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6
“What makes you think you’re London?” Zachary shifted down for a light that reflected red on the rain-washed streets The engine of his Jeep idled and the wipers slapped drops of water from the windshield.
“I have proof.” Well, that was a little bit of a lie, but not a big one.
“Proof,” he repeated, easing up on the clutch as the light changed. He punched the throttle and the Jeep started climbing through the steep, twisting streets of the west hills. As she gazed out the window, staring past the thick branches of fir and maple, Adria saw the city lights winking far below. “What kind of proof?”
“A tape.”
“Of what?”
“My father.”
“Your father—meaning Witt?” He took a curve a little too fast and the Jeep’s tires skidded before holding firm.
“My adoptive father. Victor Nash. We lived in Montana.”
“Oh,” he said derisively, “that clears that up.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
He slid her a glance that silently called her a fool as they crested a hill and he turned sharply into a drive complete with electronic gates that whirred open when he pressed a numerical code into a key pad.
He parked near the garage of a rambling Tudor home. Three stories of stone and brick with dark cross beams and a gabled roof, the house seemed to grow from the very ground on which it had been built. Exterior lamps, hidden in dripping azaleas, rhododendrons, and ferns, lined the drive and washed the stone-and-mortar walls with soft light. Ivy clung tenaciously to one of several chimneys and tall fir trees rose above a stone fence that guarded the grounds.
“Come on,” Zach instructed, leaning across her to open the door of the Jeep. He climbed out and led the way up a brick path and through a breezeway to the back door. “Bring back any memories?” he asked as he flipped on the lights of a huge kitchen.
She shook her head and he lifted a brow, as if surprised that she would admit that she couldn’t remember. “This is it—home sweet home.”
Swallowing hard, she looked around, hoping for a trace of remembrance, but the gleaming tile floor meant nothing to her—the glass doors of the cabinets, the hallways that angled in different directions, the plush Oriental carpets, nothing sparked any old, long-dead memories. “We can wait in the den,” Zachary said, watching her reaction. “Jason will be here soon.”
Adria’s stomach knotted at the thought of squaring off with the Danvers family, but she hid her uneasiness. The den, located in a back corner of the house, smelled of tobacco and smoke. Coals glowed from a stone fireplace and Zach tossed a piece of mossy oak onto the embers before straightening and dusting his hands. He shed his jacket and dropped it over the back of a leather chair. “What about this, hmm? Dad’s private room. You—well, London—used to play in here while Dad worked at the desk.” His eyes were challenging, his chin thrust forward.
“I—I don’t think so,” she admitted, trailing fingers on the timeworn desk.
“Gee, isn’t that a surprise,” he mocked. “The first of many, no doubt.” He propped a foot on the edge of the raised hearth. “Now, you want to get this over with and tell me your little story or wait for the rest of the clan?”
“Is there a reason you need to be so offensive?”
“This is just the start. Believe me, I’m the prince of the family.”
“That’s not what I read” she said, holding her ground. “Rebel son, black sheep, no-good, juvenile delinquent.” He wasn’t pulling any punches, so neither would she.
“That’s right, the best of the lot,” he admitted with a grin that lifted one side of his mouth. “Now, what’s it going to be, Miss Nash?”
“I don’t see any reason to repeat myself. We can wait for the rest of the family.”
“Your choice.” His gray eyes were glacial, as warm as an arctic sky as he gave her a cursory glance, then walked to the bar. “Drink?’
“I don’t think it would be such a good idea.”
“Might take the edge off.” He found a bottle of Scotch and poured a stiff shot into a short crystal glass. “Believe me, you’ll need it before they’re done with you.”
“It you’re trying to scare me, it’s a waste of time.”
He shook his head as he raised the glass to his lips. “Just warning you.”
“Thanks, but I think I can handle whatever it is they have to say.”
