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His eyes flashed in the darkness. “My weakness.”
They stepped into the breezeway and the cold midnight wind whistling through the fir trees lining the drive. She was struck by the width of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. Raw-boned and sexy. “Do you have many—weaknesses, that is?”
“Not anymore.” He opened the door to his Jeep. “I gave up on my family when I was seventeen, I quit trusting women when I was twenty-eight, and I’d give up drinking, too, but I think a man should have at least one vice.”
“At least.”
“At least I’m not a pathological liar.” He slid behind the steering wheel and his features seemed more rugged an
d dangerous in the encroaching darkness.
“So why would you want anything to do with me?”
He switched on the ignition and flipped on the headlights.
“Let’s get one thing straight, okay? I don’t want anything from you.” Pumping the accelerator, he jammed the Jeep into reverse. “But I have a feeling you’re going to shake things up a little, Miss Nash.”
“That doesn’t worry you?”
“Nope.” He cranked on the wheel and the Jeep turned easily on the slick asphalt. His eyes were dark as obsidian. “Because I still believe you’re a fake. A good one, maybe, but still just a cheap fake.”
7
What the hell was he going to do with her? He drove through the gates and shot a quick glance in her direction. She was huddled against the door, staring through the windshield, and her profile was so like Kat’s it caused his gut to clench into a painful fist. If she wasn’t London Danvers, she was one helluva look-alike, a dead ringer for London’s mother. The curve of her jaw, the thick black hair, even the way she slid a glance through the fringe of curling lashes, half seductive, half innocent. So much like Kat.
He clutched the wheel in a viselike grip, his knuckles showing white. He didn’t need to be reminded of his self-destructive, sexy stepmother. It had taken years to purge Kat from his system. Then, just when he’d convinced himself he was over her, she’d taken an overdose of pills and all the demons of his guilt had awakened and screamed through his mind.
Now, this woman, this mirror-image of Kat, had appeared like a ghost and had come back to haunt him. He should run like hell. But he couldn’t and there was a magnetism about Adria that pulled at him and seeped under his skin, burning like dry ice promising heat but searing with a frigid intensity that scarred deep. Just like Kat.
“Tell me about my mother,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“If she was your mother.” Zach flipped on the wipers.
Adria ignored the jab. “What was she like?”
Squinting into the darkness, Zach asked, “What do you want to know about her?”
“Why she committed suicide.”
A tic developed under his eye. “No one knows if she tried to kill herself or she just took a few too many pills and fell.”
“What do you think about it?”
“I don’t. Won’t do any good. Won’t bring her back.” His jaw was hard as granite.
“Would you want that? Her alive?”
He flicked her a disdainful glance. “Let’s get something straight, okay? I didn’t like Kat. In my book, she was a manipulative bitch.” He slowed for a corner and added, “But I didn’t wish her dead.”
She’d obviously hit a nerve, but she didn’t believe he was being completely honest with her. Too much tension coiled in his muscles, too much anger grooved in the lines of his face. There was more he wasn’t telling her. “What about the rest of your family—how did they feel?”
He snorted. “You’ll have to ask them.” The Jeep reached the bottom of the hill and Zach merged into the traffic heading east. “Where are you staying?”
She was ready with her lie. “The Benson.”
He lifted an interested brow and Adria knew why. The Benson, like the Hotel Danvers, was one of Portland’s oldest and most prestigious hotels. Its lobby was reminiscent of an English club with warm wood walls, a huge fireplace, and sweeping stairs to an upper floor. Visiting dignitaries, ambassadors, Hollywood stars, and politicians stayed at the Benson as well as the Hotel Danvers. The price of a room wasn’t cheap.
Yet, she needed some privacy, a little space away from the watchful eyes of the Danvers family, so she lied. What did it matter if she was really spending her time in a fleabag on Eighty-second? None of the Danvers clan needed to know anything more about her. At least, not yet. Until she was ready. She wasn’t going to fabricate her life. She would tell them all the truth when she deemed it necessary, but right now she was tired, the fight was out of her, and she wasn’t ready for round two of the battle.
