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“Then it’s true—?” Nelson was speechless as he plopped down in one of the side chairs and rubbed his temples with his fingers. It was obvious that he thought his life was unraveling. “I can’t believe it. She’s really London?”
“Looks that way,” Zach said tightly.
“We don’t have to believe it!” Jason was adamant. “We don’t have to buy into it—we just have to keep our mouths shut.”
“No way. She deserves to know,” Zach said, though it twisted his guts and a vile taste rose in the back of his throat when he realized that he still wanted her. Despite the nearly certain truth that she was his long-lost half-sister, he couldn’t stop thinking of her as a woman.
Nelson pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to forestall a headache. “First Mother, then this…”
“Eunice?” Zach’s head snapped up.
“She slipped and fell chasing after that damned cat of hers,” Nelson said. “She’s all right, just banged around a little. A few scratches. Nothing serious, thank God. But this London business. It’s unbelievable.” He glanced up at Zach and his mouth twisted into a shadow of his former smile. “You know, a long time ago, you were my hero. Getting beat up, having yourself a prostitute…” His voice faltered and his gaze shifted to the floor. He sighed loudly, a tortured soul who’d been cast adrift years before. “I guess that’s all gone now.”
Zach couldn’t think about the might-have-beens. Nelson had always been out of step—no reason that having London resurface would change anything. He clamped a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder, then let go. With renewed conviction, he crossed the room and thrust open the doors.
“Hey—where’re you going?” Jason’s voice followed him into the hallway. “Wait a minute. Zach! Oh, shit, what’s he going to do now?”
“Who cares?” Nelson said. “It’s over, Jase.”
“Not yet—”
The rest of whatever he was saying was cut off when the doors closed. Zach pounded on the elevator call button with his fist. Though he was sick inside at the thought of Adria being London, he told himself it had been inevitable and was probably for the best. Deep in his gut he didn’t believe it. The good news was that they were closer to the truth and the pall that had been shrouding the family for years might finally be lifted. The bad news was that he’d never be able to touch her again.
Trisha was pissed.
She climbed into her Alpha and took off, putting the little sports car through its considerable paces, and driving through the night without knowing where she was going. She’d hoped to meet Mario, but her plans had fallen through. Again. Her fingers tightened over the steering wheel and she took a corner a little too fast, the tires screeching, the car skidding into the oncoming lane. Headlights bore down on her. The driver of the other car swerved, nearly taking out a tree, and laid on his horn as Trisha maneuvered her car back into the right-hand lane. “And fuck you, too,” she muttered under her breath, then glanced at the rearview mirror to make sure the jerk didn’t turn around and chase after her. Well, let him. She’d show him what a real car could do. She was in one bitch of a mood.
Because of Mario. And Adria.
Mario claimed he couldn’t meet her, that some kind of business had come up, but Trisha wasn’t fool enough to believe him. Though he’d apologized over and over again, she hadn’t heard the slightest hint of any true regret in his voice. She knew the reason—he had a new woman, someone more exciting, someone who presented him more of a challenge. She didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out that he planned the newest notch on his bedpost would be Adria Nash.
Ever since he’d been with Adria the other night, Mario had avoided Trisha, begging off with one flimsy excuse after another. But Trisha knew the score. Whenever he was involved with a new woman he became distracted and unapproachable but eventually—sometimes only days, other times excruciating months—he came back, not the least bit contrite, resuming their affair with a renewed passion and vigor, claiming to love her.
The sex was always worth the wait.
The emotional strain was not.
So now he was interested in Adria and that bothered her—more than any of the others.
“Bitch!” Trisha hissed, thinking of the pistol locked in her glove compartment. She didn’t know whom to shoot first. Mario or Adria. Maybe the two of them together. She’d bought the gun for protection and never had to use it, but tonight, her fantasies were running wild and if she caught Mario—her Mario—with that two-bit hustler from Montana, she was sure she would blow them both away.
Adria, who looked so much like Kat! Trisha’s insides twisted when she remembered her stepmother, the bitch who had convinced her to get an abortion to save Mario from Witt’s wrath and the threat of prosecution for statutory rape.
Well, Kat ended up getting hers, hadn’t she? What goes around, comes around.
And that bastard no-good Mario. How many times would she let him break her heart?
Trisha’s fingers were sweaty as she shifted down for another curve. The thought of murder was appealing, very appealing. Disgusted with herself, she pushed the cigarette lighter in and considered making a buy. A little coke would lift the old spirits and maybe give her enough guts to go through with her murderous plans. She shook out a Salem Light and placed it between her lips.
The cellular phone jangled and she smiled to herself. Mario had changed his mind. Steering with one hand, she picked up the phone. “Yes?” s
he said breathlessly and was disappointed when Nelson’s voice crackled in the receiver.
“I thought you should know,” he said, his voice heavy with despair. “It looks like Adria might be London.”
“Shit, no—”
The cigarette lighter clicked and Trisha wedged the phone between her shoulder and head while she stuck the burner to the end of her cigarette and pulled in a deep breath. Her eyes never left the road. Smoke puffed from the corner of her mouth.
