only her enemies, but her closest blood kin.
She studied the traffic behind her and had the crazy notion that she was being followed. But no car seemed to be tailing her, at least none that she could identify. She stepped on the accelerator. Tires singing on the metal grid, her Nova sped across the Hawthorne Bridge. Unfortunately, she had to drive downtown again, close to the Hotel Danvers, to the building only three blocks down the street from where the offices of Danvers International were housed.
She parked her car in a corner lot, finished the coffee, and grabbed her bag. Though the sun was making a valiant effort to warm the wet streets, the wind was cold as it blew down the Columbia River Gorge, rolled across the Willamette, and whistled through the narrow streets of the city.
She hurried up the steps to the library doors and felt a chill against the back of her neck, as if someone were watching her. “You’re just being paranoid,” she told herself, but couldn’t shake the feeling.
“Something happened last night at the grand opening.” Eunice Danvers Smythe had the uncanny ability to read Nelson like a book. He was edgy and restless and chewed at the corner of his thumbnail. Dressed in a sloppy T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days, he hadn’t shaved or bothered to comb his unruly blond hair and his lips were pinched. “Something went wrong,” she guessed again, shooing her Persian cat off one of the chairs.
“You could say that.” Nelson was slouched in a chair across the table from her in the morning room of her home in Lake Oswego. He’d called from his condo and been on her doorstep in less than the fifteen minutes it took to make the drive within the speed limit.
“What is it?”
“Another imposter.” Nelson ignored the newspaper sitting next to his plate.
“London?”
“So she claims.”
Sighing, Eunice sipped from her coffee cup and stared past Nelson and through the bay window over his shoulder. The lake, reflecting the clouds that had moved quickly in from the west, was a desolate, steely gray. A rough winter wind caused a few whitecaps to surface. On the opposite shore, like bony fingers, empty boat slips jutted into the cold water.
“She’s a fake,” Eunice surmised.
“Of course she’s a fake, but she’s trouble just the same. When the press gets wind of this, the shit’s really going to hit the fan. It’ll start all over again…the speculation and dredging up of the kidnapping. Reporters, photographers…just like before.” He plowed both hands through his thick blond hair.
“It’s always going to be a problem,” Eunice said with a little smile that she reserved for her children. “But it’s something you have to deal with. And it might help you. If you’re really interested in running for mayor someday-”
“Governor.”
“Governor.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “My, my, but aren’t we ambitious.” She didn’t mean to sound scathing, just concerned.
His eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, but he wasn’t laughing. “I suppose
She ignored that little dig. “You could use the adverse publicity to your advantage, if you’re smart.”
“How?”
“Welcome her with open arms,” she said, and Nelson stared at her as if she’d suddenly lost her mind. “I’m serious, Nelson, think about it. You, defender of the downtrodden, you, seeker of truth, you, the one-day politician- listen to her story, try to help her and then…well, when she’s proved a fraud…you don’t even denounce her, not really, just explain to the press that she was an opportunist.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Something to think about.” She added cream to her coffee-not too much, as she prided herself on working out and keeping her body in shape, then watched the clouds swirl to the surface. “Come on now,” she encouraged, blowing across her cup before she took a sip. “Tell me about her.”
Cradling the warm porcelain between her fingers, Eunice waited. Nelson would tell her everything. He always did. It was his way of trying to be special to her. After the divorce from Witt, all the children suffered and she felt an incredible sense of guilt for their pain. She’d never wanted to hurt the children-they were her most precious possessions. Never would she intentionally wound any of them. It had been Witt she had hoped to cripple, but he seemed to have survived the divorce, even thrived as a businessman, and had taken that slut of a young girl for his second wife. Suddenly her special blend of French roast seemed to curdle in her stomach.
Nelson scraped his chair back and stood near the windows. Throwing out a hip, he gazed through the glass. Though he’d called her, begged to come by and unburden himself, she sensed that he regretted his decision to open up to her. He’d always been volatile-not so openly hostile as Zach had been-but energized by a pent-up anger just under the surface, a blasting cap primed to explode. She wondered if he even had a clue about how he’d been conceived, but held her tongue.
Nelson was the child who should never have been born. She and Witt were estranged when she’d gotten pregnant. Witt had finally found out about her affair with Anthony Polidori and all hell had broken loose.
“You stupid, stupid bitch!” Witt had roared when he’d discovered the truth. He’d sensed that Anthony had been in his house, his room, his bed, though Anthony had slipped away minutes before.
Witt had slapped her so hard her head had snapped back on her neck and she’d stumbled to fall back on her bed. He was on her in an instant, pinning her to the mattress with his enormous bulk. “How could you?” he’d yelled, straddling her and crushing her face between his meaty hands. She was a big woman, a strong woman, but no match for him. “You lying, cheating bitch, how could you?”
She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks and through his fingers, and she knew that he might kill her. His palms squashed her cheeks and she stared up at eyes bright with rage and hatred. Saliva collected in the corners of his mouth and his lips were pulled into a snarl of malice.
“I…It just happened,” she’d choked out.
“Like hell! You’re my
“I detest you!” she spat.
“So you go crawling to Polidori. Taking off your panties and spreading your legs and screwing his brains out. Why? To get back at me?”
“Yes!” she screamed, not daring to utter that she loved Anthony as she’d never loved Witt and the hands around her face pushed harder. Pain jolted through her brain.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“At least he’s a man, Witt! He knows how to satisfy a woman!”
He roared back and this time the hand that came down against her cheek landed so hard she heard bones crack. A moan escaped her throat.
“A man, eh?” Witt thundered. “I’ll show you a man.”
She’d shivered as he’d held her down with one hand and undid his belt with the other. He’d never beaten her before, but now she was certain he was going to flay her until her skin was raw. Swallowing all of her pride, she whispered, “Don’t, Witt…please…”
“You deserve it.”
“No.” She got one hand free and held it up to protect her face. “Don’t-”
He hesitated, his shirt undone, his breathing hard and fast.
“You’re a whore, Eunice.”
“No-”
“And you deserve to be treated like one.”
Still straddling her, he took her hand and guided it to his fly. “Undo it.”
“No, I-” She withdrew her hand and then held back a little scream as she saw his muscles flex beneath his shirt. He slid his leather belt out of the loops and for a second she saw the flash of a silver buckle-a running horse with sharp little hooves, made of metal that could cut and scar. Oh, God. Pain jolted through her body. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
