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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.
