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Witt had never given up believing that his favorite daughter would return to reclaim her heritage and he’d left a million-dollar reward for anyone who could find her; he’d also provided for London in his will, and his estate was rumored to be valued at well over a hundred million.
The money wasn’t important, she told herself as Zachary retrieved her coat, but she was determined to find out the truth, and damn the consequences.
Gold digger! Bitch! Fraud!
Watching from the shadows of a tiny alley, Katherine LaRouche Danvers’s killer stared after the car that sped away. Rain drizzled relentlessly from the sky, gurgling in the gutters, dripping from the eaves, doing nothing to soothe the white-hot rage that was being experienced by Katherine’s killer.
Hadn’t Katherine’s death been enough?
Why would this spawn of the she-devil show up now?
If Adria Nash did prove to be the bitch’s daughter, then everything would be ruined, the Danvers fortune splintered…but, of course, she was a fraud. She had to be.
The fists of Katherine’s killer were clenched so hard they ached. Near the curb there was the scratch of tiny claws, barely discernible over the gurgle of water in the gutters and downspouts. Glancing down, the killer spied a wet, half-crippled rat, long tail dragging behind, slide toward a crevice in the sidewalk. Tiny eyes caught in the reflection from the street lamps and blood dripped from a wound near one motionless back leg.
“Go away,” the killer hissed, rattled for a second before thoughts of Adria Nash and her outrageous claim returned.
Calm down. Collect yourself. You can handle this. Haven’t you always? The family owes you a big debt and they don’t even know it.
“She’s not London.”
Probably not. Most likely not. But you can’t take a chance. You’ve worked too hard to let it fall apart now. You have to stop her.
“She’s not London.”
Perhaps so, but she’s the right age, isn’t she? And she’s the spitting image of Kat. You saw the features of her face; she has the same bone structure, identical cheekbones and eyes. And her hair. Could it be more like Kat’s? She’s a dead ringer.
Rage curled white-hot at the thought of Katherine. Beautiful. Sexy. Sleek. No wonder she’d turned so many heads. Women had found her strangely fascinating; men had felt the eroticism that was so innately a part of her.
A bad taste crawled up the throat of Katherine’s killer.
It couldn’t happen.
The Danvers fortune couldn’t be destroyed.
A pitiful squeak caught the killer’s attention.
The rat again!
It was too large or w
ounded to squeeze through the crack in the curb. The frightened rodent was eyed as it hobbled quickly back and forth, searching anxiously for a way out of the alley. Its pinkish nose quivering in the darkness, tiny teeth ready to be bared if it were to be cornered, the rat scurried to the relative safety behind a parked van. With a new deadly calm, the killer moved closer to the drenched beast and it, sensing fear, panicked and slithered into the gutter, searching frantically for a way to escape.
“You can’t get away,” the killer whispered, but wasn’t thinking of this near-dead rat, but about the beautiful woman who had just slipped away into the night.
But she would be back.
It was inevitable.
And one way or another, this new London, whether a fraud or the real thing, would have to be destroyed. If she wouldn’t leave on her own, then she would simply have to die.
So Adria Nash looked like Katherine Danvers?
Enough that she could be considered a dead ringer?
The trapped rat was eyed again.
Exactly.
