See How She Dies

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

London Danvers was kidnapped as a child from her wealthy family. Over the years, many women have claimed to be her, trying to lay claim to the long-lost heiress's inheritance. Among them is Adria Nash, who has arrived in Oregon, claiming to be London-but, unlike the others, she's different: she knows personal details only London could have known. And there is someone who does believe her-who is watching her every move, waiting to see how she runs, how she screams, and how she dies...

Release date: August 1, 2004

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 512

Sample

1980

Needles of hot water pounded upon her bare back. Steam filled the large, tiled stall, fogging the glass doors. Kat Danvers stood beneath the spray, hoping the shower would clear her mind, help her shake the feelings of lethargy and dizziness brought on by too many drinks that had washed down a handful…was it two?…of her favorite pills.

The three V’s.

Valium

Vicodin.

Vodka.

No wonder her mind was sludge, her vision blurry, her every movement seeming exaggerated. A bad taste crawled up her throat and she had the feeling she was slogging her way through quicksand. She let her breath out slowly. Wondered if she’d throw up.

Come on, snap out of it, Kat. Pull yourself together! Her conscience never seemed to miss an opportunity to nag.

She closed her eyes and leaned her arms against the slick tiles. The water was so hot it nearly scalded her. She needed to sober up, and fast. As quickly as she could, she twisted the faucet hard. Immediately the hot water turned to ice and she gasped, sucking air in through her teeth. Her mind cleared for an instant.

She felt it then, an odd sensation. As if something stirred and she heard a faint, indistinguishable noise over the rush of cascading water. Her eyes flew open and she tried to peer through the misty glass. Did she see a shadow pass through the open doorway to the bedroom? Or was it her imagination? A trick of her tired, overdrugged mind and blurred vision? She needed her contacts or her thick glasses.

It was probably nothing.

And yet her skin crawled beneath the frigid spray; tiny goose bumps of fear pebbled her smooth, wet skin.

“It’s all in your mind,” she muttered, but turned off the water anyway and stood, shivering and dripping, while her ears strained to hear anything out of the ordinary.

There was nothing. Just the steady drip of water from the showerhead, the soft rumble of the heater, the strains of Christmas music drifting from hidden speakers—and farther away and muted, the quiet hum of traffic in the city. But nothing else. No sound of a shoe scuffing over the thick carpet of the presidential suite, no rattle of the room-service cart, no click of keys in the lock…nothing out of place.

Sluggishly, she clicked open the glass door and reached for her robe.

“Mama…”

A tiny voice. A girl’s voice.

Kat’s heart clutched. She froze.

No! It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t believe it. No toddler’s voice had spoken. Her mind was playing tricks on her again…that was it. The drugs and booze had combined to—

“Mama?”

Oh God.

Kat’s knees nearly buckled.

Frantically she stepped out of the shower and nearly fell on the slick marble as the notes of “Silent Night” filled the room. “Baby?” she whispered.

Barefoot, leaving a trail of water, she stumbled toward the door, somehow managing to force her unwieldy arms through the robe’s sleeves. Get a grip! You’re hallucinating again and you know it. There is no baby. Your daughter is not in any of the other rooms. Grab hold of yourself! Grasping onto the doorjamb, she peered into the bedroom. The king-sized bed was rumpled, a small impression visible on the comforter where she’d fallen asleep earlier. Her near-empty glass was sweating upon a bedside table near two empty bottles of pills.

The closet door was ajar, giving her a view of her clothes neatly lined up on hotel hangers.

“Mama?”

The sound was distinct. Clear.

Coming through the open French doors.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Kat cried, her voice cracking as she turned quickly—too quickly—toward the living area and fell against the night table, scraping her arm and cheek. The antique lamp tumbled to the carpet, its bulb shattering.

Don’t believe it, Kat! Don’t think she’s alive. Don’t you dare trust your foolish heart.

But she couldn’t stop that tiny sliver of hope from burrowing into her heart as she climbed to her feet again. The room spun. Using one hand, she braced herself on the wall and chairs as she staggered into the living area. She blinked hard. Tried vainly to focus. Nothing seemed disturbed. Nothing out of place. Flowers and a fruit basket sat upon a glass-topped table. Two Queen Anne chairs and a small love seat surrounded the antique fireplace where flames burned quietly.

No boogeyman lurked in the shadows.

Her daughter wasn’t waiting for her.

Of course not. Her imagination and paranoia were working overtime again. She was falling apart. Unraveling. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed at the foggy image. Disheveled, wet hair, a gaunt body draped in a robe too large, no makeup on a face once beautiful and now ravaged by pain and guilt. Tears, unbidden, filled her eyes. She was losing her mind. Bit by bit.

Wiping her hand beneath her nose, she chided herself for being a fool. She, a woman who had always known what she’d wanted and gone after it. She, who had used her beauty and brains to snag the wealthiest man in Portland. She, who so recently had everything any woman could ever want. And now she was reduced to shards of harsh memories, sleepless nights, and long hours trying to dull the pain with prescriptions and alcohol.

Cinching the robe around her thin body, she felt a draft…the tiniest breath of wind against the back of her neck. She looked over her shoulder. Saw the curtains near the balcony doors move. But she’d locked the French doors just before her shower…right? She’d taken her drink onto the small verandah and stood overlooking the city, contemplating suicide, and finally discarding taking her life as too dramatic, too frightening, too self-defeating.

So why was the door unlatched?

Hadn’t she come back inside and turned the dead bolt behind her? Yes…that was right. After securing the lock, she’d taken one last swallow of her drink, then left the glass on the bedside table before stripping and heading unsteadily for the shower. That was right, wasn’t it?

Or was she mixing things up?

Why couldn’t she remember?

Why was everything so fuzzy?

Maybe she’d imagined locking the door.

Maybe she had heard someone prowling through these rooms while she’d stood under the shower’s spray.

Her throat turned to dust.

Again she sensed a presence.

Something eerily out of place.

She started for the telephone.

“Mama.”

A scared little voice.

Kat’s heart nearly stopped. “London? Baby?” The sound was coming from the verandah, through the crack in the door. This was insane. She should reach for the phone. Phone hotel security. Call the police.

Like you did before?

And have them all look at you like you’re crazy?

Have them exchange glances as they noticed the vials on the nightstand?

Have them suggest you “talk” to someone?

Is that what you want to go through again?

No.

Heart thudding, she inched her way to the exterior doors where the curtains billowed slightly and the chill of December seeped inside. Through the sheers she saw a dark shadow. Small. Shivering.

London?

Precious, precious child!

Kat yanked open the door.

A blast of winter hit her hard.

A cacophony of street noise, traffic, music, voices rushed up nineteen floors.

The huddled little figure moved.

“Oh, honey—” Kat whispered, her throat suddenly tight.

The interior light snapped off.

The figure turned a face toward her, and even through the fog in her mind and the semidarkness of the city, she recognized the face—not of her missing daughter, but of a treacherous, wicked liar.

“You,” she spat, trying to turn away. Blindly, she flailed, trying to escape.

Too late.

Strong fingers grabbed her shoulders and a fierce, intent weight shoved her closer to the short brick wall surrounding the verandah. Kat screamed. Her knees hit the century-old brickwork; she tried to grab something, anything, to no avail. The force of her body slammed against her backside—the sheer determination of her attacker propelled her forward, closer to the edge and the crumbling…“No! Oh, God, no!” Kat cried, seeing a hand in her peripheral vision. Gloved fingers clutched a bit of brick. Kat cringed.

Bam!

Pain exploded behind her eyes. Blackness pulled her under. She started to sag, but was propped up, pushed forward, the railing hitting her in her middle and disintegrating with her weight.

And then suddenly she was falling, sailing through the cold night air…

If only she could remember.

If only she knew the truth.

If only she were certain she wasn’t on a fool’s mission. She glanced up at the dark October sky and felt the gentle wash of Oregon mist against her face. Had she ever tilted her head back and let the moistness linger on her lips and cheeks? Had she stood on this very corner, across the street from the old Hotel Danvers, holding onto her mother’s hand, waiting for the light to change?

Traffic rushed by, cars and buses spraying water as tires splashed through puddles. Deep in the folds of her coat she shivered, but not from the cool autumn air, or the breath of a breeze rolling off the dank Willamette River only a few blocks to the east. No, she shivered at the thought of what she was planning to do—her destiny, or so she’d been told. She knew she was in for the battle of her life.

But she was committed. She couldn’t give up now. She’d traveled hundreds of miles, been through emotional hell and back, and spent days searching her soul during painstaking, laborious hours in libraries and newspaper offices throughout the Northwest, reading every chronicle, article, or editorial she could find on the Danvers family.

Now her plans were about to come to fruition. Or ruin. She stared up at the hotel, seven stories of Victorian architecture, which had once been one of the tallest buildings in the city and now was dwarfed by its concrete-and-steel counterparts, great skyscrapers that knifed upward, looming over the narrow city streets. “God help me,” she whispered. As beautiful as it was, the edifice of the Hotel Danvers seemed sinister somehow, as if it knew secrets—dark secrets—that could change the course of her life forever.

Which was just plain silly.

Still, Adria felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind whipping through Portland’s narrow streets.

Without waiting for the light to change, she dashed across the street, the hood of her coat blowing off with a strong gust of wind. Daylight began to fade as the cloud-shrouded sun settled behind the westerly hills, hills still rich with green forests and dotted by expensive mansions.

Though the Hotel Danvers was closed to the public, as it had been for the past few months while it was being renovated and brought back to its turn-of-the-century grandeur, she walked through the lobby door that had been propped open for the workmen. The renovation was nearly complete. For the past two days she’d watched as delivery vans had brought tables, chairs, and other furniture to the service entrance. Today, linens, glassware, even some food had been delivered in anticipation of the grand opening, which was slated for the weekend.

The entire Danvers clan, Witt Danvers’s first wife and his four surviving children, were rumored to be in town. Good.

A cold fist of apprehension tightened in her stomach. Ever since learning of the hotel’s closure and reopening, she’d planned her introduction to the family, but first, to test the waters, she needed to speak with the man in charge of the hotel’s face-life: Zachary Danvers, the rebel of the family and second son to Witt. According to every article she’d read, Zachary had never quite fit in. The Danvers family resemblance, so evident in his brothers and sisters, had skipped over him, and during his youth he’d had more than one brush with the law. Only the old man’s money had kept Zachary out of serious trouble, and gossip had it that not only was he the least favorite of Witt’s children but was also nearly cut out of the old man’s will.

Yes, Zachary was the man she needed to see first. She’d studied his photographs so often, she knew she would recognize him. A little over six feet, with coal-black hair, olive skin, and deep-set gray eyes guarded by heavy brows, he was the one son of Witt Danvers who didn’t resemble his father. Leaner than his brothers or the bear of a man who had sired him, his features were as chiseled as the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He was a rugged man, rawhide-tough with a hard mouth that was rarely photographed in a smile. He bore a scar over his right ear that interrupted his hairline, and his broken nose was testament to his violent temper.

In the lobby two men were staggering under the weight of a long couch wrapped in plastic. She heard other workers talking in the background, saw hotel employees and workmen scurrying to and from the dining room and kitchen located opposite the front doors. The smells of cleaning solvent, turpentine, and varnish greeted her, and the whine of a skill saw screaming through the vestibule was muted by the rumble of industrial vacuums.

As the workmen shoved the couch near a huge fireplace, she paused in the lobby and eyed the hotel that had once been the most opulent in Portland, a place for dignitaries and town fathers to gather, where decisions were made and the shape of the future had been planned. She gazed upward to the intricate stained-glass windows that rose over the outer doors where they caught the last rays of daylight and cast a pool of amber, rose, and blue on the tile floor in front of the desk.

She swallowed against a lump that closed her throat; this hotel was her legacy. Her birthright. Her future.

Or was it?

There was only one way to find out. She headed for the wide, curved staircase that swept upward to the balcony.

“Hey, you! Lady, we’re closed!” The voice, deep and male, was coming from a big, burly man poised on the top of a high scaffold positioned under the second-floor landing. He was fiddling with the chandelier situated over the lobby desk.

Ignoring him, she started up the carpeted steps.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

She hesitated, her hand trailing on the banister. This wasn’t going to be easy, but the electrician was only a small stumbling block. The first of many. With a determined smile meant to disarm him, she turned and squared her shoulders. “Are you Zachary Danvers?” she asked, knowing full well he wasn’t.

“No, but—”

“Are you related to the Danvers family?”

“What the hell?” Beneath the edge of his hard hat, he scowled at her. “No, of course not, but you can’t go up there!”

“I have a meeting with Zachary Danvers,” she insisted, her voice filled with chilly authority.

“A meeting?” the electrician repeated, obviously not believing her bluff.

She stared at the worker without giving an inch. “A meeting.”

“That’s news to me. I’m his foreman and he didn’t mention anything about it.” His scowl grew dark. Suspicious.

“Maybe he forgot,” she said, as she forced a cold smile. “But I need to talk to him or a member of the Danvers family.”

“He’ll be back in a half-hour or so,” the man said reluctantly.

“I’ll wait for him. In the ballroom.”

“Hey, I don’t think—”

Without another glance in his direction, she hurried up the remaining stairs. Her boots were muffled on the thick carpet and her breath was shallow, a sign of her case of nerves.

“Shit,” the man muttered under his breath, but stayed atop his perch and turned back to his work. “Damned women…”

Her heart was beating so fast she could hardly breathe, but at the top of the landing, she turned unerringly to the left and shouldered open the double doors. The room was dark. Her throat closed in on itself and with her fingers she fumbled for the light switch.

In a glorious blaze, the ballroom was suddenly lit by hundreds of miniature candles suspended in teardrop-shaped chandeliers. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of the polished oak floor, the bank of tall, arched windows, the dizzying light from a million little bulbs that reflected in the cut crystal.

Her throat clogged and she blinked back tears. This was where it had all happened? Where the course of her young life had been thrown from its predestined path and into uncharted territory?

Why? She chewed on her lower lip. Oh, God, why couldn’t she remember?

 

October rain slid down his hair and under the collar of his jacket. Dead leaves, already sodden, clung to the sidewalk and were beaten with the thick Oregon mist that seemed to rise from the wet streets and gather at the corners of the buildings. Cars, delivery vans, and trucks roared by, their headlights feeble against the watery illumination from the street lamps.

Zachary Danvers was pissed. This job had lasted too long, and wasted too much of his time. What little pride he had in the renovation was tarnished. Working here made him feel like a hypocrite, and he was thankful the project was just about over. Muttering oaths at himself, his brothers, and especially at his dead father, he pushed open the glass doors of the old hotel. He’d spent a year of his life here. A year. All because of a promise he’d made at his father’s deathbed a couple of years ago. Because he’d been greedy.

His stomach soured at the thought. Maybe he was more like the old man than he wanted to admit.

The hotel manager, a newly hired nervous type with thinning hair and an Adam’s apple that worked double time, was laying down the law with a new clerk behind a long mahogany desk, the pride of the lobby. Zachary had discovered the battered piece of dark wood in a century-old tavern located off Burnside in a decrepit building. The tavern had been scheduled to be razed, but Zach had decided to take the time to have the bar restored. Now the once-scarred mahogany gleamed under the lights.

All the fixtures in the hotel had been replaced with antiques or damned-close replicas, and now the hotel could boast an authentic 1890s charm with 1990s conveniences.

The advertising people had loved that turn of phrase.

Why’d he’d agreed to renovate the old hotel still eluded him, though he was beginning to suspect he had developed a latent sense of family pride. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled under his breath. He was tired of the city, the noise, the bad air, the lights, and most of all, his family, or what was left of it.

“Hey, Danvers!” his foreman Frank Gillette yelled from his position on the scaffold twenty feet above the lobby floor. He was tinkering with the wiring of a particularly bad-tempered chandelier. “Been waitin’ for you. There’s a woman here, in the ballroom. She’s been here over an hour.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “What woman?”

“Didn’t give her name. Claimed she had a meetin’ with you.”

“With me?”

“That’s what she said.” Frank started down the ladder. “She couldn’t talk to me as I wasn’t a—and I’m quotin’ here—‘member of the Danvers family.’”

Frank hopped to the floor and dusted his hands. He drew a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket and rubbed it under the brim of his hard hat.

From somewhere near the kitchen there was a crash and rattle of silverware that echoed through the hotel.

“Christ!” Frank’s head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes at the kitchen. “Damn that Casey.”

“Is she a reporter?”

“The woman?” Frank fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. “Hell if I know. As I said, I’m not a Danvers, so she wouldn’t talk to me. Not that I wouldn’t mind spending a little time with her.”

“Good-looking?”

Frank said, “Beyond a ten.”

“Sure.”

“Look, all I know is that short of bodily hauling her out of here, we got a problem. No one’s supposed to be on the premises. If she slips and falls and breaks her neck and OSHA finds out—”

“You worry to much.”

“You pay me to worry.” Frank found his crumpled pack of Camels and shook out a cigarette.

“Just finish the job. I’ll deal with the insurance people and the woman.”

“Good.” Smiling as he clicked his lighter, Frank inhaled deeply. “Now, let’s see if this mother works. Hey, Roy, turn on the juice.” Reaching around the desk, he flipped a switch and stared at the chandelier. Lights shaped like candles blazed for a second before flickering and dying. “Fuckin’ wiring,” Frank growled, his face turning red, his cigarette bobbing between his lips. “I told that half-wit Jerry to use…oh, hell!” Exasperated, he shot out a stream of smoke. “Roy, turn it off again!” he roared.

“I’ll go talk to the mystery lady.”

“Do that,” Frank growled as he finished his smoke, then started back up the scaffolding. Zach didn’t doubt that by the grand opening, everything would work perfectly. Frank would see to it, if he had to hold two wires together himself.

From the stairs, Zach glanced around the lobby and thought of his father. Witt Danvers. A royal pain in the ass.

Right now, Witt would have been proud of the son he’d disowned half a dozen times. Not that it mattered. Witt Danvers was dead and cremated, his ashes spread across the rolling forests of the Oregon hills two years ago. A just end to a timber baron who had spent all his years raping the land.

Through the leather of his jacket, Zach rubbed the scar in his shoulder, the result of being the son of Witt Danvers. His jaw tightened. It had taken him years to come to terms with the old man, and now it was too late to make amends.

“Rest in peace, you miserable bastard,” Zachary said, his lips flattening as he opened the doors. His father had always treated Zach differently from the rest of his children. Not that he cared now. Zach had his own business, his own identity. The noose of being the son of one of Portland’s wealthiest men didn’t seem quite so tight.

He took two long strides into the ballroom, then stopped dead in his tracks. The woman was there, dressed in a black long coat and matching knee-length boots. She turned at the sound of his entrance, and before she could say a word he knew why she was waiting for him.

Glossy black curls swirled away from a flawless face. Round blue eyes fringed by lacy black lashes stared straight at him. Thin black brows arched inquisitively. He felt as if his heart had stopped for a second as she smiled, showing off beautiful teeth, finely carved cheekbones, and a strong, slightly stubborn chin.

His breath seemed to stop somewhere in his lungs.

“You’re Zachary,” she said, as if she had every right to stand in the middle of the ballroom—as if she belonged.

Zach’s throat was suddenly dry and hot and forbidden memories struggled to the surface of his mind. “Right.”

“Danvers,” she supplied, her voice low, her lips tightening just a fraction. She smiled slightly, and with her hand extended, walked slowly toward him. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time,” she said, forcing a smile. “My name is—”

“London,” he supplied as every muscle in his body grew taut with the pain of the past.

“You recognize me?” Hope lighted those blue eyes.

“There’s a resemblance. I guessed.”

“Oh.” She hesitated, the wind suddenly out of her sails.

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You think you’re my long-lost sister.” He couldn’t hide the cynicism in his words.

Those clear blue orbs clouded and her hand, the one she’d offered and he’d ignored, dropped to her side. “I think so, but I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here.” She seemed to find her confidence again. “For a long time my name’s been Adria.”

“You’re not sure?” For a minute he could only stare into those wide blue eyes—eyes like another treacherous pair that had seemed to see right through him, but quickly his senses came back to him in a rush. Why did he think for even a second that this woman could be London? Hadn’t he been close enough to elaborate frauds to smell one a mile away? So she looked like his stepmother. Big deal. “My sister’s been dead for almost twenty years,” he said in the flat tone he reserved for liars and cheats.

“Half-sister.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She glanced around the room. “I just wanted to see if I remembered this place—”

“London was only four.”

“Almost five. And even four-year-olds have memories…maybe just impressions, but memories nonetheless…” She looked at one corner near a bank of windows. “The band was over there in that alcove, and there were plants…trees, I think.” Her eyebrows bunched together as if she were trying to catch hold of a fleeting memory. “And there was a huge fountain and an ice sculpture—a…horse, no, not just a horse, a running horse, and—”

“You’ve done your research.”

Her lips tightened. “You don’t believe me.”

“I think you’d better leave.” Zachary cocked his head toward the door. “London’s dead. She has been for over twenty years, so take whatever it is you’re peddling and go back home, before I haul you out of here and drop you on the front steps with the rest of the garbage.”

“How do you know London’s dead?”

His throat closed and he remembered, with gut-wrenching clarity, the accusations, the fingers thrust in his direction, the suspicious looks cast his way. “I’m serious. You’d better leave.”

“I’m serious, too, Zach.” Ramming her hands into her pockets, she took one last look around the huge room, then faced him again. “You may as well know—I don’t give up easily.”

“You don’t have a prayer.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was hard, his features drawn with brutal resolution. “You can talk to my brothers and sister, my mother, or the attorneys who are acting as the gods of finance in my father’s estate, but no one’s going to give you the time of day. You may as well save your breath and my time. Take my advice and go home.”

“This could be my home.”

“Bull.”

“It’s too bad Katherine isn’t alive.”

Zachary’s blood ran cold at the mention of his beautiful and much-too-young stepmother. There was an unmistakable resemblance between the young woman standing so arrogantly before him and his father’s second wife, Katherine—Kat—the woman who’d made his life a living hell for years. “Is it really too bad, or is it just convenient?” he asked, keeping his expression bland.

She blanched a bit.

“Get out.”

“You’re afraid of me.”

“As I said, Get out.”

She held his gaze for a heart-stopping second, then strode through the ballroom doors and down the stairs. Zachary moved to the windows and watched as she walked onto the street, her strides long and full of purpose, her head ducked against the thickening rain.

She’d be back. They always came back. Until the power and money of the Danvers family drove them away and they gave up their far-fetched dreams of stealing a little bit of the old man’s money.

Good riddance, he thought, but, as she disappeared around the corner, he felt a premonition, like footsteps of the devil crawling up his spine, and he knew with absolute and bone-chilling certainty, that this one—this impostor posing as London Danvers—was somehow different from all the others.

“Happy birthday, darling,” Katherine Danvers whispered into her husband’s ear as they danced across the polished floor of the ballroom. From the alcove near the corner, a small dance band played “As Time Goes By” and the melody whispered through the crowd. “Surprised?” she asked, nuzzling him, her satin heels moving in perfect time to the music.

“Nothing you do surprises me.” He chuckled low in his throat. Of course he’d known that she’d reserved the ballroom of his hotel under the fictitious name of some sorority. He hadn’t spent sixty years learning to be the shrewdest businessman in Portland without picking up a few tricks along the way. He gave his wife a playful squeeze and felt her breasts, beneath her black silk dress, press closer to him. A few years before, he would have become aroused just by the scent of her perfume and the knowledge that beneath the gown she wore absolutely nothing—just the dress and a pair of stiletto heels.

She pouted prettily as the pianist played a solo. Her black hair gleamed under the muted lights from chandeliers suspended from the cove-shaped ceiling, and her eyes, a deep blue, glanced coyly at him through the sweep of thick, dark lashes.

There had been a time when he would have given away his fortune just for one night in her bed. She was sensual and smart and knew exactly how to please a man. He’d never asked her how she knew so much about the pleasures of love when he’d met her. He’d just been grateful that she’d taken him as her lover, bringing back the lust that he’d thought he’d lost somewhere near middle age.

A kitten who liked to be cuddled, Kat metamorphosed into a wildcat in bed and for a few years her raw sexual energy had been enough to satisfy him. He’d married her and remained faithful and managed to bed her every other day in the early years. But his desire had been short-lived, as it always was, and now he couldn’t remember when he’d last made love to her. A hot fire crept up the back of his neck at the thought of his impotence. Even now, when her thighs were pressed intimately to his and her tongue touched a sensitive spot near the back of his ear, he felt nothing, no hint of wildfire in his blood, no welcome stiffness between his legs. Even a little harsh foreplay didn’t bring him to an erection anymore. It was a miracle that they’d managed to conceive a child.

Suddenly angry, he swirled her roughly away from him, then jerked her back into his arms. She laughed, that throaty little laugh that bordered on nasty. He liked her laugh. He liked everything about her. He only wished that he could throw her on the dance floor and take her the way she wanted to be taken—like an animal, with four hundred horrified eyes watching as he proved that he was still a man and could satisfy his wife.

She’d tried all her tricks. Flimsy negligees. Peekaboo bras that outlined her nipples and long black garters that flicked at her shapely thighs. She’d coaxed him with her tongue and dirty words, slapped playfully at his butt and balls, but nothing she did aroused him anymore, and the thought that he couldn’t manage an erection, might never have sex for the rest of his life, cut a hole in him that burned like dry ice and scared the living hell out of him.

The song ended and he pressed forward, bending her spine in a low dip, so that she had to cling to him, her eyes staring up into his, her black hair sweeping the floor that had been littered with pink rose petals. Her breasts, heaving with exertion, threatened to spill out of the deep cleavage of her dress.

In full view of the audience, he pressed a kiss to that glorious hollow between her breasts, as if he were so randy he couldn’t stand it, then yanked her to her feet. Laughter and applause erupted around them.

“You old dog, you!” one man shouted, and Kat blushed as if she were an innocent virgin.

“Take her upstairs. What’re you waiting for?” another middle-aged boy yelled. “Isn’t it about time you two had a son?”

“Later.” Witt winked at the crowd, content that they didn’t know his secret and secure that Kat would never breath a word of his shame. A son. If this crowd of friends, relatives, and business acquaintances only knew.

There would be no more children. He’d sired three sons and a headstrong daughter from his first marriage to Eunice. With Katherine there would only be London, his four-year-old daughter and favorite child. He made no apologies for caring more about his little girl than he did all of his other children put together. The other kids—some of them adults now—had caused him so much heartache, and their mother…Christ, what had he ever seen in Eunice Prescott—a skinny woman with a sharp tongue who’d thought sex with him had been her duty—nothing more than a chore? He’d decided she was frigid, until…Hell, he didn’t want to think about Eunice cheating on him behind his back—laughing at him.

Angered at the turn of his thoughts, Witt escorted his wife to the center of the room where, beneath the glimmering lights of the chandelier, an ice sculpture in the shape of a running horse was beginning to melt. Nearby a tiered fountain of champagne gurgled and splashed.

The band started playing “In the Mood,” and a few brave couples strayed onto the dance floor. Witt snagged a glass from a silver tray and drained the champagne in one long swallow.

“Daddy!” He glanced up and found London, her black curls dancing around her face, her chubby arms outstretched. Dressed in a navy-blue dress with white lace collar and cuffs, she ran up to him and threw herself into his waiting arms.

He hugged her tightly, the velvet of her dress crushed against him, her legs, encased in white tights, clamped around his waist. “How do you like the party, princess?”

Her crystal-blue eyes were round and wide, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the festivities. “It’s loud.”

He laughed. “That it is.”

“And there’s too much smoke!”

“Don’t tell your mother. She planned this as a special surprise and we wouldn’t want her to feel bad,” Witt said, grinning as he winked at his daughter.

She winked back, then snuggled her pert little nose into his neck and he got a whiff of baby shampoo. She tugged at his bow tie and he laughed again. Nothing could make him as happy as this dynamic whirl of precociousness.

“Hey, that’s my job,” Kat said as she smiled and gently nudged London’s fingers from Witt’s neck. Kissing her daughter’s crown, she said, “Leave Daddy’s tie alone.”

“How about a dance?” Witt asked his young daughter, and those little lines between Kat’s eyebrows, the ones that suggested silently that she disapproved, appeared. Witt didn’t care. He drained another glass of champagne and twirled a laughing London onto the dance floor. The child, his princess, squealed in delight.

 

“Sickening, isn’t it?” Trisha observed from her position near the band. She leaned against the glossy top of the concert grand and petulantly sipped from a fluted glass. She was allowed, having just turned twenty-one.

Zachary lifted a shoulder. He was used to his old man’s theatrics and he really didn’t care what Witt did anymore. He and his father had never gotten along, and things had only become worse when Witt had divorced his first wife and eventually married a woman only seven years older than his oldest son, Jason, Zachary’s brother. Truth be known, Zach didn’t really want to be here, had only come because he was forced. He couldn’t wait to escape the smoky, loud ballroom filled with boring old people—suck-ups, every last one of them.

“Dad can’t keep his hands off Kat,” Trisha said, her voice slurring a little. “It’s obscene.” She took another swallow. “The lecherous old fart.”

“Careful, Trisha,” Jason said as he joined his brother and sister. “Dad probably had this place bugged.”

“Very funny,” Trisha said, tossing her long auburn hair over one shoulder. But she didn’t laugh. Her blue eyes were flat and bored and she continually scanned the crowd as if she were looking for something or someone.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “You know half the people here would like to see the old man fall.”

“They’re his friends,” Trisha argued.

“And enemies.” Jason rested a hip against the piano as the band took a break. He watched his father, still holding London, playing the crowd, moving from one knot of bejeweled guests to the other, never once setting London on her feet.

“Who gives a shit?” Zachary asked.

“Always the rebel.” Jason smiled beneath his mustache, that know-it-all smile that bugged the hell out of Zach. Jason acted as if he knew everything. At twenty-three, Jason was already in law school and six years older than Zach, a point he never let his rebellious younger brother forget.

Zach tugged at the tight collar of his tuxedo shirt. He couldn’t stomach Jason any more than he could his sister, Trisha. They both cared too much about the old man and his bank accounts.

Leaving Jason and Trisha to worry and fret over Witt’s affection for London, Zach walked to the edge of the crowd.

He managed to grab a champagne glass from an unattended table, then sauntered over to the bank of tall, arched windows that overlooked the city and turned his back on the party. He felt a bit of satisfaction as he stared through the glass to the hot July night and swallowed champagne. Traffic flowed in a steady stream along the street. Taillights winked and blurred as cars and trucks labored through the city and over the yawning Willamette River, a sluggish black waterway that separated the west side of the city from the east. Steam rose from the city streets and the humidity level was high.

In the distance, beyond the expanse of city lights, a ridge of mountains, the Cascades, guarded the horizon. Thunderheads that had been gathering all day blocked out any view of the stars, and the quick, sizzling forks of lightning added unwanted tension to the brackish night. Zach finished his champagne and, hoping no one would notice, half buried his empty glass in the soil surrounding a potted tree.

He felt out of place, as he always had with his family. This black-tie affair thrown by Kat made him all the more aware that he was different from his brothers and sister. He didn’t even look like the rest of the Danvers clan, all of whom were fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and were favored with varying hues of blond to dark brown hair.

He resembled his half-sister, London, more than anyone else in the family. Which didn’t win him any points with Jason, Trisha, and Nelson, his younger brother, all of whom on one occasion or another professed to hate their half-sister.

With a snort, he considered London. He didn’t care much about the kid one way or the other. Sure, she bothered him. Any four-year-old was a pain in the ass, but she wasn’t as bad as the others made out. In fact, Zach found it amusing that she was already showing some of the traits Kat had perfected over the years. It wasn’t London’s fault the old man treated her like some kind of priceless jewel.

As if she’d read his mind, London pushed through the crowd and grabbed hold of his leg. He turned to tell her to get lost, but by that time she’d discovered his glass pushed deep into the potting soil.

“Leave that alone!” he whispered in a harsh voice. She glanced up sharply, a naughty twinkle in her eyes. God, if he could just step out on the balcony and grab a smoke—another vice of which his father and stepmother disapproved, though Kat was never without her gold cigarette case and Witt enjoyed his share of cigars smuggled in from Havana.

She dropped the glass back into the dirt. “Hide me from Mommy!” With a wicked little giggle, she ducked behind his legs.

“Hey, don’t get me involved in your stupid games.”

“Shh. She’s coming!” London hissed.

Great. Just what he needed.

“London?” Katherine’s husky voice drifted over the slow strains of a ballad.

Behind him, London tried to smother a giggle.

“London, where are you? Come on now…it’s time for bed. Oh, there you are!” Katherine sidestepped a group of men, her practiced smile well in place. Waving her fingers as she passed, she tracked down her wayward daughter with the precision of a bloodhound.

“No!” London cried as her mother approached.

“Come on, sweetheart, it’s nearly ten.”

“Don’t care!”

“You’d better do what she says,” Zachary offered, his gaze flicking slightly to his stepmother’s. He knew what the old man saw in his young wife. Katherine Danvers was probably the sexiest woman Zachary had ever met. At seventeen he understood about unbridled sexual desire. Hot and thundering, it could roar through a man’s body and turn his brain to mush.

“Come on.” Katherine leaned down to pick up her daughter. The silk stretched across her shapely rump and her breasts seemed to bulge a bit, as if they might fall out of her plunging neckline.

“I’ll get her into bed,” another woman, London’s nanny, Ginny Something-Or-Other, offered. She was a small, plain woman in sensible shoes and a drab olive-green suit. Next to Katherine she looked frumpy and old, a dowdy matron, though she was probably just over thirty, not much older than Kat.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” London insisted.

“She’s being a brat.” Katherine looked up and noticed one of the waiters motioning toward her. With a sigh, she turned back to her daughter. “Listen, honey, it’s almost time to bring out the birthday cake. You can stay up and watch Daddy blow out his candles, then you have to go upstairs.”

“Can I have some cake, too?”

The corners around Katherine’s mouth tightened, though she said, “Of course, darling. But then you go with Ginny upstairs. We’ve got a special room for you, right by Daddy and Mommy’s, and we’ll be up later to tuck you in.”

Mollified somewhat, London headed back to the party and Katherine straightened, smoothing her dress over her hips as Ginny followed her wayward charge.

Zach hoped that Katherine would hurry to the bandleader and order the musicians to strike up “Happy Birthday To You,” but she inched her chin up a fraction and eyed her stepson. Zach was three inches taller than Kat. Nonetheless, she had a way of making him feel small. “Stay away from the booze.” She plucked his empty champagne glass from the dirt and twirled the stem between her long, slim fingers. Even while reprimanding him, she was sexy as hell. As if she knew her power over him and any man who wasn’t blind, she puckered her lips sweetly, then waggled the glass under his nose. “We wouldn’t want anything to spoil this party for your daddy now, would we? If you were to get caught with one of these, there could be trouble.”

“I won’t get caught.”

“Don’t think you’re so smart, Zach. I saw you swilling champagne, and I don’t think I’m the only one who was looking in your direction. Anyone else could have seen you, including Jack Logan. You remember—he’s with the police department. I think you two have met before.”

Zach’s teeth clamped together. Hot embarrassment climbed up the back of his neck. “As I said, I won’t get caught.”

“You’d better not, because, if you land your cute little butt in jail or end up in the juvenile hall again, Witt won’t bail you out. So”—she smiled sweetly—“use your head.”

As she sauntered away, mingling with one group of guests after another, Zachary seethed. His blood boiled through his veins and he fantasized about wrapping his fingers around her neck and shaking some sense into her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her ass and the way it shifted beneath the shimmering black silk of her dress. She moved slowly, as if each step were a deliberately sensual movement designed to make him squirm. The rose petals were crushed beneath her heels. Her smooth back, visible to the curve of her lower spine, was unblemished and supple, and he imagined it would arch perfectly beneath the right man.

He felt an erection beginning, and turned away from her image. Half the time he thought she put on a sexual show for him intentionally. Other times he told himself that it was his imagination, that he was finding sexual overtures in the most innocent. . .