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“Phelps—but he came up with nothing. He was supposed to be the best and he couldn’t find anything. You can talk to him if you want, but he’s retired. Lives with his daughter up in Tacoma.”
“I’ll talk to him and put a tail on Ms. Nash,” Oswald said. Though he didn’t like the idea of having someone else following her, he couldn’t be two places at once and he felt he should shag out to Montana, find out what he could about her while she was away from her hometown. He had a couple of men he could trust to stick to her like glue and report back to him.
“I just don’t want any fuckups.”
“There won’t be.” Sweeny smelled money and he wasn’t about to let it slip between his fingers.
As Jason gave him the particulars, Sweeny scribbled the information and decided if nothing else, this Adria Nash had balls. Hard to find on a woman.
Two hours later, Jason stood, brushed a little lint off the sleeve of his jacket, and left Sweeny with a retainer of ten thousand dollars. Oswald stuffed the check into his shirt pocket and moved to the window, tipping the blinds. He watched Jason, bareheaded in the rain, slide into the expensive interior of his Jaguar before firing the engine and nosing the sleek car into traffic.
Bastard. Filthy-rich bastard.
Noticing the dead insects and cobwebs on the window ledge, he frowned and let the blind snap back to cover the brittle little carcasses. Yes, this place was a dump, but it suited him just fine. He reached into a lower drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and screwed off the cap. Wiping the greasy cuff of his jacket over the top of the bottle, he grunted, then took a slug. The whiskey hit the back of his throat and seared all the way to his belly.
He loved it when Jason Danvers came crawling to him. It wasn’t just the money, but the satisfaction of having that rich, arrogant son of a bitch begging for his services. He’d seen the disdain in Jason’s eyes as his gaze traveled over the bleak furnishings, the unswept floors, the full ashtrays, and the grimy window. Oswald remembered the flare of Jason’s aristocratic nose at the smells of sweat and stale cigarette smoke.
Chuckling to himself, Oswald slid a Camel from the pack he kept on the desk and lit up. Still holding the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he took another tug on the bottle. Yep, things were definitely looking up.
Zach hung up the phone in his suite and swore under his breath. Despite assurances from Manny the ranch foreman that everything was running smoothly and that his presence
wasn’t needed, Zach felt restless and short-tempered. All because of that damned woman.
He’d tried to reach Jason and tell him to do his own legwork, but he’d been informed by a secretary with no inflection that Mr. Danvers was in a meeting and would be unavailable all day. She assured Zach that Mr. Danvers would get back to him.
The phone rang and he snatched up the receiver.
Adria’s voice drifted like smoke over the wires. “You said you wanted an answer.”
“Right.”
“I’ve decided to accept the Danvers hospitality.”
His hand clenched tighter over the receiver and he felt a shot of disappointment, though he’d known this was the way things would turn out. She’d take the handouts, one by one, until she had what she wanted, or a neat little compromise thereof.
Zach checked his watch. “Meet me here at six.”
She hung up and Zach told himself it didn’t matter what she did. So she was taking a room in the hotel. Why not? He wondered what she’d discovered in the library, checking old newspaper clippings and magazine articles about the family. While Witt was alive, he’d managed to keep most of the Danvers secrets locked tightly away from the press. After the old man’s death, Jason had taken over that responsibility. But Adria would dig deep—she wouldn’t be content to just scratch the surface; she was too thorough.
So how had she been fooled into thinking she was London? Or was that all an act? There was a chance, and a damned good one, that she was lying through her beautiful teeth.
They must really be worried, Adria thought as Zach unlocked the door to the suite on the top floor of the hotel. With a sitting room complete with a fireplace, two bedrooms, two baths, Jacuzzi, French doors opening onto a flagstone veranda, and a view of the city that stretched for miles, the suite was spacious and decorated in hues of soft peach and ivory. The furniture looked to be antique, though Adria guessed the highboy, Queen Anne canopied bed, tea table, and Chippendale side chairs were all modern imitations, not authentic pieces. The carpet was plush, the bar stocked with the best labels, and a vase filled with pink roses rested on a glass-topped coffee table.
“Is this a bribe?” she asked as Zach hung her garment bag in one of the closets.
He lifted a shoulder. “Call it anything you want.”
She’d only agreed to stay in the hotel as a gesture of good faith. Though she suspected that the family just wanted to watch her closely, she decided to accept their offer. “Any strings attached?” she asked.
“Not to me.” His eyes narrowed on her. “You’ll have to ask Jason what he expects of you.”
“If he thinks he can buy me off—”
“He does.” Zach cast her a look that silently called her naive. “But it’s just his nature. Don’t take it personally. And don’t be fooled. This little bit of generosity isn’t because the family has all of a sudden decided to welcome you with open arms.”
“I know that.”
“Good.”
