“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.
“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
“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
