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“Aren’t you the guy who said ‘it’s always money’?”
“Not with the Polidoris. With them it’s revenge,” Jason said, staring morosely into his glass. Zach didn’t argue; he’d grown up being told that the Polidoris were no-goods, out for blood, the worst of the worst. Zach had changed his mind over the course of the years, but he still didn’t trust them, especially with Adria.
Before Jason could ask a lot of questions Zach didn’t want to answer, he pushed himself away from the desk and left. Jason’s case of nerves was getting to him.
He drove downtown and stopped at the Hotel Danvers, picked up some blueprints that had been left there for him, and grabbed a stack of messages, which he gave a quick once-over, then tossed into the trash. Reporters and more reporters. Jason was right on that score. Once they smelled the blood of scandal, the vultures kept circling until they finally swept in to pick the carcass.
He climbed into his Jeep and headed out of the city. Back to Adria. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The truth of the matter was that he was bothered that Adria was with Polidori and it had nothing to do with the feud or the family fortune. It didn’t even have anything to do with London Danvers. The problem was more basic than that. It hit him at a gut level. Like it or not, Zach was jealous. He denied it to himself as he drove hell-bent-for-leather on the winding road to Estacada but when push came to shove and he was honest with himself, the truth of the matter was that he didn’t like the thought of her with any other man.
“Idiot,” he told himself and snapped on the radio. Squinting against oncoming headlights, he listened to a half-hour dedicated to Bruce Springsteen songs, but his mind drifted from the lyrics to Adria. Christ, what was he going to do with her? He knew what he wanted and it was either obscene or just plain stupid, or maybe a little bit of both, depending upon whom she turned out to be.
Adria glanced in her rearview mirror as she drove along the forested road to Estacada. Headlights bore down on her and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. During her dinner with Mario Polidori she’d been tense. Uneasy. Jumping at shadows, and when she’d left Portland, she’d felt hidden eyes upon her, watching her every move.
“You’re as bad as the Danvers family,” she muttered as the vehicle behind her, a huge pickup raised high off the ground, tore around her, spraying mist and dirt from the road onto her windshield. She flipped on the wipers and attempted to ignore the paranoia that threatened.
The truck, going over seventy on this winding road, disappeared around a corner and the beams of her own headlights splashed against the puddles, wet pavement, and mossy bark of the giant fir trees lining the country road.
She was exhausted, her mind running in crazy circles filled with images of Zachary and bloodied hotel rooms. She’d finally heard from Detective Stinson; the blood smeared on the broken mirror hadn’t been human at all, but rat blood, probably drained from the rodent that had been left for her to find.
Her stomach curdled at the thought. Though she’d grown up on a farm and had dealt with the slaughter of animals each year or had helped butcher deer her father had killed on a hunting trip, or found the corpses of rats and birds caught by the barn cats, this was different. An animal killed, then drained of its blood to be used for the next act of terror.
She shivered and told herself to get over it. She’d known from the get-go that claiming to be London Danvers was sure to meet resistance; she just hadn’t had any idea how much or how macabre.
A headache throbbed behind her eyes. Her meeting with Mario Polidori had turned out badly. His interest in her had changed from curiosity and mild interest to something deeper, something she didn’t want to contemplate. She’d recognized a spark of challenge in his gaze as he’d stared at her, and she’d had the unlikely but unsettling insight that he’d wanted to sleep with her. At first she’d told herself she was imagining things, but as the evening had worn on and he had become bolder, his eyes darker, his smile just a little more wicked, she’d become certain that he wanted to seduce her. Not because he found her infinitely fascinating, but because she was associated with the Danvers family and because she was a challenge.
“Just try it,” she muttered, turning on the wipers as the mist thickened.
What she didn’t need was a man—any man—complicating things. Her emotions were twisted enough as it was with her attraction to Zachary. She cringed when she thought how close she’d come to making love to him. How much she’d wanted him.
She’d even told herself that she’d just been overreacting because of the stalker, but it was more than that. Much more, and dangerously unthinkable.
Her headache throbbed when she considered what might have happened, would have happened, if he hadn’t come to his senses and broken off the embrace.
“Idiot,” she muttered, and she didn’t know if she was talking about him or herself. “Pull yourself together.”
As she rounded a final corner just outside of the Estacada city limits, she saw the sign for the Fir Glen Motel flickering in green neon. Pink letters announced that there was a vacancy at the little motel.
Zach’s Jeep wasn’t parked in its usual spot and her heart dropped. Which was just plain stupid. Yes, it was reassuring that he was just next door, but more than that, she was starting to rely on him, to care about him, to think of him in terms that crossed all sorts of barriers. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t London. That would solve some problems.
But it still wouldn’t resolve whatever feelings he still harbored for Kat. Once in a while Adria would catch him staring at her and she was certain he didn’t see her at all, but was caught up in memories of another woman, the woman she thought was her mother.
What a mess! She pulled into the bumpy lot and settled for a parking spot not far from the front door of her sorry little unit. The drab motel was L-shaped, a single door and window for each unit facing the parking lot. Most of the windows were dark, only a few boasting slivers of light visible through the drawn shades.
She cut the engine and stepped outside, where the mountain air was damp and heavy against her skin as she locked her car and headed toward her motel room.
Home sweet home, she thought as the wind caught in her hair and a rattling truck rumbled past. Again she felt as if she were being observed, that someone was lurking in the shadows, unseen eyes ever vigilant. Her skin crawled and she turned quickly, half expecting someone to jump out of the darkness.
But no one appeared.
And aside from the occasional car on the road, the night was still, the mist thick.
“Get a grip,” she muttered, but before she walked into her unit, she swept her gaze over the parking lot. Nothing was amiss. She recognized the owner’s battered Chevy Suburban and saw the bluish glow of a television in the window of the office. The few other vehicles looked deserted for the night.
She took a step toward her door and heard no heavy breathing or footsteps scraping behind her. She was alone. Unnerved, but alone.
She thought about the package she’d received. The dead rat with her own locket wrapped around its throat.
She thought about the hotel room at the Orion with its mutilated picture of her and smeared blood.
