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So much like Kat.
In the privacy of a hotel room, Katherine’s killer clenched Adria’s personal items in angry hands and tried to calm down. It was impossible. Unwanted memories of Kat continued to haunt and torment the one person who had so desperately wanted to bury Katherine LaRouche Danvers forever.
Even now, as Katherine’s killer stood near the windows of a penthouse suite with a view of Portland’s city lights, the panorama was lost beneath visions of long black hair that gleamed blue as it fell down an unmarred back, breasts that were full and high, long legs that promised men dangerous pleasures.
Kat.
Would she never die?
Would her image never fade?
Dear God, how long would this torment go on?
As long as the family is threatened. As long as there is a chance Kat’s child is alive; as long as London walks this earth.
Rage coursed through the blood of Katherine’s killer. The locket, clenched so tightly, cut into a palm, drawing blood that was wiped with the scrap of lace Adria Nash called underwear.
No, this job was far from finished. The threat still existed.
Because of Adria Nash.
Because of London.
But that would change.
Soon.
Very, very soon.
14
No one believed her. She’d told the front desk, the man in charge of security, and even Zachary Danvers himself that she’d felt someone had been in her room. Even though she’d insisted that she was missing her locket and probably a few other things as well, that they had been stolen, she’d been dismissed.
“You think I set you up to be ripped off?” Zach had asked when she’d called him.
“I’m just telling you what happened.”
“While you were dozing in the Jacuzzi,” he’d clarified, unable or unwilling to keep the disbelief from his voice.
“Yes.”
“And you think someone—no, make that the Danvers family—is spying on you, is that it? That we put you into a room filled with all kinds of electronic surveillance equipment, then sent a burglar up when we caught you sleeping in the tub?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but—”
“But nothing. It is crazy, Adria.”
“It happened, Zach.”
“Fine. I’ll talk with Security.” His voice was filled with disbelief. He was placating her.
“I should go to the police.”
“Please. Do. Tell them what you just told me. Have them search the room and dust for prints, if they’re not too busy. Tell them they didn’t take your credit cards or your money, that nothing but a few personal things were lifted—and while you’re at it, you may as well let them know that you think you’re London. Let them know that they can close the books on that open kidnapping file.”
She’d gritted her teeth. “I’ll think about it,” she assured him as she’d hung up, but, of course, she wouldn’t call the local authorities. Not yet. Not before she hired herself a lawyer and knew her legal rights. She’d talked to an attorney in Bozeman before she’d come to Portland, but decided not to have him take any legal action. Not until she knew what she was up against.
And now she did.
