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“Good.”
“Just don’t act as if I started it.”
“It just happened, okay? It won’t happen again.” But even as the words passed his lips, he knew they were a lie. There was no way in hell he could keep his hands off her.
Later, Adria saw no reason to tell Zach she was going to meet Mario Polidori. Zach had been furious when she’d mentioned that Mario had called. She decided she’d had enough with his overprotective attitude. Half the time he acted like her older brother, the other half he seemed as if he wanted to be her lover.
Warring emotions battled inside her and she decided she needed to get away from him to clear her head, to set her sights back on the path of her quest. She had to find out if she was London. If she was, she’d fight the entire Danvers clan to gain her birthright; if she wasn’t…then she’d leave. Or she’d become Zach’s lover. Either way, she was risking emotional suicide.
She parked her battered car on the street near the old vegetable market where Stefano Polidori had first made his fortune. Located only four blocks from the Hotel Danvers, the market was now closed, and a new high-rise office building was being considered for the property.
Mario was waiting, leaning against a lamppost near an Irish pub. “I had just about given up on you,” he said.
She was uneasy, but managed to hide her case of nerves. “I said I’d be here.”
“I know, but I thought your friend might have persuaded you to stand me up.” He straightened and offered her an engaging, brilliant smile.
“My friend?”
Mario held the door to the bar open for her. “Zachary Danvers. Your brother.”
Adria’s stomach plummeted.
“Hasn’t he been playing the part of bodyguard?”
“He’s not playing anything,” Adria said as Mario followed her into the smoky interior. Laughter and loud conversation filtered out from the bar. Glasses clinked and pool balls clicked and darts zipped through the air. A jazz band was playing from a makeshift stage, but most of the music was drowned out by the raucous patrons.
Without asking, Mario ordered two Irish coffees before he got down to business. “My father and I were wondering if you had thought about our proposal.”
“A little,” she hedged as a slim waitress slid two glass mugs in front of them. “And the truth of the matter is that I can’t make any deals with you or your father.” With a thin plastic straw she stirred the green drizzle of créme de menthe into the whipped cream floating on her coffee.
“You don’t know that.”
“What I don’t know is who I am. But if I do find out I’m London, then I won’t be making any big demands on the company.”
His dark brows lifted in surprise. “You would own over half of it.”
“I’d still be the outsider.”
“But—”
“Where I come from, Mario, you look before you leap and I can tell you this straight out—I don’t have plans to sell or change anything at Danvers International. In fact, unless I find glaring incompetence, I probably won’t make any big waves.”
“That surprises me.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully, his dark eyes assessing.
“I believe in the old adage ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’” she said, thinking of the long, hot summer days under the blistering Montana sun and how many times her father had said those very words to her. Her father. The man who had raised her, who had often placed a hand on her shoulder in a tender gesture reserved for her. She missed him now and knew that even if Witt Danvers proved to be the man who had sired her, Victor Nash would always be her father.
“Tell me more of yourself,” Mario suggested, but Adria only smiled.
“It’s boring. Really. I grew up on a Montana farm. Worked all week, went to church on Sundays. End of story.”
“I doubt it,” he said slyly.
“Why don’t you tell me about you and your family—it has to be a lot more interesting than hauling hay and making jam.”
“You’re playing with me.”
“No, I honestly want to know,” she said. “Come on. What was it like growing up as Anthony Polidori’s son?”
