See How She Dies (29 page)

A small muscle worked in the side of Mario's cheek. “How should I know?”

“Aren't you still seeing her?”

“You took care of that a long time ago,” his son said with more than a trace of bitterness.

“Trisha Danvers is like the rest of them. She doesn't give up. Not ever. When she wants something, she goes for it, and, my boy, she wants you. She always has, and she also used you to get back at her father. You were a pawn, son.”

Mario's eyes sparked with a deadly rage.

Anthony snapped his newspaper open and wondered about the woman who called herself London Danvers. He'd have to find out everything there was to know about her. “Maybe we should invited Miss Nash over,” he said, flicking a gaze over the top of the paper. Mario had elbowed his plate aside and was brooding.

“Why?”

“For old time's sake.”

“Witt's dead. What could it mean to you?”

Anthony didn't bother answering. How could he explain to his son that feuds never ended? No matter how many of the players died, the vengeance continued and festered. As long as there was anyone named Danvers left in Portland, Anthony wouldn't be satisfied.

He was pleased with the news that another London Danvers had shown up.

 

Adria knocked on the door of the small apartment in Tigard, a suburb just over the west hills of Portland. Within minutes she saw a dark eye in the peephole and quickly the bolt was thrown. The door opened and a small Chicano woman with graying black hair twisted into a bun and incredibly white teeth stood over the threshold.

“Mrs. Santiago?”

“For the love of Mary,” the woman whispered, crossing her ample bosom. “You are the image of the missus.”

“Could I come in?” Adria asked. She'd already called the woman, Maria Santiago, who had worked for the Danvers family until her retirement shortly after Witt's death. She'd explained her business and Maria had reluctantly agreed to see her.

“Please, please—” Maria stepped out of the way and waved her inside the tiny rooms. “Sit down.”

Adria perched on the edge of a floral couch that was worn around the edges and Maria settled into a rocker by the window and put her feet onto a stool.

Adria had already explained on the phone why she was in Portland. She'd sketched out her story, explaining that she was adopted, that she wanted to find her roots, that all the records were destroyed, and Maria, obviously lonely, had offered to speak with her.

“I don't mean to ask you to break confidences,” Adria said, “but there's just so much I don't know about the Danvers family. I thought you could help me.”

Maria rubbed her chin and stared out the window to the parking lot. “A few years ago, I would not have said a word,” she admitted, “but then, the mister, he died, and Jason, he fired me. Now—” She rubbed her hands anxiously together. “What is it you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Ahh. That would take some time. There is so much.”

Adria couldn't believe her good luck. She smiled at the pleasant little woman. “I've got the rest of my life,” she said and sat back to listen.

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time she returned to the Orion and her head, as well as her tiny tape recorder, was filled with facts about the Danvers family, secrets, and the answer to some mysteries, including the feud with the Polidoris.

She considered celebrating with a glass of wine and a hot bath in the hotel room because tomorrow she'd have to move to a cheaper, and less high-profile, place. After settling in, she had other important business to attend to. Since the Danvers family wouldn't recognize her, it was time to go to the police and press. As soon as she found a more permanent address, she'd contact the authorities and grant an interview with someone from the local newspaper to start the ball rolling. Then, of course, she'd have to speak with the lawyers for Witt's estate. She wasn't looking forward to any of the interviews, but she'd get through them.

She'd be called a gold digger, a fraud, an opportunist, and an imposter. Lawyers would call her, attorneys with “her interests” at heart. She wasn't interested. Not yet. The press would make her life a circus. The Danvers family would go after her with all the money they had behind them. They would try to dig up any rumors that might discredit her and they would look into her past, digging, always digging and looking for any glitch in her story, any inaccuracies in their attempts to disprove that she was London.

That's what she wanted.

And what about Zachary?

Oh, Lord, yes. What about Zachary?

In her room, she stripped off her clothes, poured herself a glass of Chablis, then slid into a tub of hot water. She sipped her wine slowly and considered her half-brother.

Sexy.

Smart.

Rough.

Big trouble.

Zach Danvers was a man to avoid unless she wanted to lose her heart.

Half an hour later, as she eased out of the tub and buffed her skin dry with one of the Orion's thick towels, Adria wondered about her mission—her quest to find her true identity. Was she London Danvers? Did it matter if she was? Did she really want to be related to any of those people—the Danvers kin? None of them appealed to her.

Except Zachary.

Not that she trusted him. He was no better than the rest, but she couldn't wedge his image out of her mind. Rugged, whereas his brothers took pride in being polished; outwardly irreverent, while Nelson took pains to look as if he played by the rules. Zachary was arrogant because he didn't give a damn; Jason was arrogant because he thought he deserved the money and power into which he'd been born.

Zachary was different.

Because of the blood flowing through his veins? Because he could be a Polidori? She grimaced at the thought, but found it intriguing. Her relationship with him would be easier to understand if he wasn't part of the Danvers family. She rubbed the mist from the mirror with the edge of the towel and wondered about Zachary, what kind of man he was, what it would feel like to have him take her to his bed….

The thought was like a cold slap in her face. What was she doing fantasizing about a man who detested her, a man who could be her half-brother? Giving herself a swift mental kick, she stared into her reflection and told herself that she had to think of him as her brother: her irritable, woman-hating, problem of a half-brother who was, without a doubt, her sworn enemy.

Just like the rest of the clan.

She slipped into a T-shirt and climbed into the bed. The sheets were crisp and clean, but didn't have the same country-fresh scent of those that were dried on the line at home. In Belamy. Funny, for years she'd wanted to escape. City lights had beckoned her young heart, but duty had kept her tied to the only town she'd ever called home. Not that it mattered, but the harsh Montana grassland didn't seem so loathsome anymore, and for the first time in years she thought of her hometown and felt the pull of her heartstrings.

But she wasn't running back to the safety and boredom of Belamy. Not when she'd come so far.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going
, she reminded herself as she plumped a pillow.

Closing her eyes, she heard the hum of traffic, an occasional shout and, every so often, the distant cry of sirens. She wondered where Zachary was, and then, irritated that she'd allowed him into her mind, she rolled over and tried to force him from her thoughts. What did she care about him, anyway? She was too smart to get involved with him. Even if he might not be her half-brother, even if he hadn't been somehow involved with her mother, even if his last name wasn't Danvers, he wasn't the kind of man she could trust, let alone fall for.

Fall for? As in “fall in love?”

No way—nohow. He was just forbidden fruit, that was all. Seductive because he was taboo. Erotic because he was so wrong for her, so very wrong.

And yet, there he was—his image teasing her mind. She imagined his crooked, irreverent smile flashing against his rock-hard jaw, remembered how it felt to have his lips pressed hard and wanting against hers, could envision the play of light in his gray eyes, or remember the feel of his hands against her skin.

For God's sake, stop it!

Forget him. He's not someone to be attracted to! He's the enemy! Just like the rest of his family! Think, Adria. Use your brain and be smart.

Somewhere down the hallway she heard the
ding
of the elevator and the rattle of a service cart. The heater rumbled as she drifted off to sleep fitfully. She dreamed—erotic, pulse-pounding fantasies of sweat-slickened bodies, wildly beating hearts, lips that caressed the most intimate of spots and fingers that whispered over fevered flesh. In her mind's eye, she saw him hovering above her, his naked skin gleaming gold in the light of a dying fire, his hair wet with sweat and his eyes dark with a deep secret.

She wanted him so badly, and yet, there was something more, someone else in the room with them, a faceless presence, menacing and dark, lurking in the shadows.

There was a rustle and quick footsteps.

“Who's there?” she cried, her gaze searching the murky corners, her heart pounding in fear. She looked back for Zachary, but he was gone and she was alone. “Zach!” But her voice only echoed back at her, bouncing off unseen walls.

Again the rustling and her skin prickled in dread. “Zach! Where are you?” She got up and started running, her legs heavy, her body naked. She was in an alley, fog surrounding her, something chasing her, footsteps pounding along the wet pavement.

“Zach!” she yelled, desperate, certain she could feel the breath of her attacker. “Help!” She ran. Faster, her bare feet slapping the uneven asphalt. Oh, God, where was he? If only she could duck around the next corner—

Too late! Whoever was after her was closing in. She could hear his breathing, feel him closing in. A hand reached out and touched the back of her neck…

Adria's eyes flew open. It was dark. Her heart was jack-hammering, her body drenched in sweat. For a second she didn't know where she was and then she remembered…the Orion…safe…the door firmly locked.

Then why did she still feel unnerved, her breathing shallow, her teeth on edge? It was a dream. Just a dream. No big deal. She let out her breath slowly and climbed to her feet. She'd go into the bathroom and get a glass of water and…

She saw it then. A slim envelope slipped under the door.

Probably just the bill
, she told herself, but knew better.

Every nerve strung tight, she crossed the carpet and picked up the envelope. It was blank. Sealed. Carefully she slid a nail under the flap.

Inside was a simple note:
You have a package at the front desk
.

“What?” She opened the door but the hallway was empty. Something felt wrong about this. Very wrong.
Don't jump to conclusions.
Crossing to a small table near the bed, she punched the number on the telephone for the front desk.

“This is Adria Nash,” she said when a female voice answered. She gave her room number and asked, “Do I have a package?”

“Let me check.” There was a
click
and a few minutes of nondescript music before the woman returned. “Yes, Ms. Nash, you do have a package. I'll send it up.”

“Wait a minute. Do you know who sent it to me?”

“No—I'm sorry. It was in the business office. Probably came by courier. I'll check the log and get back to you.”

“Thanks.” Adria hung up and within two minutes a bellman was standing on the other side of the door and handing her a thick, padded manila envelope with her name written in block letters. She tipped the man and before she could open the bulky package, the phone rang.

“Ms. Nash, this is Ellie at the front desk. I don't know how to explain it, but there is no record of anything coming in for you. Maybe someone forgot, but usually the staff is on top of this kind of thing and keeps a precise record of when the delivery was made and by whom.”

Adria stared down at the bulky envelope in her hand and she felt her insides curdle. Whatever was inside was soft. “The hotel apologizes and I hope this doesn't inconvenience you.”

“No…it's all right,” Adria said, though she sensed, feeling the awkward package, that it was anything but okay. “If I have any more questions, I'll come down.”

“Thank you,” Ellie said as Adria hung up.

Don't open it. What if it's a bomb?

That was ridiculous. A bomb? No way. And yet…should she call the police?

“Oh, for God's sake, you're letting your imagination run away with you.” Angry with herself, she found a nail file and ripped open the package. Nothing exploded. Nothing jumped out at her. But as she peeked inside, her heart froze.

There, zipped inside a plastic bag, was a dead rat, one beady eye visible through the sheer covering. Adria dropped the package as if it were red-hot. “Oh God, oh, God, oh, God,” she whispered, a hand clamping over her mouth.

Who would do such a thing?

Bile burned in the back of her throat.

Was it a warning?

Or just a chance for some pervert to get his rocks off by trying to scare her?

“Mission accomplished,” she said, calming a little. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed a tissue from the bedside table, and kneeling, gently pulled the plastic-enshrouded rodent from its manila coffin.

There was a note inside, a message from the pervert who'd left this for her. With shaking fingers she withdrew the single piece of paper that read: BACK OFF BITCH!

“Oh, God,” she whispered. Through the plastic, she noticed something sparkling, catching in the light, and she nearly threw up when she recognized the chain and locket wound around the dead rat's neck and body.

The fragile piece of jewelry her father had given her was sealed tight with the furry little body.

“Bastard,” she said, gagging.

To retrieve the necklace, she'd have to unwrap the dead animal and wash the chain and…

Don't touch it! Don't touch a thing! You have to go to the police! You have to tell them what's going on. They can fingerprint everything and check for clues. Otherwise, whoever is behind this will continue to terrorize you—or worse.

Letting out her breath, she straightened, leaving the package where she'd dropped it on the floor. She opened a window and let in the fresh air.

Think, Adria, think
. Scraping her hair away from her face with tense fingers, she pulled herself together.

Slowly she began to calm. She'd grown up on a farm. Dead animals and all kinds of rodents—rats, mice, shrews, squirrels, and the like—were something she and the barn cats had dealt with. The rat's corpse didn't frighten her, but the intent behind the package did, and the fact that someone had broken into her room at the Hotel Danvers, violated her personal space and taken items, then took the time to kill a rat and send it anonymously, was terrifying.

She reached for the phone. She could call the police. Or hotel security. Or Zach.

Which is probably what the sicko expected. Whoever he was, he was counting on her running scared and calling the authorities. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to wait…at least until she figured out what was going on.

For now, she'd bide her time, but be on her guard.

Whoever was behind the depraved prank wasn't going to get the better of her.

But he could be dangerous. This might be just the start of something worse. The more you push the Danvers clan, the more the clan will push back
.

She considered the members of the family. Was it one of them? Or someone else, someone she hadn't yet met? Someone connected to the Danvers family who didn't want London to surface?

Whoever it was behind the stupid little charade was going to get a surprise. Adria wasn't backing down. Gingerly, using the tissue, she slipped the plastic bag into the envelope and opened the refrigerator of the minibar. Quickly she removed several bottles of beer and soda, then placed the envelope inside. She'd put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and figure out her next move.

 

Wedged between the pool tables and the rest rooms, the phone booth was located in the back corner of the tavern. Sweeny waited as the phone rang in Portland. He needed to report to Danvers, but first things first.

Foster's voice boomed over the line. “You have reached the offices of Michael Foster. I'm away from the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number and the time you called, I'll get back to you—”

“Bullshit!” Sweeny growled. The beep shrilled in his ear. “Foster? You there? It's me, Sweeny. Pick up the goddamned phone.” He waited, but no one answered. “Hell,” he ground out. “Look, I know you're there, so pick up. I've got a job for you. One that pays well. If you're interested…” He waited but still no answer. Drumming his fingers on the edge of a tattered copy of the yellow pages, he finally decided to give up. “I'll call later.” As he slammed down the receiver, he tried to shake off his bad mood, but it lingered, like the cold-blowing wind that seemed to forever cut through this town.

He settled into the bar, drank his beer, and listened to some country-western ballad where the guy was all choked up over some dead woman. Christ, what a miserable place. A few of the locals came in, smiled and chatted with the bartender, and climbed onto their usual stools. Just like
Cheers
on television. Sweeny could name them all—Norm, Cliff, Sam…Rather than gawk at the hicks, he turned his attention to a television positioned over the bar where a baseball game was in progress. He didn't even check the score.