See How She Dies (16 page)

Running her tongue over filmy teeth, she forced herself into the bathroom, where she stripped off the nightgown that she'd worn for days and turned on the shower. Before stepping under the hot spray, she got a glimpse of her reflection and cringed. No makeup, hair lank, her once-curvy body beginning to look gaunt from lack of food. Hazily she remembered Maria, the cook, coming into her room, trying to force soup of some kind down her throat.

In all her life, Katherine had never once let herself go; she believed that her greatest commodity was her body and she spent hours in the gym, with a masseuse, at the hairdresser, having her nails manicured. Her clothes were always flattering—a little sexy, but classy and pressed.

But now she looked like hell.

She stepped into the warm spray and let the hot water run over her hair and skin. Closing her eyes against the dark depression that settled over her whenever she thought of London, she leaned against the slick tiles. She couldn't let this get her down because she was London's only chance. If she gave up on her daughter, everyone else would as well.

Sobs burned deep in her throat and, telling herself that she could allow herself the freedom to cry, to grieve a little by herself, she let the tears drizzle down her cheeks, their salty tracks mingling with the rivulets from the shower as the steam billowed around her.

As long as she was alone, she could wail and scream and gnash her teeth in frustration, but when she was with the others, then she had to pretend to be strong.

An hour later she'd made it downstairs. Her hair was washed, blown dry and brushed until it shined, her teeth were polished, her makeup impeccable, her shorts and top a blue that matched her eyes. She grabbed some orange juice from the refrigerator, ignored Maria's pleas that she eat breakfast, and found out that Witt and the police were holed up in the den with strict orders not to be disturbed. Fine. Turning her back to Maria, she splashed a couple of shots of vodka into her juice, swallowed two double-strength Excedrin, reached for a new pack of cigarettes, and tucked the
Wall Street Journal
under her arm.

She was ready, or so she thought, but the intensity of the daylight made her reach for the sunglasses she kept in a drawer near the French doors. Outside, there wasn't a breath of breeze and the sun beat mercilessly against the cement and brick that skirted the pool.

She heard a noise, glanced up, and realized, as she passed by the ferns and rhododendrons flanking the path, that Zachary was swimming laps. He knifed through the water like an athlete and his wounds, still visible against his tanned skin, had healed enough to allow him easy, even strokes.

A knot of something akin to desire unwound in Katherine's stomach. Of all of Witt's children, Zachary held the most appeal. He didn't look like the rest of the Danvers brood—his skin was a darker shade, he was more muscular in build, and his eyes were a stormy gray rather than the clear blue that seemed to be a Danvers trademark.

His nose wasn't straight and arrogant like Witt's, but Katherine had decided that was because it had been broken at least three times—once recently on that horrid night when London was abducted, once during a motorcycle accident, and another time during a fistfight in junior high. The kid had been twice Zach's size but had left with two black eyes and a swollen cock when Zach's pointed boot had connected with the kid's groin. Zach had gotten the worst of it; not only had his nose been broken but his ribs as well, and the boy's father, a lawyer, had threatened to sue. Fortunately, Witt had bought him off—which was exactly what the lawyer-father had hoped for.

Irreverent and sexy as hell, Zach was attractive on more than one level. Katherine dropped onto a chaise lounge, propped up her feet, and watched her stepson glide through the water. Sleek, sinewy muscles, damp and gleaming in the sunlight, moved effortlessly. She wondered if his skin was tanned everywhere or if, beneath the ragged cutoffs, his buttocks were a lighter shade.

Since she'd taken her marriage vows, Katherine had never been unfaithful to Witt. Even in the past few years when he'd all but stopped trying to make love to her, she'd ignored the desire that curled restlessly through her blood when she saw a particularly interesting male. She'd had opportunities, plenty of them over the years—some suggested by Witt's closest friends—but she'd laughed off the passes as if they were bad jokes and never given in to the lust that had some nights nearly driven her mad.

But she was tempted by Zachary. No doubt about it. She wasn't alone. He could protest it as loudly as he wanted, but he was attracted to her. The last time they'd been together, when her temper had gotten the better of her and she'd forced him to dance with her at Witt's party, she'd felt the hardness between his legs, saw the stain of embarrassment on his cheeks, knew that he'd responded to her.

Stop it! He's Witt son, for crying out loud! Your stepson!
With shaking fingers she peeled the cellophane from her pack of cigarettes, shook out a Virginia Slim, and lit up. He didn't look her way, didn't acknowledge that she was near the pool, just kept swimming as if he would never stop.

Blowing smoke to the sky, she tried to turn her thoughts away from her secret attraction to Zach. However, if she wasn't considering his seduction, her mind turned back to London and the deep depression that enveloped her whenever she thought of her little girl. Where was she? Still alive? Huddled and scared? Or dead already, brutally murdered? Oh, God, she couldn't think about that. She wouldn't! “London,” she whispered, her eyes filling with sudden tears again.

She took a long sip from the cool orange juice and hoped the vodka would calm her nerves. If only someone would hold her, place strong arms around her, whisper in her ear that everything would be all right…that London was safe and would be returning home. The inside of her chest seemed to cave in on itself.

She needed someone. Anyone. Zach.

Gritting her teeth against the mind-paralyzing fear that had been her constant companion for weeks, she snapped the paper open and pretended interest in the bond market when all the while she watched Zach over the top of the newspaper. Her eyes were hidden by her sunglasses and she was certain that Zach didn't know that as she stared at him, she was beginning to plan his seduction.

 

Zach's lungs burned and his shoulder was beginning to ache. He'd been in the pool fifteen minutes, hoping Kat would finish her drink and leave, but he'd had no such luck. It looked as if she'd parked herself indefinitely. He was relieved she'd finally emerged. It was weird for her to be locked in her room, hardly venturing out.

But then, these days, everything at the house was weird. The cops and FBI, the reporters clustered around the gates, Witt's quiet rage and Kat's isolation. Jason had moved back to the house and paced like a caged animal; Nelson, after following him around for a few days, had holed up in his room.

Zach didn't trust anyone and thought people were always staring at him, as if he had any idea what had happened to London and the damned nanny.

Surfacing, he tossed the water from his hair and took in a huge gulp of air. He hoisted himself out of the pool and stood dripping because his towel was at the other end, near Kat, and ever since the party he'd wanted to avoid her. He was uncomfortable around her, partly because being near her reminded him of his fear for London, but partly because he was embarrassed about what had happened on the dance floor that night. He was even more humiliated because Kat knew that he'd gone to a hooker. A whore. Like he had to pay for it!

He'd had plenty of chances with girls his age, but he hadn't been interested in some giggling ninny who would let him touch her tits in exchange for his class ring or some such garbage. Girls were always looking to fall in love and he wasn't interested. He didn't believe in love and knew he never would love anyone. His parents and his siblings had convinced him that love was a foolish notion. It just plain didn't exist.

The cement was hot against the bottoms of his feet as he jogged the length of the pool and snatched up his towel. He was still sore and knew with his bruises and scar, he looked like hell.

Kat glanced up and offered him a blinding smile that caused his diaphragm to slam into his lungs. “You're feeling better,” he said weakly, knowing she expected conversation.

“Yeah.”

She lifted her sunglasses to squint up at him. God, she was beautiful. Her lips were a slick, glossy pink and her cheekbones were carved gently. Standing above her, he could see down the column of her throat and lower still to the deep cleft between her breasts. Her tan line, faded somewhat, was still visible and if she moved just the right way, he was certain he'd catch a glimpse of her nipples. “No permanent damage?” she asked, as if she really cared.

“Looks that way.” He swiped the towel over his face and through his hair, trying to ignore the raw sensuality that seemed to radiate from her. Hell, why was she looking at him like that?

“That's good. I was worried about you.” She stretched and the motion seemed somehow feline in the hot sun. A hot summer breeze kissed the back of his neck.

“Were you?” He didn't believe her and he was suddenly wary.

She swallowed and licked her lips. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. “Yes…there's so much that's happened, some of it so awful.” Tears moistened her eyes and for the life of him he felt sorry for her. “Anyway, I know I've treated you badly—that display at the hotel was uncalled for. I was drunk and angry and…oh, God, Zach…I'm making a mess of this, but I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry.”

“Forget it,” he said, feeling his face turning a darker shade of red.

“I will. If you'll forgive me.”

Jesus, what was going on here?
He cleared his throat and glanced at the shadows shifting beneath the trees. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” Again the smile, though this time there were teardrops drizzling down her cheeks and he realized how devastated she was about the loss of her child.

He felt awkward and stupid for even thinking about her in any way sexual. She was grieving, for Christ's sake. Nervously, he knotted the towel in his hands. “I…uh, look, don't worry about London. She'll turn up.”

“You think so?” She sounded so hopeful.

Did he do that—give her a sense of false hope about a poor little girl who might already be dead? He felt absolutely wretched. “I dunno, but…everybody's looking for her…” It sounded lame, even to his own ears, and he noticed the ghost of pain crossing her eyes. Hell, he was just no good at this!

She reached up and grabbed his hand with hers. Heat swirled up his arm. “I hope so, Zach,” she whispered, blinking hard as her fingers tightened over his. A jolt of electricity kicked his heart into high gear. She looked so young suddenly, so vulnerable and small. He had to remind himself that this was Kat. “God, I hope so.” She used his arm as a brace and climbed to her feet, her body only inches from his. He barely noticed the lingering pain from his beating.

To his utter amazement, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss over his cheek. “Thanks for understanding, Zach. I needed a friend.” He turned his face, staring into her eyes, feeling her moist, smoky breath against his skin, half expecting her to kiss him again, but she smiled sadly and let go of his arm, then picked up her things and walked back to the house.

He was left standing by the pool, dripping, and wondering what the hell had just gone on.

 

Pain, as hot as if it erupted straight from the bowels of hell, shot through Witt's chest. For a second he couldn't breathe. It was as if someone had locked their fingers over his throat and was strangling him. Where were the pills? He yanked open the desk drawer and saw the vial in the pencil rack. Agony tore at his heart as he managed to retrieve the nitroglycerin pills and shove one under his tongue. He was nearly gasping now and waiting, his elbows propped on the leather desk pad, his head resting in his palms. Sweat broke out over his forehead and the damned intercom began to buzz impatiently. He didn't answer and knew that Shirley, his secretary of more than twenty years, would get the message.

The buzzer stopped and five minutes later, he was collected again—the angina had passed and he straightened his tie. No one save McHenry knew about his condition and he planned on keeping his secret to himself. Witt hated weakness and this heart condition was just that…a sign that he wasn't as strong as he once had been.

He reached for his humidor, opened the lid, and the heavy scent of Havana tobacco wafted to his nostrils. He grabbed a cigar, wedged it between his teeth, but didn't light up. Not now. Not after the angina attack.

He pushed the intercom button, learned that Roger Phelps was waiting in the reception area of the offices of Danvers International, and growled at Shirley to show him in. Disgusted, he didn't bother lighting up though he longed for a few relaxing lungfuls of smoke.

Within minutes Phelps was seated on the opposite side of Witt's desk. He looked like Joe Average. Tan slacks, brown jacket, off-white shirt, and nondescript, department-store tie. His face wasn't noteworthy, just even features with the beginnings of jowls that matched the paunch developing at his belt line. Witt was more than a little disappointed in the man who had supposedly been an agent with the CIA before dropping out of the government to do independent work.