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He watched her storm out the door, noticed the curve of her hips and the stiff set of her back. Her legs were thin, but not skinny, and he wondered what they’d feel like wrapped around his waist.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, disgusted at the direction of his thoughts.
No matter what, he intended to camp out on her doorstep. Dropping some bills on the table, he took out after her. He stepped into the lobby just as the elevator doors were closing, but that suited him just fine and he paused, leaning against a pillar to watch as the elevator’s indicator lights mounted over the closed doors, blinked on in succession, then held steady for several seconds at the fifth floor. There were no other stops as the car descended. Without a second’s hesitation, he waited for the doors to open and rode the empty car back up. He’d sit out
in the hallway if he had to, but he’d damn well see for himself if there was anyone set on stalking her.
The elevator bell rang softly as it reached the fifth floor. Zac stepped into the empty corridor and spied a house telephone. He made a quick call to Len Barry, his friend on the force. Len agreed to stop by for the package burning a hole in Zach’s jacket pocket. After hanging up, Zach found a chair and fake tree nestled against windows at the corner of the hallway, with a view down both wings. He settled into the low-backed chair to wait.
Adria slowly counted to ten. Zachary’s taunts had followed her up the elevator shaft. His arrogance disturbed her—the way he tried to order her around made her want to kick at something. He and the rest of the family acted as if she just wanted to rip off all their money. She unclipped her hair and threw the barrette onto the bed in frustration. “Bastard,” Adria muttered and caught herself as the word rolled easily off her tongue.
There was more than a little truth to the name, wasn’t there? If she looked inside herself, really looked, she knew she’d discover that a part of her wanted Zach to be sired by another man—any man other than Witt Danvers, whom she believed to be her own father.
Because, damn it, she found Zachary sensual and disturbing and like no man she’d ever met before. Was he trying to help her? Or had it all been an act?
Her head began to pound. Was Zach really Witt’s son? Oh, who cared? Did it matter? All she needed to know was if she was really Witt’s daughter. Zach’s paternity wasn’t something she needed to think about. Zachary Danvers wasn’t anyone she needed to think about.
She picked up the newspaper lying in sections on the small table in her room and snapped it open. With furious fingers, she flipped through the pages and stopped at the section marked Rooms For Rent. Tomorrow, first thing, she’d find a new place to live, then she’d waltz into the Oregonian and tell a tale that would leave the reporters hustling as they scrambled to get her story into the next edition. Later she’d talk to the television and radio news stations.
If the Danvers family wanted to play hardball, so be it. She was more than ready to pitch them a curveball the likes of which they’d never yet seen.
Trisha parked in her usual spot, between the garage and the cabin in the woods of the Polidori estate. A gardener’s cabin that was supposed to be unoccupied, Mario had converted the little vine-covered cottage that had served as their secret rendezvous for over twenty years. Her heart was beating a light little tempo and she chided herself for being foolish as she ducked under the dripping clematis and knocked softly on the front door before turning the lock.
He was waiting for her. Backlit by the lights in the kitchen, he strode across the dark living room and her breath caught in her throat. Though she’d grown cynical and callous over the years, the sight of Mario never ceased to cause a wave of anticipation to race through her blood.
He was bare-chested—his jeans hanging low over his hips. “You’re late,” he said in the smoky voice that had always caused her bones to turn liquid.
“Problems at home.”
“Forget them.” He reached over her shoulder and pushed the door so hard that it slammed in the casing before the lock latched. His arms surrounded her and his lips crashed over hers—hot, hungry, possessive. Trisha shivered in anticipation and closed her mind to everything but this one vital man. She needed a few hours to forget about Adria and London and the whole sordid mess.
If Adria could prove she was London, all of Trisha’s dreams would be shattered, her life destroyed.
Unless she could be stopped.
Adria nearly jumped from the bed when the alarm jangled at six A.M. She felt as if she’d barely drifted off after a night of tossing and turning and worrying subconsciously that someone was sneaking into her room. Sleep had been nearly nonexistent and her mind had swum with images of rats with big teeth, strangers hiding in the shadows, and Zachary—sometimes as her enemy but more often than not as her lover. Over and over again she remembered the night in the Jeep when he’d kissed her with a raw animal passion that made her insides turn to hot, soft wax. Because of the fear she felt, because she knew she was being followed and watched, because someone was out to terrorize her, she was more drawn to Zachary Danvers.
It was ridiculous, of course. She couldn’t want him. Her fantasies were only because he was the sexiest man she’d been around in a long while and the simple fact that he was forbidden fruit—a rough man she couldn’t have.
“Character flaw,” she told herself as she brushed her teeth and saw her tousled-haired reflection in the mirror over the sink.
She stepped under the hot spray of the shower until she was awake. Today was the day she was going to the papers. A knot of dread twisted her stomach at the thought. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she’d been foolish. Talking to the press was inevitable.
But first things first. She needed a permanent residence. She dressed quickly and, armed with yesterday’s paper, she walked out of the room and stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart jolted and she could barely find her tongue as her gaze collided with Zachary Danvers’s interested gray eyes. Still in the clothes he’d worn the night before, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his chin shadowed with more than a day’s growth of beard, he rubbed the crick from his neck and gave her a crooked smile.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, as if they saw each other at the crack of dawn each and every day.
“What’re you doing here?” she managed to ask.
“Waitin’ for you.”
Another jolt. “Why?”
“I thought someone should hang around, you know, and scare away the bad guys.”
“Did you?”
“You didn’t have any trouble, did you?”
