“I’m not your responsibility.”

“Aren’t you?” One dark brow lifted.

Her spine stiffened in defense. “Look, Zach, I guess I should thank you for helping me out today, but I don’t really need a baby-sitter.”

“You might be surprised.” He sent her a smile that cut past all her facades. Pure male animal. He hopped to the gravel and she had to scramble out of the Jeep and hurry to catch up with him.

She wanted to tell him to get lost and leave her alone, but she couldn’t. He’d been nearby when she’d needed him and when she’d decided to hold the press conference, he hadn’t argued with her, even helped her pick the spot and stayed with her throughout the entire, nerve-fraying ordeal. She didn’t know his motives, but she doubted they were pure. She’d just been thankful to have his strength, his presence during the press conference, though she was certain she could have handled the situation herself and she believed that he was probably sticking to her like glue in order to spy on her for his family. But why then did he insist she go to the police station with her complaints? Maybe he had no choice and felt backed into a corner since the word was out on the street that another woman claiming to be the little lost daughter of Witt Danvers had shown up in Portland.

They walked into the diner. Country music could be heard over the buzz of conversation and sizzle of the grill. They sat in a booth near the window.

Within seconds, a waitress poured coffee and promised to be back for their orders. Adria picked up her menu and tried to concentrate on the daily special, but having Zachary seated directly across from her was a distraction-the kind of distraction she didn’t want.

Once they’d ordered, Zach drained his coffee and settled onto the small of his back. “You’d better tell me what you’re planning, Adria,” he said, staring at her with eyes that seemed to see into the darkest corners of her soul, “because from here on in, it’s not gonna be much fun.”


“And that’s why I’m here. To uncover the truth. To find out if I’m really Witt and Katherine Danvers’s daughter…” Her voice was clear. Strong. Her chin thrust forward as if she wouldn’t back down.

Hell!

In a private room, Katherine’s killer stared at the television screen with its flickering images of Adria Nash.

Why didn’t she back off? Why in the world would she actually call a press conference? Now all of Portland-no, make that all of the whole damned country-was watching!

Rage boiled up inside.

What if she really was London? Jesus, she looked so much like Kat it was eerie.

Pictures of Katherine Danvers skated through her killer’s mind.

Kat, young and successful, assured of her sexuality, walking up to Witt on the street.

Kat, a bit older, the gold band on her finger flashing the fact that she was Mrs. Witt Danvers.

Kat, pregnant and still sexy, her once-taut belly rounded. Smug pride had lifted her sharp chin because of the baby growing within her. Now she was tied to Witt and the Danvers fortune irrevocably.

The killer blinked, felt sweat beading, then dripping onto the plush carpet.

Calm down. Don’t let it get to you.

But the images on the television only brought others to the fore, mental pictures that could never be forgotten. Pictures that burned and flashed painfully.

Flash!

Kat with the baby, the darling, and Witt doting on them both, as if he didn’t already have a family, as if he didn’t have four other children, as if this one precious piece of flesh was more important than all the other ones put together.

God, it had been sickening. Horrible.

Inside, Katherine’s killer was shaking. Remembering.

Flash!

Kat getting her figure back, toning up any remaining fat from her pregnancy and showing off her figure, in a sleek, one-piece swimsuit.

Flash!

Kat, black hair gleaming and pinned high on her head, holding court with the elite of Portland. Playing bridge. Attending charity auctions or balls in her tight dresses…

Flash!

Kat flirting with anything in pants.

Flash!

Kat naked…her body gleaming…the shower…oh, God, how vulnerable she’d been after London had been stolen from her-how easy it had been to place the pills in her drink and then, when she was disoriented, when she’d stumbled outside, give her a shove over the wall.

Flash!

Kat falling over the wall, recognition dawning as their eyes met, fear contorting her beautiful features…

Then the sound. The sickening sound of bones cracking and muscles thudding hard against the pavement below.

It hadn’t been hard.

It could be done again.

“Just a few more questions,” a reporter was insisting but the camera was no longer trained on Adria. The focus had been shifted to the rock-hard countenance of Zachary Danvers and he was pissed. A vein bulged in his neck and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black as he forcibly propelled Adria away from the crowd.

Of course he’d be there. Zachary had always been a sucker for a beautiful woman. Hadn’t he, like so many other men, been enthralled by his stepmother? Hadn’t he risked Witt’s wrath to be with her?

And now he was with a woman who could be a carbon copy.

Like father. Like son.

Fools both.

It was time to do something.

Something permanent.

But first…a scare.

Katherine’s killer smiled and clicked off the television.

Flash!

In a glimmer of the future there came an image of Adria, the pretender, lying in a pool of her own blood, her bones broken, her neck and head turned to an impossible angle, her eyes staring sightlessly upward.

Even in death, she would resemble the woman she claimed was her mother.


The intercom beeped.

“I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, Mr. Danvers,” Jason’s secretary, Frances, said in her most annoyed voice, “but your brother is on line two and he insists on speaking with you right now. I tried to get rid of him-”

“It’s all right. I’ll take it.”

Jason crossed the thick forest-green carpet and picked up the phone. Nelson’s voice was agitated and high-strung. “Channel Two. The news.” A click signified that he’d hung up.

Like a hangman’s noose, dread took a choke-hold on Jason’s neck. He grabbed the remote control, pointed it at the television in the opposite corner of his office, and, with a sick feeling, dropped the telephone receiver back into its cradle. The television flickered on. As Jason stared at the program in progress, his worst fears crystallized. She’d done it. Adria Nash had held her own goddamned press conference in the middle of the park blocks and standing to her side, sometimes in the camera’s eye, often not, was Zach. Good old pain-in-the-ass Zach. A day’s growth of beard discolored his chin and his eyes were dark and unreadable. He was wearing clothes that were mussed and he looked like a damned range cowboy, but he didn’t seem to care that the cameras weren’t being particularly kind.

Jason swore loudly. A tic started beneath his left eye as he watched, transfixed.

God, she was beautiful. Standing straight, her wild black hair tossed in the wind, her eyes clear and blue, she looked so damned much like Katherine, Jason could barely breathe. He remembered Kat’s sexy little come-hither smile, her teasing laugh, the mischievous light in her gaze. At first she’d only had eyes for Zach, even though Zach had been a kid at the time, but later, after Zach had been banished from the family, when Witt had discovered his errant son in bed with Kat at the ranch, things had changed. Kat had finally begun to notice Jason.

It had started slowly at first. A smile. A wink. A naughty little joke. A finger touching the back of his neck that lingered a second too long. Witt’s long absences on business trips didn’t hurt, either.

The first time had been on a cold winter night with the wind howling through the attic. The electricity had gone out and Jason and Kat had been alone in the house. She’d feigned being frightened and he’d wrapped his arms around her to settle her down and to keep her warm. When she’d tilted her face up to his, it had been the most natural act in the world to kiss her, to touch her, to rip her robe from her and to claim her like a wild buck stealing another’s mate. She’d been an untamed one, her passion pent up from years of frustration.

After their first night together, they’d begun sneaking around, experimenting with drugs, getting high on coke and marijuana and sex. Even thinking of her now, he was harder than he’d been in years. His wife, Nicole, was and always had been frigid. Kim was a hot little piece, frantic to please him, willing to play out all his fantasies, but she kept pressuring him to file for divorce and she’d never had the raw sensuality, never shown the primal lust for sex that had set Kat apart from all his other lovers. While Kat enjoyed sex, Kim tried too hard to act as if she were enjoying it. Even though she’d do anything he asked, Kim’s responses seemed forced and inhibited.

There had been no one to equal the pure nymphomania and narcissism of Katherine LaRouche Danvers.

And this Adria woman-whoever the hell she was-looked so damned much like Kat it scared him-and excited him.

She was fielding questions and smiling, for God’s sake, handling the crowd deftly. Jason leaned his hips against the desk. He’d already realized that Adria Nash was an enemy to be reckoned with. She couldn’t be taken lightly. Nor was he. He’d seen through her scam from the minute he’d set eyes on her. She wouldn’t get away with it. He’d stop her dead in her tracks before she claimed one cent of the Danvers assets. He wondered fleetingly what she was like in bed. Sexually charged like Kat or dispassionately accommodating like Kim?