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Insolently, Zach leaned an elbow on the bar. The bartender, barely twenty-one and sporting a thin mustache, trimmed beard, and gold earring, smiled. “What’ll it be?”
“A beer.”
“Pardon?”
“Henry’s. Coors. Miller. On tap or in a bottle, I don’t care. Anything you’ve got.”
The bartender offered a patronizing smile. “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have—”
“Get some,” Zachary growled, and the bartender, though perturbed, spoke quickly to a passing waiter, who scurried off in the direction of the service elevators.
“Hey, Zach, great job. The place looks fabulous,” a female voice enthused from somewhere behind him. Zach didn’t bother to respond.
Another woman—someone from the press, he thought—caught hold of his arm. “Just a few questions, Mr. Danvers, about the hotel—”
“I think my sister sent out a press release.”
“I know, but I have some questions.”
Zach was barely civil. “Speak to Trisha. Trisha McKittrick. She’s the interior decorator.”
“But you were the general contractor.”
“She handled all the interior design.” Turning on his heel, Zach left the woman with her questions and glanced pointedly at his watch. Jason was going to make some sort of speech and be congratulated by the mayor, the governor, and someone from the historical society. Zach would stick around, get his face photographed a couple of times, then make good his escape.
Still waiting for his beer, Zach paced to the windows, frowning, wishing the evening were over. He shouldn’t have agreed to stay. Damn, he was getting soft. There was a time when he would’ve told Jason explicitly what he could do to himself if his brother had asked that Zach be a part of this farce. As it was, probably because of some sort of egotistical pride in what he’d accomplished here at the hotel, Zach had reluctantly agreed. You’re as bad as the rest of them, Danvers, always hoping for a little glory.
“Mr. Danvers?”
Zach blinked and found the waiter carrying a silver platter with a long-necked bottle of Henry Weinhard’s Private Reserve and a frosted glass. With a crooked smile, Zach grabbed the beer. “Don’t need that.” He pointed to the glass as he twisted off the cap and dropped it onto the tray. “But I will want more than just this one.”
“At the bar, sir. When you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” Zach took a long tug on his bottle and felt better. He glanced out the window and saw the stream of glossy white limousines waiting to pull up to the striped awning and deposit their guests, the elite of Portland, to the front doors. Men in dark tuxedos, women in jewels, furs, and silk emerged from their modern-day royal coaches and dashed into the hotel.
It was a joke.
He itched for a smoke and told himself to forget it. He’d given up that particular vice nearly five years ago. Leaning a shoulder against the windowpanes, he glared out at the night. Then he saw her. Like a ghost from his past, Adria Nash appeared on the opposite street corner. His insides twisted as he watched her weave through the clogged traffic, dashing among cabs, limos, and cars idling near the front door of the hotel. Wrapped in the same black coat she’d worn before, she sidestepped puddles and swept past the doorman.
So she’d had the guts to show up here.
With a final swallow, he finished his drink, left the empty bottle on the corner of the table, and moved quickly through the crowd. Several people tried to stop him; women offered him encouraging smiles and men looked up as he passed. He was probably the subject of more than one conversation, but he didn’t really care that he was labeled the black sheep of the family or that people thought he’d reconciled with the old man just before Witt had died to get himself back in the will.
As he dashed through the double doors, he saw her, smiling at the hotel manager, assuring him she had an invitation.
“You said your name was Nash—?” the manager asked with a friendly smile as he scanned his list.
“Actually, it’s Danvers.”
The manager’s smile didn’t waver. “Danvers? Then you’re related.”
“Yes—”
“It’s all right, Rich. She’s with me.” Zachary grabbed hold of Adria’s chilled fingers but didn’t bother to smile.
She looked at him with those clear blue eyes that seemed to cut straight to his soul. “Thanks, Zach,” she said, as if she’d known him all her life.
The tightening in his chest warned him that he was making a colossal mistake—he could feel it in his bones—but he helped her leave her coat with an attendant guarding the closet and walked with her into the ballroom. He felt almost as much a traitor as he had on the night he’d slept with his stepmother; that same sense of doom, of stepping onto a path that had no beginning or end, was with him, and yet he let her link her arm through his.
