See How She Dies (9 page)

She recognized Jason from the photographs she'd studied. He was tall and raw-boned with red-brown hair flecked with gray. His expression was serious. Caught in conversation with a reed-thin woman about half his age, he glanced up at the commotion, took one look at Adria and hesitated for just a second, his eyes narrowing as if to focus. The skin beneath his tan paled and he swallowed with sudden difficulty before he recovered to look the part of a poised, successful attorney.

Adria wasn't surprised by his reaction. She knew of her uncanny resemblance to the woman who was supposed to have been her mother; saw in the fear flashing through Jason's blue eyes that he recognized it, too.

“I think you might want to meet someone,” Zach said, as they approached.

“Excuse me a minute,” Jason whispered to his thin blond friend. The girl's gaze slid to Adria and small wrinkles appeared between her perfectly arched brows. “I'll be just a little while, I promise, Kim.”

With a thrust of her lower lip, Kim didn't move, obviously ready to meet Adria's challenge.

Zach's fingers clenched around Adria's arm, as if he expected her to bolt. “This is Adria Nash—my brother, Jason.”

“Have we met?” Jason asked.

“In another lifetime,” Zach intervened. “Adria thinks she's London.”

Kim's mouth rounded a little, but Jason managed to smile. “Another London. How perfect, considering the circumstances.” His voice was as cold as his eyes. “Let me guess—you showed up tonight to make a big splash, be sure that the reporters and photographers saw you?” He took a swallow from his glass and observed her over the rim. “Am I right?”

“Actually, she showed up last week,” Zach said as he released her arm.

Jason turned on his brother. “And you didn't say anything?”

“I thought she might go away.”

“Just go away.” Under his breath Jason muttered something about thickheaded fools. A ruddy stain began to crawl up the back of his neck as he pinned Adria under a harsh, uncompromising glare. “How'd you get in here?”

“I said she was with me,” Zach intervened.

Jason's lips flattened over his perfect teeth. “You let her in and you don't know what she plans to do? Or are you in on it, too? Is that it?”

Zach didn't bother to answer, just lifted a shoulder.

“You just like to see the rest of the family squirm, don't you?”

“She's a fake,” Zach said flatly. “Let her do what she wants.”

“Not here. Not now.” Jason lowered his voice, suddenly aware of more than a few curious glances cast in his direction. “Don't you know what the law firm for the estate will do if—” His blue eyes suddenly sharpened on Adria and it was all she could do to keep from shrinking away from that hate-filled glare. “Take her upstairs. To your suite—no, better yet, to my house. You've got a key.”

“No one's
taking
me anywhere,” she said.

“You started this,” Zach reminded her.

“Which means we'll do things my way,” she countered, knowing she had to appear strong—any sign of weakness in front of the Danvers clan would be suicide.

One side of Zach's mouth lifted in a crooked, amused grin. “Maybe you are London after all. She was a stubborn thing, too.”

“Just get her out of here. I'll meet you at the house.”

“What about Nicole?” Zach asked and watched his brother's mouth tighten at the mention of his wife. Theirs was a rocky marriage at best.

“She's out of town. Visiting relatives in Santa Fe.”

Zach didn't ask any questions. Why Jason's wife was away on one of the most important nights of her husband's life didn't concern him.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Adria stated. “And don't talk about me as if I'm not here. As far as I'm concerned, I have as much right to be here as the rest of you.”

“She has a point.”

“Get her out of here, Zach.”

“As I said, Jason, I'm not budging,” Adria insisted, unmoved by the older Danvers brother's anger. She hadn't grown up on the Montana range without learning a thing or two about arrogant, self-important men. She could be just as headstrong as any man when it came to something she believed in and she was certain…well, nearly…that she was London Danvers.

Adria noticed the glint in Zach's eyes and she realized that he was enjoying watching his brother lose his cool. Jason, the attorney. Jason who had married well. Jason who seemed to be the one in charge of the family fortune.

“This is not the time or the place—”

“Then name them,” she said firmly and caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Kim, the waif-thin blonde, inched closer, listening to every word.

“What?”

“The time and place, name them.” Adria wasn't backing down, not after she'd come this far, swallowed all her doubts, and found her nerve.

“My God!” another male voice whispered behind her and Adria turned to find a man, tall, blond, and lanky, with startling blue eyes that widened when he caught sight of her face. “She looks just like—”

“We know, Nelson,” Jason said, obviously irritated.

“Nelson, this is Adria Nash,” Zachary drawled as if enjoying his family's discomfiture. “She's here claiming to be London.”

Nelson looked quickly from his oldest brother to Zach. “But she couldn't be. Not really. Everyone knows that London was killed…”

“Everyone assumed,” Adria cut in.

Jason's temper snapped. He glared at Zach. “You got her in here, you get her out.”

“Maybe I'm not ready to go.”

“If you want anyone in this family to listen to your story with an open mind, you'll haul your sweet ass out of here,” Jason ordered.

“I'll take care of her.” Zach's hands were coiling around her arm again but she jerked away from him.

“I don't need anyone to take care of me,” she said, suddenly defiant.

“Then why are you here?” Jason asked. “If not for a piece of the pie, for someone to take care of you, why didn't you stay wherever it is you came from?”

“Because I need to know.”

“So this isn't about money?”

She didn't answer and Jason smiled without a trace of warmth. His companion, the woman he'd called Kim, watched her with interested eyes.

“It's always about money, Adria,” Jason said as the pianist took a break and the music suddenly stopped. “No reason to lie about it.”

Before she could respond, Zach had grabbed her and this time he didn't let go. No amount of wriggling could pull her arm free and rather than make a scene, she allowed herself to be shepherded from the familiar ballroom. She knew she'd been here years before; everything was nearly the same. The lights, the music, no…there had been a band instead of a solitary pianist and the champagne glasses had been a different shape. And there were other changes as well: there had been a huge green cake ablaze with sixty candles and the ice sculpture had been of a running horse rather than a rearing stallion. And the rose petals had been cast upon the floor, creating a fragrant pink carpet.

Surely she was remembering Witt's sixtieth birthday, her last night with her parents—or was she only dreaming, caught in the fantasy that was London Danvers? In the past few months she'd read every newspaper article, studied every photograph, read every word she could find about the Danvers family. She recognized her half-brothers from the pictures she'd seen of them and would have recognized her parents, had they still lived.

Witt had never given up believing that his favorite daughter would return to reclaim her heritage and he'd left a million-dollar reward for anyone who could find her; he'd also provided for London in his will, and his estate was rumored to be valued at well over a hundred million.

The money wasn't important, she told herself as Zachary retrieved her coat, but she was determined to find out the truth, and damn the consequences.

 

Gold digger! Bitch! Fraud!

Watching from the shadows of a tiny alley, Katherine LaRouche Danvers's killer stared after the car that sped away. Rain drizzled relentlessly from the sky, gurgling in the gutters, dripping from the eaves, doing nothing to soothe the white-hot rage that was being experienced by Katherine's killer.

Hadn't Katherine's death been enough?

Why would this spawn of the she-devil show up now?

If Adria Nash did prove to be the bitch's daughter, then everything would be ruined, the Danvers fortune splintered…but, of course, she was a fraud. She had to be.

The fists of Katherine's killer were clenched so hard they ached. Near the curb there was the scratch of tiny claws, barely discernible over the gurgle of water in the gutters and downspouts. Glancing down, the killer spied a wet, half-crippled rat, long tail dragging behind, slide toward a crevice in the sidewalk. Tiny eyes caught in the reflection from the street lamps and blood dripped from a wound near one motionless back leg.

“Go away,” the killer hissed, rattled for a second before thoughts of Adria Nash and her outrageous claim returned.

Calm down. Collect yourself. You can handle this. Haven't you always? The family owes you a big debt and they don't even know it.

“She's not London.”

Probably not. Most likely not. But you can't take a chance. You've worked too hard to let it fall apart now. You have to stop her.

“She's
not
London.”

Perhaps so, but she's the right age, isn't she? And she's the spitting image of Kat. You saw the features of her face; she has the same bone structure, identical cheekbones and eyes. And her hair. Could it be more like Kat's? She's a dead ringer.

Rage curled white-hot at the thought of Katherine. Beautiful. Sexy. Sleek. No wonder she'd turned so many heads. Women had found her strangely fascinating; men had felt the eroticism that was so innately a part of her.

A bad taste crawled up the throat of Katherine's killer.

It couldn't happen.

The Danvers fortune couldn't be destroyed.

A pitiful squeak caught the killer's attention.

The rat again!

It was too large or wounded to squeeze through the crack in the curb. The frightened rodent was eyed as it hobbled quickly back and forth, searching anxiously for a way out of the alley. Its pinkish nose quivering in the darkness, tiny teeth ready to be bared if it were to be cornered, the rat scurried to the relative safety behind a parked van. With a new deadly calm, the killer moved closer to the drenched beast and it, sensing fear, panicked and slithered into the gutter, searching frantically for a way to escape.

“You can't get away,” the killer whispered, but wasn't thinking of this near-dead rat, but about the beautiful woman who had just slipped away into the night.

But she would be back.

It was inevitable.

And one way or another, this new London, whether a fraud or the real thing, would have to be destroyed. If she wouldn't leave on her own, then she would simply have to die.

So Adria Nash looked like Katherine Danvers?

Enough that she could be considered a
dead
ringer?

The trapped rat was eyed again.

Exactly.

“What makes you think you're London?” Zachary shifted down for a light that reflected red on the rain-washed streets The engine of his Jeep idled and the wipers slapped drops of water from the windshield.

“I have proof.” Well, that was a little bit of a lie, but not a big one.

“Proof,” he repeated, easing up on the clutch as the light changed. He punched the throttle and the Jeep started climbing through the steep, twisting streets of the west hills. As she gazed out the window, staring past the thick branches of fir and maple, Adria saw the city lights winking far below. “What kind of proof?”

“A tape.”

“Of what?”

“My father.”

“Your father—meaning Witt?” He took a curve a little too fast and the Jeep's tires skidded before holding firm.

“My adoptive father. Victor Nash. We lived in Montana.”

“Oh,” he said derisively, “that clears that up.”

“You don't have to be sarcastic.”

He slid her a glance that silently called her a fool as they crested a hill and he turned sharply into a drive complete with electronic gates that whirred open when he pressed a numerical code into a key pad.

He parked near the garage of a rambling Tudor home. Three stories of stone and brick with dark cross beams and a gabled roof, the house seemed to grow from the very ground on which it had been built. Exterior lamps, hidden in dripping azaleas, rhododendrons, and ferns, lined the drive and washed the stone-and-mortar walls with soft light. Ivy clung tenaciously to one of several chimneys and tall fir trees rose above a stone fence that guarded the grounds.

“Come on,” Zach instructed, leaning across her to open the door of the Jeep. He climbed out and led the way up a brick path and through a breezeway to the back door. “Bring back any memories?” he asked as he flipped on the lights of a huge kitchen.

She shook her head and he lifted a brow, as if surprised that she would admit that she couldn't remember. “This is it—home sweet home.”

Swallowing hard, she looked around, hoping for a trace of remembrance, but the gleaming tile floor meant nothing to her—the glass doors of the cabinets, the hallways that angled in different directions, the plush Oriental carpets, nothing sparked any old, long-dead memories. “We can wait in the den,” Zachary said, watching her reaction. “Jason will be here soon.”

Adria's stomach knotted at the thought of squaring off with the Danvers family, but she hid her uneasiness. The den, located in a back corner of the house, smelled of tobacco and smoke. Coals glowed from a stone fireplace and Zach tossed a piece of mossy oak onto the embers before straightening and dusting his hands. He shed his jacket and dropped it over the back of a leather chair. “What about this, hmm? Dad's private room. You—well, London—used to play in here while Dad worked at the desk.” His eyes were challenging, his chin thrust forward.

“I—I don't think so,” she admitted, trailing fingers on the timeworn desk.

“Gee, isn't that a surprise,” he mocked. “The first of many, no doubt.” He propped a foot on the edge of the raised hearth. “Now, you want to get this over with and tell me your little story or wait for the rest of the clan?”

“Is there a reason you need to be so offensive?”

“This is just the start. Believe me, I'm the prince of the family.”

“That's not what I read” she said, holding her ground. “Rebel son, black sheep, no-good, juvenile delinquent.” He wasn't pulling any punches, so neither would she.

“That's right, the best of the lot,” he admitted with a grin that lifted one side of his mouth. “Now, what's it going to be, Miss Nash?”

“I don't see any reason to repeat myself. We can wait for the rest of the family.”

“Your choice.” His gray eyes were glacial, as warm as an arctic sky as he gave her a cursory glance, then walked to the bar. “Drink?'

“I don't think it would be such a good idea.”

“Might take the edge off.” He found a bottle of Scotch and poured a stiff shot into a short crystal glass. “Believe me, you'll need it before they're done with you.”

“It you're trying to scare me, it's a waste of time.”

He shook his head as he raised the glass to his lips. “Just warning you.”

“Thanks, but I think I can handle whatever it is they have to say.”

“You'll be the first.”

“Good.”

Shrugging, he drained the drink and set the empty glass on the bar. “Have a seat.” Waving to a couch, he pulled off his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. Dark hair dusted his forearms, and despite the season, his skin was tanned. “Just for the sake of argument,” he said, “how much would it take to have you close your mouth and go home?”

“Pardon?”

He rested his hands on the bar and pinned her with an uncompromising glare. “I don't believe in bullshit, okay? It's a waste of time. So let's cut right to the chase. You plan on making a big stink, start talking to the press and lawyers and claim that you're London, right?” He poured another drink, but let it sit untouched on the bar.

“I am London. At least I think I am. And so far, I'd like to keep lawyers out of it.”

“Of course you're London,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You don't need to patronize me.”

“All right. Then we're back to square one. How much money would it cost to change your mind and decide that you are, after all, just Adria Nash?”

“I am Adria.”

“So you want it both ways.”

“For now.”

“Until we accept you as London.” The fire popped loudly.

“I didn't expect you to believe me,” she said, refusing to leap at his bait. Her stomach was jumping. Sweat collected at the base of her neck and dampened her palms, but she told herself to remain outwardly calm.
Don't let him get to you. That's exactly what he wants
. “I wouldn't have come all this way if I didn't think I was—I am—your sister.”

“Half-sister,” he said with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. “Get it right. If you're gonna do this thing, Adria, get all the facts and do it right.”

Rankled, she said, “I have the facts and I know all about your family.”

“So you decided to take advantage of your resemblance to my stepmother.”

“Maybe you should just see the tape.”

“The tape?” he challenged.

“Yes, the videotape that brought me here.” The tape that had been the catalyst but certainly not the proof—not all of it. Suddenly it seemed frail, as fragile as her father's dreams and beliefs that she was some sort of modern-day princess. “I found it after my father died. He left it for me.”

“Can't wait,” he muttered sarcastically. Glancing at her for a moment, he poured a second glass. “But we'll wait to start the show.” He set her drink on the corner of a glass-topped coffee table, then snatched his off the bar and claimed his position at the window. He stood like a sentry, staring through the rain-drizzled glass.

Standing, she said, “If you don't mind, I'd like to use the powder room.”

“Powder room?” he said with a snort. “Kind of a fancy term for a farm girl from Montana.”

She stared at her hands for a second, then lifted her eyes to meet his. “You love this, don't you?”

“I don't
love
anything.” His gaze raked down the length of her body.

“Oh, but you enjoy baiting me. You get a perverse pleasure in taunting me, trying to trip me up.”

“You started this.” His lip curled slightly. “Find the ‘powder room' yourself. See if you can conjure it up from all those hidden memories.”

Silently counting to ten, she grabbed her bag and hurried out of the room. The hallway was unfamiliar, but she turned to the right, rounded a corner, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw what could only be described as a shrine to the family of Witt Danvers. Pictures, plaques, and trophies resting in a glass case cut into the wall were displayed prominently.

She swallowed with difficulty when she spied a large portrait of the three of them: Witt, Katherine, and London. Could this be…? Adria's heart caught and she touched the glass, her finger displacing a tiny sheen of dust. Seated in a wicker chair, Katherine was dressed in a wine-colored dress with a scooped neck and long sleeves. Diamonds encircled her throat and winked from her fingers. She held a grinning London, who appeared near the age of three. London's wild hair fell in ringlets and she wore a pink velvet dress with a lacy collar and cuffs on the short, puffed sleeves. Witt stood behind them both, one hand placed possessively over his wife's shoulder. He was smiling at the camera and his eyes seemed to twinkle mischievously.

“Dad,” she mouthed, though the word wouldn't come. Could this have been her family? Her natural family. Her chest seemed to cave in on itself. “Oh, God.” Tears stung the back of her eyes and she felt her teeth sink into her lower lip. After all the years of not knowing, could she be looking at her family? Her throat grew hot and she blinked as she traced the line of Katherine's jaw, so like her own, with a finger and then looked into the child's smiling face. True, there was a resemblance, though Victor and Sharon Nash had taken very few pictures when she was young.

Were you my mother
? she silently asked the woman in the portrait and again she lifted her finger to the glass.

“Touching, wouldn't you say?”

Startled, she jumped backward. She hadn't heard Zach approach, didn't realize he was standing behind her, one shoulder propped on the opposite wall, watching her reaction. Her heart drummed wildly in her chest. “I—I didn't hear you.”

He lifted his shoulder. “What do you think of the family memorial?” Sipping his drink slowly, he gazed at the wall of pictures. “The Danvers family et al. Kind of reminds you of Ozzie and Harriet, doesn't it?”

Adria stared at the case. There were diplomas and football trophies, an art school award for Trisha, an “outstanding student” certificate for Nelson, a swimming medal with Jason's name engraved on it, and a key to the city issued to Witt Danvers. Surrounding the case were the pictures: shots of Witt with dignitaries, Witt with one or more of his children, Witt as a young man with his father, Jason in a football uniform, Nelson in cap and gown, Jason's wedding, even Trisha dressed in a long formal with a scrawny, longhaired beau.

But there wasn't one snapshot, not one, single, faded black-and-white Polaroid of Zachary. She couldn't believe what her eyes told her and she searched again.

“I didn't win too many popularity contests,” he explained, as if reading her mind. “The old man wasn't into mounting mug shots.”

“I—uh—I didn't expect to see this.” She motioned toward the wall.

“Who would?”

He gazed at the framed portrait of Witt and his second wife and daughter and Zach's eyes seemed to lock with those of Katherine. A muscle worked in his jaw and Adria felt as if she were suddenly intruding, that this place was somehow sacred and intimate and she was, indeed, the interloper. The air seemed suddenly hard to breathe as Zach stared at Katherine.

“I couldn't find—”

He snapped out of his reverie and the darkness in his eyes disappeared. “Around the corner. Second door on the left.”

She didn't wait for other directions but hurried down the hall. Her steps were quick, as if she were running from something, something so private and dark that she felt a cold jab of dread.

In the bathroom she splashed cold water over her face.
Don't let them get to you
, she told herself as she saw her pale reflection in the mirror.
Don't let him get to you
. But she couldn't shake the sensation that something menacing and evil existed here in this expensive home.

When she returned to the den, he was back at the window, staring out at the gloomy night.

Reminding herself that she needed at least one ally in a family that was certain to try and discredit her, she picked up the drink he'd left for her and took a sip that burned all the way down her throat. “Do you know why I came to you first?” she asked, hoping to break down the barriers that he'd erected around himself.

He didn't answer, just glared out at the night as if the blackness was hostile.

“I thought you might understand.”

“I don't understand anything fake.”

She plunged on. “You know what it's like being on the outside.”

His shoulder muscles bunched and he took another swallow of his Scotch. “Don't let a few pictures on the wall make you think that you and I have anything in common. So I was on the outside.”

“But you wanted back in.”

His back stiffened. “Get this straight,
sister
, I never wanted in. It was the old man's idea.”