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With a heavy sigh, Anthony said, “The police have already been here asking questions and guess who I got a call from? Remember Jack Logan—the police captain, now retired? He was a detective sergeant at the time of the Danvers kidnapping. Apparently he’s still working for the Danvers family and more than happy to start in on us again.”
Mario seemed unruffled. He showed no outward signs of remorse. “How was I to know she’d be attacked? Jesus, Dad, I didn’t have a clue! How could I?” His dark brows slammed together. “Don’t tell me one of your men was behind it!”
“Of course not!” Anthony snapped and felt a quick pain under his breastbone, the same pain that shot through him whenever he was under a great deal of stress. He took a deep, calming breath and ignored the irritating little jab. “We’re in negotiations with her, aren’t we?”
Mario’s lower lip protruded thoughtfully and he shook his head. “Apparently not. She claims she’s not interested.”
“But she will be, if we make it worth her while.” Anthony was sure of himself. He’d played this g
ame before. Many times. And he always won. “But we must be careful,” he said, gesturing futilely with his hands. “We must use a little decorum, be patient and cautious so as not to tip our hand.”
“What’s the point? She already knows what we want. You told her yourself that you were interested in the old hotel. I wasn’t tipping anything.”
“No?” They walked along the kick path leading through the rose garden to the back of the house. Mario held the door of the breakfast room open for his father and Anthony, able to breathe now that his heartbeat was regular again, climbed up the stairs. He sat in his usual chair, spooned some sugar into his coffee cup, and tossed the morning edition of the Oregonian onto Mario’s plate. The paper landed squarely over Mario’s neatly sliced grapefruit.
“What the—” Mario stopped when he saw the picture of a cheap motel and below it a smaller photograph of Adria. Even in grainy black-and-white she was beautiful; the smooth lines of her face and her wide eyes reminded him that he wanted her.
“Read it,” Anthony advised as he snapped his napkin across his lap, then waited impatiently while the maid brought juice and coffee. “You’ll find your name in paragraph three, I think. A Detective Stinson is coming by to take your statement this morning. She’s with the Portland Police Bureau and she’s handling her end of the case because Ms. Nash seems to be the target of some rather nasty letters.” He stirred his coffee, rattling the cup with his spoon.
Mario’s mouth flattened into a thin line of disapproval as he read the article and realized that he had been the last person to see Adria before she was assaulted.
“This is only an educated guess,” Anthony said, dropping his spoon and lifting his cup to his lips. “But I think you’ve probably made the early morning news broadcasts as well.”
The maid silently deposited a basket of muffins onto the table, then slipped quietly back to the kitchen. “From now on, son,” Anthony suggested as he reached for a bran muffin, “let me know when you plan to see Ms. Nash.” He broke the muffin in half and spread a sparing amount of butter on it. “I just might be able to save you and the family a lot of embarrassment.”
Zach paced from one end of the den to the other, stretching the telephone cord to its limit. He muttered curses under his breath and nearly slammed the receiver down.
“If I could just set up an interview with Ms. Nash at her convenience—” Ellen Rigley wheedled. She was pushy, a reporter who didn’t seem to understand the word no. Zach glanced out the windows to the acres of ranch land that spread as far as the eye could see. It wasn’t enough land. There wasn’t enough to hide Adria.
“I’m sure she wants her side of the story told—”
Zach held firm and stared down at the front page of the local newspaper that lay open on the desk. Adria’ s picture was on page one, along with an old photograph of Witt, Kat, and London. The headlines were thick and black and seemed to scream—WOMAN CLAIMING TO BE DANVERS HEIRESS ATTACKED.
It hadn’t taken the press long to react. They’d only been at the ranch two days and it was already a madhouse.
Zach felt as if he were trying to plow through quicksand. The faster he went, the farther he tried to get, the deeper and deeper he sank until he felt as if he were choking and there was no way out. No way to save Adria.
Great, he thought sarcastically. Being this close to Adria and keeping his hands off her was hell; trying to keep her from getting herself killed was proving to be nearly impossible. The woman was already talking about returning to Portland, for crying out loud, when the bump on her head was still fresh, her stitches not yet healed.
The all-business female voice hadn’t given up. “—so I could fly out this afternoon or tomorrow morning, meet her at the ranch and—”
“I told you Ms. Nash has no comment.” Zach had enough.
“I need to talk to her, Mr. Danvers.” She was obviously trying to bully him. “Adria Nash showed up claiming she was London Danvers, then was attacked in a tiny motel way out of the city by an unknown assailant. The Post wants to have an interview with her so she can tell her side of the story—”
Zach slammed down the receiver and pressed a button for the answering machine to pick up. He was tired of reporters and police and the whole mess. The phone jangled instantly and Zach, ignoring the impatient ring, threw his keys onto the counter.
He’d just returned to the ranch house after spending three fruitless hours at the office. A bevy of reporters had kept Terry busy on the phone or shown up and made themselves at home, swilling and complaining about his coffee, waiting for a quote from Zach. He’d given one, largely unprintable, and most of them had taken the hint and slunk out the door with their tails between their legs. But a couple of tough, salty types had lingered, hoping that he’d crack and give them some bit of news that would make their copy different from the others that were being written into word processors around the nation.
Zach had given up trying to get any work done, told Terry to close up shop for the rest of the week, stuffed some papers into his briefcase and tucked a couple of blueprints under his arm. He’d locked the press out of his office, climbed in his Cherokee and driven like a madman back to the ranch, to the eye of the storm. He would have turned off the phones to the house except that he wanted to stay in contact with the sheriff’s department in Clackamas County, and the police in Portland. Then there was Sweeny’s report. Zach’s stomach clenched at the thought of it. Two days had passed since he’d talked to the slimy private investigator and, according to Jason, there was still no word.
The sleaze-ball detective was probably holding out on him. Or Jason was.
Ever since the attack on Adria, Zach trusted no one.
Yanking his jacket from a hook near the pantry, he stormed down the hall and out the back door. A blast of icy air greeted him and though the snow had melted at the lower elevations, a fine layer of white powder was visible in the foothills. The sky was clear, the sun high but without any warmth, and only a few clouds clustered around the highest peaks of the surrounding mountains. On any other day, he’d be glad for the bracing air and cool promise of winter. But not today.
The ranch wasn’t impregnable, and before he’d thrown out the reporters and photographers who had insisted upon hanging around the front porch, he hadn’t been able to hear himself think.
