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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 h
er 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?
He frowned at the thought of his mistress and her increasing demands. He couldn’t divorce Nicole. Wouldn’t. His wife, though a limp dishrag in bed, was shrewd. She’d take him for half of everything he owned, which, he hoped, would soon be the largest fortune in Portland. Somehow he’d have to find a way to keep Kim appeased—as well as deal with Adria Nash.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched the end of the segment, listened to the two anchors speculate on the possibility that the missing heiress had stepped forward to claim her fortune, then felt his insides tense as old footage taken the night London had been kidnapped rolled across the screen. His guts twisted at the sight of his father and Kat, and there was a photo of little London. An artist, using the latest computer technology, had provided a simulated portrait of what the girl could look like and the features weren’t far from Adria’s. Dread settled like lead in his spine.
But there was no way she could be London! It was damned impossible.
He clicked off the television as the intercom beeped again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danvers, I really am, but Mr. Sweeny insists that you’ll want to talk to him. I tried to tell him you were busy and he used the most foul language—”
“It’s all right, Frances. I’ll take it.”
“Line two again.”
“Got it.” Jason’s palms began to sweat. He picked up and braced himself for Sweeny’s news. “Jason Danvers.”
“You told me to call you when I got to Memphis and I’m here,” Sweeny said, his voice sounding smug.
