ago.
“Call me if you need me.”
I need you. I need you now! Her fingers curled over the window ledge and she held back the urge to run to him.
Back ramrod-stiff, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Swearing under his breath, Zach pulled into the parking lot of the headquarters of Danvers International. The lot was closed, but he used a special card and the gates opened as if for royalty. Danvers royalty.
He hadn’t been happy about leaving the hotel, knowing that Adria would probably bolt, but he’d talked to Detective Stinson to advise her and knew that Adria was keeping in touch with the police. Right now, Zach had to find answers and any he’d gotten from Jason on the telephone had been evasive and vague. He’d called, tracked his brother to the offices, and decided that if he had to, he’d knock Jason senseless, because it was time to find out the truth.
Before he fouled up Adria’s life forever.
Spoiling for a fight, he parked in a spot reserved for a vice president and took the elevator to the floor housing the suite of executive offices. During the day the building was crawling with people; at night it seemed like a tomb.
He walked down the short hallway lit only by security lamps, past the empty reception area, and through the carved wooden doors to the president’s office.
Jason, dressed in a crisp suit and tie, was sprawled on the leather couch angled in front of the television in the corner. He must’ve had one helluva day, because his hair was slightly mussed and his tie was loosened. Propping one heel on a glass coffee table, he sipped from a glass of amber liquid.
Zach let the door bang shut behind him and studied the room where all the important decisions of the company were made. The two exterior walls were glass, offering a panoramic view of blazing city lights and two bridges spanning the Willamette River.
Inside, trophies and plaques were hung on a wall of rough cedar, a tribute to the forests that had been the source of so much of the Danvers fortune.
“You’re angry,” Jason guessed as he stood and tucked his shirt into the waistband of his slacks.
The understatement of the year. “A little.”
“Adria?” Jason clicked off the television and reached for his drink.
“She’s got a mind of her own.”
“Thought you liked that in a woman.”
“Not in this one.”
Jason lifted a skeptical brow.
“Heard she was attacked. Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Do the police have any suspects?”
“Probably.”
“What does your friend Len Barry have to say?” Jason asked, feigning disinterest.
“Nothing.”
“Isn’t that odd?”
“Of course not. The police will get in contact with Adria when they have something.”
“And she’ll tell you?”
Zach shrugged. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Like hell.”
“Help yourself to the bar.”
“Not tonight.” Propping his hip on the corner of Jason’s wide desk, he said, “I just came here because I want to get in contact with Sweeny.”
“He called earlier.” Jason polished off his drink. “Big news.”
Zach’s blood seemed to freeze.
“He called to crow, really,” Jason continued as he walked to the bar and added more Scotch to his melting ice cubes. “Seems he’s found Bobby Slade, the one who we hoped would turn out to be Adria’s real father. Robert E. Lee Slade. He’s Ginny Watson’s ex-husband, all right, and he’s living’ in Lexington, Kentucky—has himself some kind of auto repair shop or something.” Jason made a dismissive gesture with his hands, as if whatever it was that kept Bobby Slade employed didn’t really matter. “According to Sweeny, Slade doesn’t know where his ex-wife is, hasn’t kept up with her since he heard from her two years ago when she’d taken some kind of nanny job in San Francisco.”
Zach’s hands began to sweat and he remembered Ginny Slade as a plain woman in dowdy suits and heavy shoes who looked ancient compared to Kat. But somehow the birdlike woman had managed to steal her precious charge right out from under Witt’s nose.
“What else does the guy have to say?”
“Plenty. Bobby claims his wife was a nutcase. Totally bonkers. She lost any grip on reality she had when their toddler daughter was killed in a drowning accident. She blamed him, he blamed her, and their marriage fell apart. Sweeny says Slade was glad to be rid of her.”
“So what about London?”
“Here comes the clincher,” Jason said, looking up at the ceiling. “Slade says that years ago—the mid-70s, he thinks, just before he moved to Kentucky—she showed up in Memphis out of the blue. Ginny had a kid in tow, a dark-haired girl of about four. He thought it was strange at the time, but just assumed that the kid was hers as she claimed. She’d always had a thing about babies, even before losing her own.” Jason looked straight at his brother and the hidden anger in his eyes bordered on hatred. “The odd thing about the situation was, and it kind of gave Slade the creeps, that she named the kid Adria, the same name she’d given their little girl who’d died.”
“Jesus Christ,” Zach whispered.