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“In so many words.”
Zach felt his shoulder muscles pull together into hard, tight knots. “What happened?”
“I called her. Offered her a little more money.”
“And she got pissed.”
“Beyond pissed.”
“Christ, Jason, you never back down, do you?” He was on his feet without even thinking about it.
“Just get back here.”
“And clean up your mess.”
“Do whatever it takes, Zach. You’re in this as deep as the rest of us!”
Anthony Polidori didn’t like his breakfast disturbed. In his later years, he felt as if an intrusion upon his meals or his sleep was a personal affront and he left strict instructions with everyone in the household that he was not to be interrupted. Even by his son.
He sat in the bay window of the morning room overlooking the river and picked at his croissant with idle fingers as he scanned the newspaper for sports scores from the day before. The day was bright for late October, and he wore sunglasses to protect his eyes.
Mario sauntered into the room carrying a mug. His hair was disheveled and he hadn’t yet shaved. He looked like hell as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver carafe on the table. Mario was uncivilized—he had no manners.
Anthony didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He folded the sports section of the Oregonian and set it by his glass of juice. “What is it?” His son wasn’t usually up by noon.
“Big news.” Mario flashed his killer smile—the one that got him into all the trouble with the women. He walked to the glass wall facing west and watched a barge being pushed upriver by a tugboat.
“It must be, to get you out of bed while the sun’s still up.”
Mario snorted, then plopped into the wrought-iron chair opposite his father. “I think you want to hear this.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Looks like there’s a new lady in town.”
“This is news?”
Mario slowly poured a thin stream of cream into his coffee. “Could be. Claims she’s London Danvers.”
Behind his sunglasses, Anthony’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully “This isn’t news. It’s predictable.”
Mario’s dark eyes twinkled and he reached over and stole the fruit cup his father always saved for the last part of his meal. Annoyed, Anthony motioned to the maid, who had already anticipated his request and was scurrying off to the kitchen.
“There’s always someone claiming to be London.”
Mario rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “But you should see this one. She’s the fuckin’ spittin’ image of her old lady. Katherine—wasn’t that her name?”
Anthony’s spine stiffened a bit. He didn’t like foul language—not at the table, and he wasn’t in the mood to be jerked around by his son. It was hard to read Mario these days. “So she resembles—”
“Not only resembles—the way I hear it, she’s a mirror image!”
Anthony set down his fork as the maid brought a second cup of fruit and a plate for Mario. He was enjoying himself, grinning as he sliced into a fat sausage, ignoring all sense of decorum as he set his elbows on the table.
“Maybe I should meet—what’s-her-name?”
“Adria Nash. Hails from some hick town in Montana. I’ve got a couple of guys working on it.”
“How’d you find out about her? I haven’t seen a word in the paper or heard anything on the news.”
