Treasures aka See How She Dies

8

“I asked you a question, Danvers,” Steve, the taller cop barked. “What happened to the girl?”

“What girl?”

“Your sister.”

Trisha? London? “What about my sister?” he asked. “Where’s Jason?”

The stocky one took hold of his arm and Zach nearly fell into the street. “Jesus, get your hands off me!” He sucked in his breath through loose teeth.

“Look at this, Bill.” The officer opened the front of Zach’s jacket, shoving aside the expensive lapel with his riot stick, showing off the sticky purple stains of blood. “You okay, kid?”

“Let’s get him up to his old man. There was a paramedic in the hotel-with the mother. And the old man’s called his personal physician. Come on, son, through the back door. We don’t want the press to get a picture of you looking like this, do we?”

“What happened to Trisha?” Zach asked, dazed. The two thugs, Joey and Rudy, they’d found his sister. She’d been drunk and…Oh, God. Rage burned through his blood.

“Maybe you can tell us,” Bill said as he hauled Zach in the direction of the service entrance. “My guess is you’ve got one helluva story.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what time it is,” Witt yelled, his patience worn thin. London was missing. His precious little girl-gone without a trace! His heart had nearly stopped at the news and he’d been foggy, but after six cups of coffee he was clearheaded and he knew who the bastard was behind the kidnapping. “I want you to send a car over to Polidori’s house. You wake up that goddamned son of a bitch and find out what he knows about this!” Witt yelled at Logan.

“Back off, Witt. We’ll question Mr. Polidori, after the search of the hotel is complete.”

“You bet your ass you will,” Witt said, reaching for the humidor of cigars he kept on the desk of his office on the main floor of the hotel. Katherine was sleeping, thanks to Dr. McHenry and several sleeping pills. Witt lit up and stalked around his massive desk. “You’ve checked all the rooms?”

“Twice,” Logan snapped. He had no patience for Witt’s inference that he and his men weren’t capable of doing their jobs.

“And the service elevator-”

“And the boiler room, the linen closets, the conference rooms, the rest rooms, even the air shafts, elevator shafts, maintenance rooms, and freezers. We also checked out the parking lot, restaurant, bellboy’s closet, wine cellar, and every nook and cranny this old hotel has. It’s been renovated half a dozen times and my men have gone over every set of blueprints hoping to find some secret room that everyone here’s forgotten about. Take my word for it, Witt, she’s not on the premises.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?”

“I still haven’t heard from the men outside. We’re covering a ten-square-block area, talking to people on the street, checking other buildings nearby, and literally beating the bushes. We’ve got people at the airport, the train station, and the bus station.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Witt growled impatiently. “Polidori’s-” He glanced up and saw two officers and Zach, bloodied and beaten, stumble into the office. Witt’s guts twisted. The boy’s face was the color of chalk and a nasty cut had ripped his skin open near his ear. He was still bleeding and his nose was a pulpy mass. On his feet in an instant, Witt rounded the desk. “Get the doctor,” he ordered a policeman, then faced his son. “What happened?”

Zach glanced suspiciously to the police. He ran his tongue over dry, swollen lips. “What’s going on?” he asked, squinting against the light. “Did something happen to Trisha?”

“Hell, no! What’re you talking about?”

“They said, the police, that she was missing-”

Witt’s guts twisted. “They were talking about London.”

“London? But she’s only a kid-” Zach swallowed hard.

“You weren’t with her?”

Zach, stricken, shook his head.

“Christ.” His entire world was collapsing and he knew where to put the blame.

“What happened to her?” Zach asked.

“She’s missing,” Witt said.

“Missing? But she was at the party. I saw her. You saw her.”

“It happened later. Ginny’s gone, too. That’s all we know.” Through his silent fear, Witt forced himself to turn his attention to the boy who was nearly beaten beyond recognition. “Are you all right?”

Zach gritted his teeth. “I’ll live.”

“So how’d this happen?” Witt demanded, then picked up the phone and dialed three digits. “Is McHenry still there? I sent a man for him. Well, just tell him to come down here, on the double. Yeah, my office. What? Oh, it’s Zach. He’s back and he’s been roughed up. Looks serious.” He slammed down the receiver and motioned two police officers off a green leather couch. “Come on, you’d better lie down. Looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m okay.”

Witt felt his temper snap. “Just do it, okay? For once in your life, Zach, don’t fight me. Lie on the couch and let McHenry examine you, for crying out loud!”

Zach looked like he was about to snarl back a hot retort, but instead he sat on the couch as Dr. McHenry walked through the door. A spry man nearing seventy, he’d been Witt’s physician for years and the best doctor money could buy. McHenry knew his stuff, but he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, which made him invaluable.

“I’d hate to see the other guy,” the doctor quipped, as he helped peel off Zach’s shirt. Witt’s stomach turned over at the sight of the ugly wound, red and angry, that sliced down Zach’s skin.

“Okay, Zach, start talking,” Witt said, sitting on the corner of his desk. He reached for a fresh cigar while the old one smoldered in his overflowing ashtray. Zach, sullen and wincing as the doctor attended his wounds, didn’t say a word. As usual. “Look, Zach, I don’t care what you think of me. Hell, nothing matters but London’s safety, so you’d better tell me what happened to you tonight. Your sister’s life could depend on it.”

Zach sent him a look of pure hatred, but Witt didn’t care. He turned his gaze to Jack Logan and stared straight into the detective’s eyes. “And nothing that we hear in this room goes any further, right?”

Logan nodded curtly, and satisfied, Witt settled back in his chair. “We’re listening, Zach.”

Zach closed his eyes, hoping the room would stop swimming. He wanted to lie, but didn’t and told his story, with only two slight changes. He didn’t admit that his stepmother had turned him on during their dance at the party and he kept Jason’s name out of the mess. He didn’t rat on his brother and claimed to have made the arrangements with Sophia himself. Why, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he wanted to deal with Jason himself. Or maybe he held some latent brotherly affection for the older brother who had been a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember. Or maybe he was just scared shitless.

Doc McHenry didn’t say a word as he worked over Zach. He grunted to himself as he applied ointment and something that burned like hell, then began stitching his shoulder back together and tended to the gash above his ear. Once satisfied with his stitches, he worked on Zach’s face. “You’re nose is broken again, kid, but it’ll give you character in your old age,” the doctor said, cleaning off the dried blood. Each time he touched Zach’s nose, Zach nearly passed out all over again. “This is something for the pain.” He found a hypodermic needle in his black bag, rolled down the waistband of Zach’s pants, and punched the needle into Zach’s butt. “And another tetanus booster.”

Zach refused to be mortified that McHenry had shown his ass to his father and several of Logan’s men. He didn’t give a damn what the old man or the doctor did to him. It wasn’t any worse than dealing with the cops.

Finally Detective Sergeant Jack Logan had his turn. Zach felt the skepticism in Logan’s eyes as he asked questions, noticed the way two officers shared a dubious look when he told them about the prostitute. No matter what he said, he knew they thought he was lying.

Even though Logan went through all the motions, recording the conversation while the officers took a few notes, Zach read the disbelief in the old policeman’s eyes.

“These men who attacked you,” Logan finally said as McHenry packed up his doctor’s bag. “Rudy and Joey?”

“That’s what they called each other.”

“You ever seen them before?”

“Never.”

“He’s got to go to the hospital,” the doctor interrupted.

Logan didn’t miss a beat. “Look, Doc, we’re trying to find Witt’s little girl. I shouldn’t have to tell you that time is critical. We just need Zach to come down to the station and look at a few pictures, that’s all.”

“I’d advise against it.”

Witt’s frown deepened. “Zach?”

His mouth tasted foul, his head thundered, and his shoulder throbbed like holy hell, but he nodded to his father. “I’ll go.”

There was nothing further McHenry could do. He pulled Witt aside, warned him about something, but Zach couldn’t make out what. They rode in a squad car to the police station and, seated in a small room with flickering fluorescent lighting and the thin smell of stale cigarettes and old coffee, Zach flipped through pages of mug shots and stared at black-and-white pictures through a haze of pain.

“What about this one?” an officer would ask and Zach would focus, only to shake his head. There were more people in the room than had been in the hotel. As the hours passed, officers would come and go, glancing at him as they strapped on weapons, took statements, or told dirty jokes.

“Him. What about him?”

The questions didn’t stop and Zach stared at photograph after photograph-grainy black-and-whites of men he’d never seen. He thumbed the pages, shook his head, and thumbed some more. His father was in the room, pacing, looking as if he wished he could tear someone, anyone, limb from limb.

The pictures started to look alike and swim before his eyes. His back ached and he felt as if he hadn’t slept for a hundred years. One officer sat on the corner of the table, watching his reactions, while another went out for coffee.

Zach slumped in his chair and craved a cigarette. The coffee didn’t help.

“That’s it. Nothing,” a burly officer said over a yawn as another, a slim woman who had just come on duty, started gathering the books.

“I guess Rudy and Joey weren’t processed here,” Officer Ralph O’Donnelly said as he squashed out the butt of his cigarette in his empty coffee cup.

“Rudy?” The woman glanced from Logan to Witt.

“Yeah, the kid, here, heard their names.” Officer O’Donnelly stood and stretched. His back popped loudly.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, searching through the books again and flipping one open. She shoved the open pages under Zach’s nose. “Look again.”

Every eye in the room was on Zach, as aching, he ran his finger under the pictures and forced his eyes to each face. They blurred for a second, but he kept looking and he felt the air in the room charge. “I don’t think-”

“Look again! Imagine your man clean-shaven or with different-colored hair or whatever,” Logan muttered angrily. “Let’s get an artist in here.”

Zach gritted his teeth, eyeing the mug shots, knowing that there wasn’t a clue on the page, when he stopped at a shot on the bottom row. The hair was different, longer now, and a beard and mustache in the photo covered what appeared to be a pockmarked jaw, but the eyes, the malicious eyes, were the same.

His throat barely worked as he laid a finger on the incriminating shot. “I think-”

“Rudolpho Gianotti,” the woman officer said with a satisfied grin. Zach got the impression she liked beating the men at their own game. “A speed-head who hangs out with Joseph Siri.”

“Hell,” Witt ground out. He strode across the room and glared at the mug shots. Red in the face, he trembled. “I bet they’re connected with Polidori.”

“Bingo,” the woman said. “The vice squad is checking them out-drugs and prostitution, maybe even some penny-ante gambling.”

“I told you!” Witt growled, kicking at the leg of the table. “When I get my hands on Polidori, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Let’s go!”

“Whoa!” the woman officer said. “We’re not talking about the old man. These guys”-she tapped a short-clipped nail on Rudy Gianotti’s mug shot-“are involved with the kid. Mario.”

Witt’s eyes darkened to the color of midnight. He hated the son as much as the old man. “Bring him in, Jack. Let’s talk to him.”

“We will,” Logan assured him, “but first, let’s find Gianotti and Siri. See what they have to say, what they know. Then we’ll round up Mario Polidori.”

“And his old man.”

“Maybe.”

Witt’s face twisted in ugly rage. “He’s behind it, Jack. I told you that from the beginning. He took my little girl and God only knows what’s happened to her.”

“Don’t worry, Wit, we’ll find her.” Logan’s voice lowered and Zach didn’t really care what was said. The room was spinning, his head reeled, and his bones seemed to melt. He blinked to stay awake, but blackness enveloped him. With a moan, he slid from the chair and lost consciousness.

Two days later, Zach woke up in a hospital room, his shoulder on fire, his mouth tasting like puke. He couldn’t breathe right because something-cotton wadding, he guessed-was rammed up his nostrils. Bandages swathed his head and held his shoulder together and everything reeked of antiseptic.

“You look awful.”

He turned quickly at the sound of Jason’s voice. Pain seared down his arm. Memories-Sophia, the thugs, the switchblade, and London-ran through his mind. “You bastard,” he said, his tongue thick. “You set me up.” He tried to rise up, yanking hard on the IV taped to the back of his hand.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Zach, I’m sorry. I had no idea that-”

“Liar!”

Jason squeezed his eyes shut for a second time. “It’s true, I knew I was in a little trouble with Sophia’s pimp.”

“A little trouble-those guys wanted to cut off my balls!” So angry he could barely talk, Zach silently swore at himself for being such a fool, falling into Jason’s lust-filled trap. “You make me sick!”

“I didn’t know they were going to be there.”

“Like hell!” Zach turned away and stared out the window. He could see the sky and the wake of a jet as it streamed across the blue vastness. Jaw clenched so tight it ached, he refused to look at his brother. The pillowcase felt rough against the wounds on his face and his head pounded. God, he hated hospitals. Almost as much as he hated Jason right now.

“Dad thinks Polidori’s behind London’s kidnapping.”

Zach didn’t respond. The feud between the Polidoris and the Danverses had existed for generations. Anything that went wrong in Witt’s life was quickly laid at the feet of Anthony Polidori, deserved or not.

“We haven’t heard anything new. Not even the FBI has an answer. No one’s asked for ransom and Jack Logan’s afraid that London may have been taken by some terrorist group.”

“Logan’s a prick.”

“But he has a point.” Jason walked around the end of the bed, forcing himself squarely in the middle of Zach’s line of vision. “Look, I know this all looks bad, Zach, and I feel…” His face screwed up as he searched for the right word. Shaking his head, he said, “…Well, I feel responsible, I guess.”

“You should.”

“But I really didn’t think they’d come after you.”

“You knew they’d be there.”

“No way, man! I swear. I only knew that Sophia was waiting for me. I had no idea that her pimp would be pissed off enough to send some goons with switchblades.” He tugged anxiously at the corner of his mustache. “You gotta believe me, Zach-if I’d had a clue, I wouldn’t have sent you to the Orion.”

Zach let out a sound of disgust.

Jason sighed loudly. “I don’t blame you for not believing me, ’cause the truth of the matter is, I’d already decided not to meet with Sophia. I would have avoided the place like the plague, but I didn’t think you’d get cut. I thought you’d get laid, that’s all. I swear it. You gotta believe me.”

Zach didn’t. He’d been a fool to trust Jason the first time and he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He shifted his gaze to the metal bureau near the bed.

“If I could change things, man, I would.” Jason thrust one hand into his pocket and rested the other on the bureau. “You may as well know, things are bad at home. Dad’s on the warpath against Polidori. Kat’s usually either drunk or on sleeping pills and Valium. And Trisha. Well, she’s a basket case, but what else is new?”

Jason moved into Zach’s limited field of vision but Zach wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up at his eyes.

“As for Nelson, you’re a hero in his eyes.”

Zach gritted his teeth.

“Yep,” Jason said, grabbing the jacket he’d draped over the back of the one chair in the room, “Nelson thinks that anyone who makes it with a whore, then gets cut by a switchblade, is some kind of hero.”

“Zach?” Her voice was familiar and brought back warm memories from a long, long time ago. In his mind he heard childish laughter and smelled the scents of cinnamon and hot chocolate and the jasmine of her perfume. Somewhere, maybe on the back porch, a dog barked. But it had been so long ago…

“I came as soon as I heard.”

Groggily, Zach opened an eye. The lamps had been dimmed. Only the night-light illuminated the hospital room, though from the window, the reflection from the security lights guarding the parking lot splashed against the wall. He squinted and saw a movement before he made out the features of a tall, big-boned woman in an expensive blouse and skirt. His mother, Eunice Patricia Prescott Danvers Smythe. She stood on the far side of the rails of his hospital bed. A dozen emotions riffled through him, none of which he wanted to examine too closely, and his head throbbed. “Wha-what’re you doing here?”

Her eyes were sad, filled with a lifetime of grief for the mistakes of her youth.

“Nelson called…explained what happened and I took the first flight out of San Francisco.” She reached across the rails and folded her long, cool fingers over his hand. Her grip was strong, the lines around her face desperate. “I’m so sorry this happened, Zach. Are you all right?”

He’d never been all right. They both knew it. “What do you care?” he said, drawing his hand away and forcing his thick tongue to form words.

She winced, but didn’t move. “I do care, Zach. I care lots. More than anyone you’ll ever meet.”

He snorted.

“You don’t believe that I love you,” she said, her voice losing all inflection. “You never did.”

He closed his eyes again and wished he had the strength to cover his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear her lies. If she’d loved him, really loved him, she wouldn’t have left him with Witt.

He didn’t reply, just pretended, as he had for years, that she didn’t exist. It was easier that way. Her rejection didn’t hurt anymore. He’d had a long time to recover and heal. She could say what she wanted, Witt had bought her off, paid her enough money so that she gave up her children.

“I thought you and I shared something special,” she said on a tremulous sigh. He felt, rather than saw, her move to the window. How long had it been since he’d trusted her? Eight years? Nine? Maybe never. “I hate to admit it, Lord knows a mother shouldn’t, but you’ve always been my favorite. Of all my children, you were the one closest to my heart.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mom. We both know you’ve never had a heart.”

Her intake of breath was swift. “Zachary, don’t you ever-” As quickly as her anger had come, it disappeared. “I suppose I deserved that.”

What a bunch of crap! Why didn’t she just shut up? Yet he couldn’t stop listening.

“I would never have left you, but…well, your father made sure I couldn’t get near you kids. You probably don’t believe this, but it was a horrible price to pay. I’ve regretted it…”

He closed his eyes. He wouldn’t trust her. She’d carried on her affair with Polidori for years, knowing the inevitable consequences. In Zach’s mind, she’d turned her back on her children, on her husband, on her life, for a fling with a man who used her just to get even with Witt. Zach didn’t believe for a minute that there had ever been any love between Anthony Polidori and his mother. No, what they’d shared was sex, pure and simple, and that thought turned his stomach. Polidori had chosen Eunice to best his opponent and Eunice had slept with her husband’s sworn enemy for a quick thrill in a life devoid of any kind of excitement. She’d had the affair to prove that she was still attractive to a man and to show her neglectful husband that she could still make her own decisions.

Zach had heard her rationalizations and deep in his heart he knew that she and Witt had never been happy. The house had always been tense while they were married, no safe refuge. He wondered how she’d become involved with Polidori, where she’d met him, who had taken the first step…but those were things children weren’t supposed to know and he figured he was better off left to his imagination.

“You judge me too quickly, Zach,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t know what it’s like to be lonely and ignored, to have your life sorted out and planned for you, to have to pretend to be happy when you’re not, to smile when you feel like crying your eyes out.”

He cracked a lid and saw that she’d rested her forehead on the window, her chin nearly touching her neck, her breath fogging the glass. She looked weary and he wondered if that aura of exhaustion was from her stormy marriage to Witt or her guilt over choosing her lover over her children, or because of her new marriage to one of the most well-recognized heart specialists in the country.

She glanced over, as if sensing that he was staring at her. “Don’t hate me, Zach,” she said, blinking and dabbing the tips of her fingers at the corners of her eyes. “Don’t hate me for loving you.”

“You don’t know what love is.”

“Oh, yes, I do. I know love and the pain it causes. Unfortunately, so will you. No one, not even you, will get through life without it.” She wrapped her arms around her middle section and rocked back on her heels. “You want to hate me, Zach, because it’s easy. I hurt you because I cheated on your father.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Well, I had to, do you understand? Witt was so…inconsiderate and he had other women, plenty of them before…Anyway, I met Anthony at a fund-raiser, he was charming and attentive and even though I knew I shouldn’t…well, that’s what started it,” she admitted. “So now you know. I suppose you still want to strike back at me. That’s understandable.”

“I don’t really give a shit.”

“Sure you do. Does it make any difference if I tell you I’m sorry?”

He didn’t bother responding.

“I’d do anything for you, Zach.” She sounded so sincere that he was tempted to trust her, but only for a second.

“What about sticking around? Was that too much to ask?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to.” His head was beginning to throb again.

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. When she spoke again, her tone was icy. “You know where to reach me, Zach. You can pretend all you want, but I know that life with your father isn’t easy for you. If you want to come to San Francisco and live with Lyle and me for a while, I’d-”

“No, thanks.” He didn’t need this. If Eunice had some latent maternal feelings, fine, but he didn’t want to hear about them. As far as he was concerned, she came up to see him only because her guilt was gnawing away at her again, the same as it did during each Christmas and some birthdays. She was a part-time mother at best and content to be no better.

“You might change your mind.” She was gathering up her purse and a navy jacket that she slung over one arm.

“I won’t.”

“Whatever you say, Zach, but I only came here because I love you.”

She walked out of the room, the scent of the same expensive perfume that he remembered from his earliest days trailing after her.

Pain and loneliness engulfed him but he fought it. He didn’t belong with anyone. His father didn’t trust him, his mother-despite her protests-didn’t love him, and he felt little kinship with his brothers and sisters. He thought of his stepmother in indecent terms and he didn’t have many friends-didn’t want them. And now London was missing. He was surprised how much it bothered him, thinking that she was small and scared and alone. He blinked rapidly and refused to cry. Not for his mother. Not for London. Not for himself. He’d shed enough tears when Eunice had walked out all those years ago; he wouldn’t be foolish enough to do it again.

He decided it was time to move on. As soon as he was well enough, he’d sell his car and…God, quit dreaming. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until this thing with London was straightened out; otherwise he’d look guilty as hell and half the cops in the state would be after him. But maybe, hopefully, by the time he was released, London would be found and home safely. Then no one would notice if he left.

He’d have to be patient, which wasn’t going to be easy. Patience had never been his long suit. But right now, he was stuck. There was just no damned way out.

9

Jack Logan didn’t like the Polidoris. Especially Anthony. Never had, never would.

He snapped in the cigarette lighter of his pride and joy, a 1969 Ford Galaxy two-door. Cherry red with an ivory top and horsepower that wouldn’t quit, the car was a gift from Witt Danvers-an expensive gift. Logan didn’t want to think of it as a bribe. Frowning as he caught a glimpse of his weathered face in the rearview mirror, he tried not to dwell on the fact that he, who was basically an honest cop, had been bought by Witt Danvers. Idling at a light near Seventeenth, he slid out a Marlboro from the pack he kept on the dash and stuck it between his lips. Truth to tell, he didn’t like Danvers much more than he did Polidori. The lighter clicked and he lit up as the light changed.

Logan didn’t trust people with money, especially rich people with political ambitions; at the top of his list of most untrustworthy were Anthony Polidori and Witt Danvers. Polidori was making noise about running for the state senate, and the Catholic and Italian voters were on his side; Witt had his eye on becoming mayor or governor, Logan suspected, and the WASPs in Portland would vote for him. Logan’s stomach turned at the thought. If things worked the way Witt hoped they would, Witt Danvers would end up as Logan’s boss. Hell, what a mess!

He wheeled the Ford through a yellow light on McLoughlin Boulevard and headed south, out of the city, toward Milwaukie, where an entire enclave of Italian truck farmers thrived for the better part of a century. The Polidoris had been vegetable vendors once, but they’d saved their money, invested in cheap land, sold their produce to the finest restaurants in Portland, and quietly amassed a fortune-not as large as the Danvers wealth, but substantial just the same.

Yep, Logan thought, drawing in a lungful of smoke, he’d love to see Anthony Polidori go down for the Danvers kidnapping. It would be fun to see that little creep squirm in the interrogation room. But it wasn’t going to happen. He knew it, Polidori knew it, and Witt Danvers, whether the stubborn old man wanted to admit it or not, knew it, too.

He flipped the ash from his cigarette out the window and stepped on the gas pedal. Ignoring the speed limits, he wheeled through the crooked streets of Milwaukie to the fir-lined drive leading to Waverley Country Club, where mansions and landscaped grounds surrounded the most elite country club in the city. Acres of lush greens and fairways were part of the exclusive club that sprawled along the eastern banks of the Willamette River.

Frowning slightly, Logan turned unerringly into the drive and waited at the gate for a security guard to determine if he should pass. Logan didn’t have time for any bullshit. He flipped open his wallet, showing his badge-which was a waste of time, as the guard knew who he was anyway-then stubbed out his cigarette in the tray.

With a whine of electrical gears, the gate slowly opened. Logan pushed on the throttle and the Galaxy rolled past rose gardens and fountains to the rambling manor.

Anthony Polidori met him at the front door. A short man with a widening girth, thin mustache, dark eyes that flashed when he was angry, and teeth rimmed in gold, he motioned Logan into a vestibule the size of which would hold all of Logan’s little bungalow in Sellwood.

“Don’t bother explaining why you’re here,” Polidori said, ushering him through double doors of polished dark wood. “I know it’s about the Danvers girl again.” With a wave toward a tucked leather chair, he strode to the bar, splashed three fingers of Irish whiskey into each of two cut-crystal glasses, and handed a drink to Logan.

The smoky scent of the whiskey tickled Logan’s nostrils, but he left the glass on the corner of Polidori’s massive desk. He longed for the drink, but managed to hide it. “Your name keeps coming up.”

“So I’ve been told.” Polidori didn’t bother sitting, just stood near the leaded glass windows and stared at the view of the river. “Your men have been here daily. You know I’m a patient man, but even I consider this a waste of my time and the taxpayers’ money. There’s nothing more I can tell them or you. Call them off, Logan. Tell them to go after the real criminals.”

Logan didn’t bother replying. Let the jerk talk. He was on a roll.

“I’m surprised you showed up in person.”

“I wasn’t satisfied with Taylor’s report. It, uh, seemed incomplete.”

Polidori sighed. “Look, Logan, I had nothing to do with that little girl’s disappearance.”

“Cut the crap,” Logan said in a voice so low, he didn’t recognize it as his own.

Polidori’s dark eyes flashed. “You don’t believe me, either.”

“Let’s just get down to it. Two of your goons attacked Zachary Danvers, messed him up bad enough to send him to the hospital, and, at about the same time little London Danvers and her nanny disappeared. Coincidence?”

“Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“You tell me.”

“I had nothing to do with either incident,” Polidori insisted, then strode to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Nothing.”

Logan didn’t believe a word of it. “Maybe you’d like to know why we’re riding you so hard. I’ve got a pretty long memory and I remember you making some pretty rash statements when your old man died.”

“That was years ago.”

Without blinking, Logan stared him down. “You made no bones about the fact that you blamed Julius Danvers, Witt’s father, for that accident at the restaurant.”

Anthony’s face flushed.

“You swore vengeance on the whole Danvers clan.”

The corners of Polidori’s mouth tightened but his eyes shone with a hate so pure it chilled Logan’s leather-tough soul. “That was years ago. Julius Danvers-”

“Is dead.”

“-was a murdering bastard. He killed my father, Logan. You and I and all of Portland know it. He hired one of his thugs to pour some kerosene in the hotel and the whole damned thing went up in flames.” His nostrils flared as he leaned closer to the detective. “That inferno killed seven people. The only reason more didn’t lose their lives is because the hotel was closed that weekend. Someone who knew my father would be there gambled. And won.”

“Or your old man set it himself to collect the insurance.” Logan loved playing devil’s advocate.

Polidori’s jaw clenched. “He was killed, Logan. He was knocked over the head and left in his office in the hotel while kerosene was poured all around and over his body and then someone just struck a match and dropped it. I’ll never know if my father died unconscious or if he was awake, screaming and writhing, feeling the agony of hot flames eating away his flesh. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder.” He sipped his drink and caught Logan’s gaze in the mirror over the bar. “Stephano was a decent man. A faithful husband. A good father. And he was turned into a human torch by Julius Danvers. Witt knew all about it.”

“Conjecture.”

Polidori’s smile turned deadly. “How much is he paying you to keep you in his corner, Jack? Whatever it is, it isn’t enough.”

A muscle ticked in Logan’s jaw. He thought about reaching for his drink, but settled back in the chair, hoping to appear unruffled. “Let’s get back to Witt’s little girl. Where is she?”

“I don’t know. As I said before, there’s nothing I can tell you.”

“You didn’t decide to finally extract your revenge by stealing the kid?”

“Get serious.” Polidori snorted, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his glass.

“What better way to make Witt twist in the wind than by stealing his daughter? You couldn’t do anything that would hurt him more.”

“Trust me, I didn’t do it. Now, if you’re going to continue to badger me, I’m calling my lawyer.” He walked to his desk and reached for the phone.

“I don’t believe you.” Logan’s voice was flat and he stared at Polidori so hard he noticed the tiny beads of sweat collecting at the old man’s graying sideburns. He was guilty as hell. But of what?

“Doesn’t matter what you believe, Jack. It’s what you can prove. Now, either you’re here for a social visit and if you are, mind your manners and drink the whiskey I so graciously offered you. If you’re here on police business, you’d better charge me with something or get the hell out of my house.”

Jack didn’t budge. Now he was getting somewhere. Polidori had lost his cool. “Joey Siri and Rudy Gianotti worked for you.”

“Not recently.”

“Then they worked for your boy.”

Polidori’s calm face flushed red and he leaned across the desk. “Leave Mario out of this,” he ordered, his lips barely moving beneath his neatly trimmed mustache.

“He could be in it up to his eyeballs,” Logan replied. “Rumor has it he was involved with the Danvers girl-the older one-a few years back. She was underage at the time-sixteen, if memory serves-when the romance went sour.”

Polidori’s nostrils flared. “My boy was in Hawaii when the little girl turned up missing.”

“Convenient.”

“He knows nothing about the kidnapping.”

“Everyone in town knows about it, Tony. It’s been in all the papers, even hit national television. I’ll even bet it made it into the news on Waikiki.” He pinned Polidori with one of his hard-ass, bad-cop stares. “The way I see it, someone just wanted to fuck Witt Danvers. So I’ve been checking into things, digging up people who have a grudge against the guy, and guess whose name keeps showing up at the top of the list?”

“I don’t need to listen to this.” Polidori reached for the phone.

“Is Mario around? I’d like to talk to him.” Logan finally felt that he had the upper hand. He reached for his drink. So he was on duty. What the hell.

“You have nothing to say to Mario.”

“I can talk to him here,” Logan said, rimming his glass with his finger. “Or I can cuff him and haul him down to the station.” He frowned thoughtfully, as if considering. “Still a lot of reporters hanging around there. Hungry guys. Looking for a story. But it’s your choice.”

“You’re a pig, Logan.”

“And you’re a liar.” He leveled his gaze at the shorter man in the expensive suit. “So what else is new?’

Polidori dropped the receiver and straightened his jacket. Logan could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. God, it felt good to make the bastard sweat a little.

“If Mario cooperates here, I probably won’t have to run him in. If not-” Logan lifted his huge shoulders and watched Polidori over the rim of his glass. The whiskey was expensive. Smooth and warm, it burned a familiar and welcome path to his stomach. “-Well, it wouldn’t look too good in the society papers if all that old trash about your son was brought up again.” He smiled into his glass. “Scandals have a way of raising their ugly heads time and time again. People in this town have long memories.”

Polidori’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “You’ll keep this quiet?”

“I might be a pig, but I don’t lie.”

With a snort of disbelief, Polidori dropped into an oxblood chair, pressed a buzzer hidden in the drawer of his desk, and a guard appeared. After a rapid-fire exchange of Italian in which Mario’s name was repeated several times, the guard slipped away. Logan sipped his drink. Within minutes, Mario appeared in the doorway.

About twenty-six, he was taller than his father by a full head and his eyes were a lighter shade of brown. Curly dark hair, easy smile-the playboy son of the rich father. When he wasn’t racing cars, or sailing the Caribbean, Mario ran the family restaurant downtown. And he was edgy. A restless energy kept him moving. Drugs? Adrenaline? Or plain old, kick-you-in-the-gut fear?

Anthony motioned toward Logan’s chair. “You know Detective Sergeant Logan.”

“We’ve met,” Mario said, his gaze flicking toward Logan for only a second. Logan didn’t bother to get up.

“He thinks you might know something about the Danvers kidnapping.”

“In your dreams, Jack,” Mario said, resting a jean-encased hip against the edge of the desk. His foot never stopped bouncing nervously. “I was in Hawaii.”

“You know Joey Siri and Rudy Gianotti.”

“They used to work for me.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever I asked,” Mario said with a charming smile of even white teeth. “Mainly odd jobs down at the restaurant. I fired Rudy six months ago-he was into drugs, uppers and downers. Caught him dealing and cut him loose. Joey had a fit, claimed he wouldn’t stick around if I let Rudy go. So I fired him, too.” He shoved away from the desk, moved to the window. Avoided the policeman’s gaze.

“That was it? You’ve never seen them again?” Logan finished his drink.

Mario lifted a shoulder. “I’ve seen them around. Some of the guys who work for me know ’em, but Rudy and Joey stay clear and I like it that way.”

“You know Zach Danvers claimed they attacked him?”

Mario’s shoulders bunched. “Zach Danvers lies.”

“Not this time.” Logan pretended interest in his empty glass. “Rumor had it that you and Trisha Danvers were…well, involved.”

Almost imperceptibly, the corners around the younger Polidori’s mouth tightened. “I know her.”

“The way I heard it, you knocked her up.”

“What’s your point, Logan?” Mario’s eyes snapped with an inner fury as dark as hell. Despite all his wealth, the boy carried one helluva chip on his muscular shoulders.

“Somehow Danvers put a stop to it. Wouldn’t let his daughter be seen with a Polidori. Made sure she never had the kid.” Logan set his empty glass on the desk.

“Is that so?”

“I don’t know all the details, but I’m looking into them. My guess is you’ve got plenty of motive to get back at Witt Danvers.”

“Lots of people in this town would like to see Danvers go down,” Anthony said from his position behind the desk.

Logan lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Some more than others.”

“I was in Hawaii. On business. At the time of the attack on Zach Danvers. I was-”

“I know, sipping Mai Tais on the beach in Waikiki.” Logan set his glass on the desk. “But somehow Joey and Rudy messed up Zach Danvers and at the same time his kid sister and nanny were abducted.”

“My money’s still on Zachary.” Mario’s smile had turned cold. He shifted on the desk. “It’s no secret that Zach hates Witt. If you ask me, he staged the whole thing about the attack against him to get back at his father. If you want to find out what happened to London, talk to Zach.”

“You think Dad would go to this much trouble if anyone else had been abducted?” Trisha demanded, her blue eyes cloudy with anger. “No way. He’s in a state because it’s London!”

Zach didn’t want to hear it. Stretched out on a chaise near the pool, he closed his eyes behind the lenses of his sunglasses and wished Trisha would just go away. No such luck. She set up her easel in the shade from the old-growth fir trees that towered along the brick wall rimming the grounds. Sunlight dappled the grass and reflected off the water as Trisha adjusted a three-legged stool, trying to catch the right light.

The day was sweltering. Heat rose in waves that shimmered off the concrete near the pool house. Zach’s head throbbed and his shoulder ached. He was recovering, but slowly. He grabbed his can of Coke and smiled to himself because he’d had the foresight to pour “the real thing” out of the can and fill it with Colt 45 malt liquor from a bottle he’d taken from the refrigerator. He’d probably get caught, but he really didn’t care. He took a long swallow of the ale and felt it cool against the back of his throat. In a few minutes, he’d relax. In the meantime he’d ignore his sister.

“Dad’s fit to be tied because the police and the FBI can’t find out who’s behind it,” she said, smudging her charcoal drawing with the tip of her finger. “He wants to blame the Polidoris just because those two guys who attacked you worked for them once.”

Why was she bothering him? Zach had only been home from the hospital for four days and this was the first time he’d ventured out of his room. He’d decided to rest by the pool because the four walls were closing in on him and he was going out of his mind staring at posters of Jimi Hendrix and Ali McGraw.

“Mom called the other day to see how you were doing…but you were sleeping or something.”

He didn’t want to think about his mother. Eunice. Some mother she’d turned out to be. A mother shouldn’t admit this, Zach, but you’ve always been my favorite. Her words still echoed in his mind. His chest was suddenly tight and he had trouble saying, “She stopped by the hospital.”

“And you wouldn’t talk to her.”

“Nothin’ to say.”

“Christ, Zach, you can be such a prick,” Trisha said, frowning at the image on her easel.

“Family trait.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.” If she only knew. He reached onto the table and flipped on his transistor radio, hoping that music, hard rock, would drive her away. The radio crackled with static before he found a station blasting an old Rolling Stones hit. The throbbing beat of “Satisfaction” echoed over the aquamarine water.

“I can’t get no…no, no, no, no…”

“I can’t hear myself think with that blaring at me!”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t give a damn if she was stone deaf, he just hoped she’d quit yammering at him. He needed to be left alone. And he didn’t want to think about his mother. Or London. Or anything. He took another gulp of the brew. Most of the time he felt that everyone, including Trisha, was pumping him for information about the kidnapping, as if they could make him slip up and admit that he’d taken the kid. But why? And how? And where?

He didn’t trust anyone named Danvers. Maybe there was some truth about Polidori blood running through his veins, he thought with a sarcastic grimace. Wouldn’t that be something-if he really turned out to be Anthony Polidori’s son after all these years? It would explain a helluva lot-why he was Eunice’s favorite, for crying out loud. But he didn’t like the idea. Not a bit. It was true that Witt was a class A-1 bastard, no doubt about it, but Polidori was no better. For years the police had tried to connect him to organized crime.

“Turn that thing off!” Trisha screamed.

Zach ignored her request. “They have any luck trying to track down Ginny Slade’s relatives?” he asked. Jason had told him how they’d torn the nanny’s room apart. She seemed to be the key in the kidnapping. Her references had proved false and her family had all but disappeared.

“Not that I know.” Trisha angled her head, wrinkling her nose as she eyed her work. “But no one thinks she was in on it, otherwise she would have demanded money. And her checking account hasn’t been touched. Still has a couple of hundred dollars in it. She’s got savings, too, over at First National, I think. Nearly a thousand dollars. Still there.”

“How do you know so much?”

Trisha glanced at him a second. “I listen. At keyholes and open doors and air shafts.”

For the first time, Zach was interested in what his sister had learned. For years he’d thought Trisha totally self-absorbed. He assumed that she didn’t care about anything other than herself, her manicure, and her latest boyfriend or a new mind-expanding high. Though lately, come to think of it, she hadn’t gone out much. After the fiasco with Mario Polidori…Zach squinted at his sister. She was pretty, he supposed, with her thick reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. She wore too much makeup and her clothes too tight, but there was something about her that was appealing. For the most part, though, she was a pain in the ass.

At twenty, she was still taking art classes, had moved out of the house three or four times and had always returned with a broken heart, busted for drugs, or flat broke. Sometimes all three. The drug busts-mainly marijuana and once in a while a little hash-were handled discreetly and without arrest by good ol’ Detective Jack of the Portland police, and Witt had always covered her bad checks and escalating credit card balances. The broken hearts weren’t so easily mended. Trisha had a long track record of picking losers. Including Mario Polidori.

No matter what the circumstances of her latest source of rebellion, Trisha always returned-tail between her legs, fingers stretched toward Daddy’s wallet. Zach figured it was because the world, with its demand of rent and electricity payments, was too difficult for his sister. She was better off having Daddy pay the bills.

He leaned back in the chaise and regarded her. Already, she had a pinched set to her mouth that reminded him of his mother. In the past few years, ever since the Polidori mess, Trisha had changed. Zach didn’t know exactly what had happened between Mario and her, but he’d heard arguments that had reverberated through the timbers of the old house and Zach had guessed that Mario Polidori had used his sister to get back at Witt. Trisha had been an innocent, but more than willing, accomplice in the war of hate that had existed between the families for nearly a century. The feud didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. Not that Zach cared.

“You know, Zach,” Trisha said, spinning her easel around so he could see her work, a caricature of him as a laid-up, unshaven, generally slovenly teenager lying on a chaise lounge and swilling Coke. A blaring radio and can of Colt 45 were propped on a nearby table. “You’d better be careful.”

“Very funny,” he remarked, pointing at her picture.

“I’m not the only one who can see through you, you know.” She stuffed her charcoal back in its box. “Kat and Dad, they’re on to you. There’s a lot of talk about boarding school or sending you off to the ranch to and I quote, ‘work his butt off and keep him out of trouble.’”

“No way,” he responded. He gazed up at the thin clouds moving in from the west.

“Any way you look at it, boarding school or shoveling shit at the Lazy M beats MacLaren,” she said, mentioning the Oregon school for underage male criminals.

“Is that where they think I’ll end up?”

“I don’t know what they think, but it’s my guess, Zach. You haven’t exactly been easy to live with since you got out of the hospital and that stunt with the reporters-”

He grinned, rubbing the swollen knuckles of his fist with his other hand.

“-you’re not winning friends.”

“The guy deserved it.” Zach could still hear questions, see the cameras pointed at him as he’d tried to get out of Witt’s Lincoln and away from the reporter who had appeared from behind the hedge.

“Can you explain why you were attacked on the night your half-sister-”

He’d reacted and his fist had slammed into the guy’s jaw with a bone-jarring crunch. Blood had spurted. Pain had ricocheted up Zach’s arm and the man had fallen, groaning to the ground. There was already talk of a lawsuit.

Now, as if reading her brother’s thoughts, Trisha sighed and gathered up her easel.

“You think I kidnapped London?” he asked, telling himself he didn’t care one way or the other.

Shaking hear head and staring pointedly at the scar that still edged his face, she said, “I don’t know what you did that night, but you’re not telling the truth…not all of it, and you’re going to end up taking the blame for this one unless you come clean.”

The muscles in the back of his neck tightened because he’d thought the same thing. “Since when are you the goddess of virtue?” He took another gulp of beer, drained the Coke can and crumpled it in his fist.

Trisha pinned him with eyes that had seen too much pain for so short a life. “You don’t know anything about me, Zach. You’ve never even tried to get to know me, have you? Look, I was just trying to do you a favor, but forget it.” She headed back to the house. “I made a mistake. It’s your funeral.”

Katherine’s eyelids stuck together. Her mouth tasted like she’d been licking an ashtray and her head pounded above her temples. She forced one eye open and sunlight streaming through a partially open window, nearly blinded her. Groaning, she rolled over and wondered about the sadness that was a horrible weight on her heart.

She was in her own bedroom and…Oh, God…the reality came crashing back to her fragile brain. London was gone, abducted nearly two-or was it three?-weeks before. Desperation, like the horrid beast it was, clawed at her from the inside. She needed a cigarette. With numb fingers she reached to the bed table and found an empty pack of Virginia Slims, which she flung onto the floor. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t take this, day after day. The bumbling policemen, the useless FBI, and the media. Damn the media. The few reporters who had gotten past the guards had asked questions that made her heart bleed and the fire in their eyes, all looking for a story, and insensitive to her pain…No wonder Zach had punched out a reporter and broken a photographer’s camera as he’d returned to the house from the hospital.

She stood on unsteady legs, then drew the drapes open a little farther. Two squad cars and a plain, stripped-down Chevrolet were scattered on the circular drive. Farther away, past the sloping front lawns and tended rose gardens, she caught a glimpse of the front gates where the vultures gathered. Two or three cars were parked in the shade of an ancient oak that spread its branches over the brick wall which kept the scavengers at bay.

“I hope you all rot in hell,” she muttered, letting the drapes fall back into place.

What time was it? Bleary eyes focused on the clock. Two in the afternoon. She’d slept seventeen hours, drugged by Doc McHenry’s sleeping pills and God-only-knew what else. Somehow, some way, she’d have to pull herself together. With or without London.

That thought caused her knees to buckle and she grasped the edge of the bureau to steady herself. She’d find her baby. She had to. She couldn’t trust the federal government or the police, and Witt, well, he hadn’t been much help. The fact that he would no longer sleep with her, insisting that she needed her rest, bothered her. She knew the real reason. He was afraid that she would require more than a pat on the head, that she might need a kiss, a hug, even her husband to make love to her to comfort her.

God, she needed a cigarette.

Running her tongue over filmy teeth, she forced herself into the bathroom, where she stripped off the nightgown that she’d worn for days and turned on the shower. Before stepping under the hot spray, she got a glimpse of her reflection and cringed. No makeup, hair lank, her once-curvy body beginning to look gaunt from lack of food. Hazily she remembered Maria, the cook, coming into her room, trying to force soup of some kind down her throat.

In all her life, Katherine had never once let herself go; she believed that her greatest commodity was her body and she spent hours in the gym, with a masseuse, at the hairdresser, having her nails manicured. Her clothes were always flattering-a little sexy, but classy and pressed.

But now she looked like hell.

She stepped into the warm spray and let the hot water run over her hair and skin. Closing her eyes against the dark depression that settled over her whenever she thought of London, she leaned against the slick tiles. She couldn’t let this get her down because she was London’s only chance. If she gave up on her daughter, everyone else would as well.

Sobs burned deep in her throat and, telling herself that she could allow herself the freedom to cry, to grieve a little by herself, she let the tears drizzle down her cheeks, their salty tracks mingling with the rivulets from the shower as the steam billowed around her.

As long as she was alone, she could wail and scream and gnash her teeth in frustration, but when she was with the others, then she had to pretend to be strong.

An hour later she’d made it downstairs. Her hair was washed, blown dry and brushed until it shined, her teeth were polished, her makeup impeccable, her shorts and top a blue that matched her eyes. She grabbed some orange juice from the refrigerator, ignored Maria’s pleas that she eat breakfast, and found out that Witt and the police were holed up in the den with strict orders not to be disturbed. Fine. Turning her back to Maria, she splashed a couple of shots of vodka into her juice, swallowed two double-strength Excedrin, reached for a new pack of cigarettes, and tucked the Wall Street Journal under her arm.

She was ready, or so she thought, but the intensity of the daylight made her reach for the sunglasses she kept in a drawer near the French doors. Outside, there wasn’t a breath of breeze and the sun beat mercilessly against the cement and brick that skirted the pool.

She heard a noise, glanced up, and realized, as she passed by the ferns and rhododendrons flanking the path, that Zachary was swimming laps. He knifed through the water like an athlete and his wounds, still visible against his tanned skin, had healed enough to allow him easy, even strokes.

A knot of something akin to desire unwound in Katherine’s stomach. Of all of Witt’s children, Zachary held the most appeal. He didn’t look like the rest of the Danvers brood-his skin was a darker shade, he was more muscular in build, and his eyes were a stormy gray rather than the clear blue that seemed to be a Danvers trademark.

His nose wasn’t straight and arrogant like Witt’s, but Katherine had decided that was because it had been broken at least three times-once recently on that horrid night when London was abducted, once during a motorcycle accident, and another time during a fistfight in junior high. The kid had been twice Zach’s size but had left with two black eyes and a swollen cock when Zach’s pointed boot had connected with the kid’s groin. Zach had gotten the worst of it; not only had his nose been broken but his ribs as well, and the boy’s father, a lawyer, had threatened to sue. Fortunately, Witt had bought him off-which was exactly what the lawyer-father had hoped for.

Irreverent and sexy as hell, Zach was attractive on more than one level. Katherine dropped onto a chaise lounge, propped up her feet, and watched her stepson glide through the water. Sleek, sinewy muscles, damp and gleaming in the sunlight, moved effortlessly. She wondered if his skin was tanned everywhere or if, beneath the ragged cutoffs, his buttocks were a lighter shade.

Since she’d taken her marriage vows, Katherine had never been unfaithful to Witt. Even in the past few years when he’d all but stopped trying to make love to her, she’d ignored the desire that curled restlessly through her blood when she saw a particularly interesting male. She’d had opportunities, plenty of them over the years-some suggested by Witt’s closest friends-but she’d laughed off the passes as if they were bad jokes and never given in to the lust that had some nights nearly driven her mad.

But she was tempted by Zachary. No doubt about it. She wasn’t alone. He could protest it as loudly as he wanted, but he was attracted to her. The last time they’d been together, when her temper had gotten the better of her and she’d forced him to dance with her at Witt’s party, she’d felt the hardness between his legs, saw the stain of embarrassment on his cheeks, knew that he’d responded to her.

Stop it! He’s Witt son, for crying out loud! Your stepson! With shaking fingers she peeled the cellophane from her pack of cigarettes, shook out a Virginia Slim, and lit up. He didn’t look her way, didn’t acknowledge that she was near the pool, just kept swimming as if he would never stop.

Blowing smoke to the sky, she tried to turn her thoughts away from her secret attraction to Zach. However, if she wasn’t considering his seduction, her mind turned back to London and the deep depression that enveloped her whenever she thought of her little girl. Where was she? Still alive? Huddled and scared? Or dead already, brutally murdered? Oh, God, she couldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t! “London,” she whispered, her eyes filling with sudden tears again.

She took a long sip from the cool orange juice and hoped the vodka would calm her nerves. If only someone would hold her, place strong arms around her, whisper in her ear that everything would be all right…that London was safe and would be returning home. The inside of her chest seemed to cave in on itself.

She needed someone. Anyone. Zach.

Gritting her teeth against the mind-paralyzing fear that had been her constant companion for weeks, she snapped the paper open and pretended interest in the bond market when all the while she watched Zach over the top of the newspaper. Her eyes were hidden by her sunglasses and she was certain that Zach didn’t know that as she stared at him, she was beginning to plan his seduction.

Zach’s lungs burned and his shoulder was beginning to ache. He’d been in the pool fifteen minutes, hoping Kat would finish her drink and leave, but he’d had no such luck. It looked as if she’d parked herself indefinitely. He was relieved she’d finally emerged. It was weird for her to be locked in her room, hardly venturing out.

But then, these days, everything at the house was weird. The cops and FBI, the reporters clustered around the gates, Witt’s quiet rage and Kat’s isolation. Jason had moved back to the house and paced like a caged animal; Nelson, after following him around for a few days, had holed up in his room.

Zach didn’t trust anyone and thought people were always staring at him, as if he had any idea what had happened to London and the damned nanny.

Surfacing, he tossed the water from his hair and took in a huge gulp of air. He hoisted himself out of the pool and stood dripping because his towel was at the other end, near Kat, and ever since the party he’d wanted to avoid her. He was uncomfortable around her, partly because being near her reminded him of his fear for London, but partly because he was embarrassed about what had happened on the dance floor that night. He was even more humiliated because Kat knew that he’d gone to a hooker. A whore. Like he had to pay for it!

He’d had plenty of chances with girls his age, but he hadn’t been interested in some giggling ninny who would let him touch her tits in exchange for his class ring or some such garbage. Girls were always looking to fall in love and he wasn’t interested. He didn’t believe in love and knew he never would love anyone. His parents and his siblings had convinced him that love was a foolish notion. It just plain didn’t exist.

The cement was hot against the bottoms of his feet as he jogged the length of the pool and snatched up his towel. He was still sore and knew with his bruises and scar, he looked like hell.

Kat glanced up and offered him a blinding smile that caused his diaphragm to slam into his lungs. “You’re feeling better,” he said weakly, knowing she expected conversation.

“Yeah.”

She lifted her sunglasses to squint up at him. God, she was beautiful. Her lips were a slick, glossy pink and her cheekbones were carved gently. Standing above her, he could see down the column of her throat and lower still to the deep cleft between her breasts. Her tan line, faded somewhat, was still visible and if she moved just the right way, he was certain he’d catch a glimpse of her nipples. “No permanent damage?” she asked, as if she really cared.

“Looks that way.” He swiped the towel over his face and through his hair, trying to ignore the raw sensuality that seemed to radiate from her. Hell, why was she looking at him like that?

“That’s good. I was worried about you.” She stretched and the motion seemed somehow feline in the hot sun. A hot summer breeze kissed the back of his neck.

“Were you?” He didn’t believe her and he was suddenly wary.

She swallowed and licked her lips. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. “Yes…there’s so much that’s happened, some of it so awful.” Tears moistened her eyes and for the life of him he felt sorry for her. “Anyway, I know I’ve treated you badly-that display at the hotel was uncalled for. I was drunk and angry and…oh, God, Zach…I’m making a mess of this, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,” he said, feeling his face turning a darker shade of red.

“I will. If you’ll forgive me.”

Jesus, what was going on here? He cleared his throat and glanced at the shadows shifting beneath the trees. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” Again the smile, though this time there were teardrops drizzling down her cheeks and he realized how devastated she was about the loss of her child.

He felt awkward and stupid for even thinking about her in any way sexual. She was grieving, for Christ’s sake. Nervously, he knotted the towel in his hands. “I…uh, look, don’t worry about London. She’ll turn up.”

“You think so?” She sounded so hopeful.

Did he do that-give her a sense of false hope about a poor little girl who might already be dead? He felt absolutely wretched. “I dunno, but…everybody’s looking for her…” It sounded lame, even to his own ears, and he noticed the ghost of pain crossing her eyes. Hell, he was just no good at this!

She reached up and grabbed his hand with hers. Heat swirled up his arm. “I hope so, Zach,” she whispered, blinking hard as her fingers tightened over his. A jolt of electricity kicked his heart into high gear. She looked so young suddenly, so vulnerable and small. He had to remind himself that this was Kat. “God, I hope so.” She used his arm as a brace and climbed to her feet, her body only inches from his. He barely noticed the lingering pain from his beating.

To his utter amazement, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss over his cheek. “Thanks for understanding, Zach. I needed a friend.” He turned his face, staring into her eyes, feeling her moist, smoky breath against his skin, half expecting her to kiss him again, but she smiled sadly and let go of his arm, then picked up her things and walked back to the house.

He was left standing by the pool, dripping, and wondering what the hell had just gone on.

Pain, as hot as if it erupted straight from the bowels of hell, shot through Witt’s chest. For a second he couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone had locked their fingers over his throat and was strangling him. Where were the pills? He yanked open the desk drawer and saw the vial in the pencil rack. Agony tore at his heart as he managed to retrieve the nitroglycerin pills and shove one under his tongue. He was nearly gasping now and waiting, his elbows propped on the leather desk pad, his head resting in his palms. Sweat broke out over his forehead and the damned intercom began to buzz impatiently. He didn’t answer and knew that Shirley, his secretary of more than twenty years, would get the message.

The buzzer stopped and five minutes later, he was collected again-the angina had passed and he straightened his tie. No one save McHenry knew about his condition and he planned on keeping his secret to himself. Witt hated weakness and this heart condition was just that…a sign that he wasn’t as strong as he once had been.

He reached for his humidor, opened the lid, and the heavy scent of Havana tobacco wafted to his nostrils. He grabbed a cigar, wedged it between his teeth, but didn’t light up. Not now. Not after the angina attack.

He pushed the intercom button, learned that Roger Phelps was waiting in the reception area of the offices of Danvers International, and growled at Shirley to show him in. Disgusted, he didn’t bother lighting up though he longed for a few relaxing lungfuls of smoke.

Within minutes Phelps was seated on the opposite side of Witt’s desk. He looked like Joe Average. Tan slacks, brown jacket, off-white shirt, and nondescript, department-store tie. His face wasn’t noteworthy, just even features with the beginnings of jowls that matched the paunch developing at his belt line. Witt was more than a little disappointed in the man who had supposedly been an agent with the CIA before dropping out of the government to do independent work.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Danvers?” Phelps said in a nasal voice. He hiked up his pants a bit and Witt noticed that his shoes-cheap loafers, from the looks of them-were scuffed.

“You must’ve guessed why I wanted you. My daughter, London, was kidnapped. The police and FBI are incompetent jerks. Don’t have a clue where my daughter is and it’s been damned close to a month.”

Phelps didn’t comment.

“You come highly recommended.”

A lift of a shoulder.

Witt was growing irritated. “Tell me why I should pay you when the government and the police seem to be baffled?”

Phelps’s expression changed slightly and Witt was reminded of a wolf with his nose to the wind, scenting a wounded doe. “Simple. You want her found.”

“And you can do that?” Witt settled back in his chair. Maybe there were more layers to Phelps than met the eye.

“If I don’t, you owe me nothing besides my retainer.”

“Of ten thousand dollars.”

“Cheap, isn’t it?” He set his untouched coffee on the edge of Witt’s desk. “All I ask is that your family comes clean with me. No secrets. No lies. No skeletons tucked into closets.”

“Fair enough. You can question everyone here while we’re still in Portland, but you may as well know that I’m moving them-even the older kids-to the ranch near Bend. I’m not going to chance losing another one. Zachary-” He scowled when he thought of his middle son. Always the rebel. Always cocksure. Always in trouble. “-he’s going first, but he doesn’t know it yet. The rest of the family will follow in a couple of weeks. So you’d better start with him.”

“He’s the one with the phony story about the hooker.”

Witt’s back went up. “The story was true. The police talked to the girl…Sophia something or other.”

“Costanzo. I already spoke with her.”

Witt moved the unsmoked cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “What’d she say?”

“Same thing she said to the police. Not much. Gives your kid his alibi, but I have the feeling she’s lying.”

“A feeling?” Witt was skeptical.

“Believe me, she’s not telling everything she knows.” He smiled grimly. “But that won’t be a problem. I’ll handle her. And as for Zach, I’ll talk to him, see what he says-maybe he’ll slip up. I’ll catch everyone else before you send them packing.” He pulled out a notepad from the inner pocket of his jacket, scribbled quickly, then frowned slightly, wrinkles lining his brow. “What about your wife? Can I reach her here or is she going to the ranch with your kids?”

Witt hesitated just a second. He’d been wrestling with this decision, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. She needed to get away. “Katherine will be at the ranch.” Why sending her to central Oregon was a relief to him, he didn’t understand, but he hoped the change of scenery would do her some good.

Phelps cocked his head at an angle. “And you?”

“I’ve got a business to run, Phelps.” Already the man was getting on his nerves. “You can reach me here.”

“Good.” Phelps folded his hands over his thickening girth. “There’s only one thing I want from you, Danvers, and that’s honesty, from you and your family.”

“You’ve got it,” Witt agreed, anxious for the interview to be over. This blend-into-the-woodwork guy was giving him a case of the creeps, but Witt needed him. He needed someone to help him find London. The police were beginning to look like a bunch of bumbling idiots and the FBI wasn’t any better. A darkness settled into his soul and he wondered if he was being punished. He didn’t much believe in God, though he attended church, but he’d committed more than his share of sins.

“But maybe you don’t really get it,” Phelps said, cutting into his thoughts. He leaned forward and pinned Witt with eyes that had suddenly come alive. “If I find out that a member of your family is behind this, then I expect to be paid anyway.”

“You will be,” Witt agreed, though his collar seemed to tighten around his throat like one of those chains you slip around the neck of a guard dog.

Phelps managed a phony grin and Witt felt as if he’d pulled on that invisible chain. “Good. Just so we understand each other.”

10

A dry wind blew across the stubble of the fields, bringing dust and chaff and the thin smell of diesel from the tractor rumbling along the hillside beyond a ragged copse of pine trees. Digging in the heels of his boots, Zach stretched the barbed wire between the posts, his muscles straining with the effort. Sweat stained the red bandanna he’d rolled and tied around his head. The sun was relentless, but Zach didn’t care.

“Hang in there,” Manny, the ranch foreman called. “Hold tight and I’ll tie ’er off.”

For the first time in weeks, Zach felt free. His wounds had nearly healed and he loved the ranch, three thousand acres northwest of Bend in central Oregon. Sheltered by the eastern foothills of the Cascade Mountains, the Danvers spread stretched as far as the eye could see. Unlike the brick-walled fortress of the Danvers home in the west hills of Portland, the Lazy M was wild and open and touched the vagabond spirit of Zach’s soul.

He’d been sent here just after being interrogated by Roger Phelps, some sort of private eye his father had hired. The detective was patient, talking slowly, luring Zach into saying things he hadn’t intended. Zach had left the interview feeling as if Phelps considered him a prime suspect in London’s kidnapping. He’d thought about telling the truth, but couldn’t see what good it would have done to rat on Jason about the whore. Who cared? One incident wasn’t related to the other. Zach had his own moral code, loose though it may be. One thing he never did was snitch.

After the interview with Phelps, he’d been shipped out here. Witt had figured that long hours working on the ranch, bucking hay, stretching fence line, herding cattle, and wearing himself out in the saddle would be good for him, better than the dreaded boarding school that had been a constant threat ever since London had disappeared. Witt had told his son that he thought the endless hours of work would keep him out of trouble, and Zach hadn’t argued. He’d wanted out of the house, away from the suspicious glances thrown in his direction by everyone in the family, far from the distraction of his stepmother and nowhere near the cops. Jack Logan, like Roger Phelps, seemed to think he was guilty of all kinds of crimes.

If they only knew.

Sure, he’d had his trouble with the law. He’d been caught as a minor in possession of alcohol more times than he’d like to admit, and he’d stolen the hearse from the local funeral home and gone joyriding, leaving the funeral director and a grieving family fit to be tied. Witt had been forced to do some fast talking on that one so that Zach, though underage, hadn’t been charged with grand theft auto. He’d been expelled from school for blowing up the faculty room john and he’d been in his share of fights and motorcycle accidents-some before he’d gotten his license.

Hell on wheels, Jack Logan had called him on more than one occasion.

Jason had stood up for his younger brother. “It’s just a phase, a kid sort of thing,” he’d told their father. “He’s rebelling a little, that’s all. No big deal. Let him do his thing.”

Kat had seemed amused. “I bet you did your own bit of hell-raising in your time, Witt,” she’d said when Witt, in a fury over the hearse incident, looked as if he’d wanted to strangle the boy he’d raised as his second son.

Nelson, each time Zach was returned home in the middle of the night, handcuffed and bleeding from some fight, had wanted all the intimate details and followed Zach around for days after, telling Zach how he hoped his brother had “kicked ass.”

Only Trisha had said nothing, smiling as if she were glad Zach was taking the heat instead of her.

Yeah, he’d been trouble for his folks and he didn’t really give a shit. That bothered Witt the worst, that Zach had no direction, no drive. At least Trisha had her art and Jason was going to be the best damned lawyer in the entire Northwest, but Zach had no ambition, no focus, didn’t seem interested in the hotel business, or the timber business, or anything remotely connected with Danvers International.

But Zach did love the ranch.

And he had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Why didn’t anyone believe him?

Sure, London had been a pain and Witt had spoiled her rotten, but, truth to tell, Zach had liked the little kid who could get away with anything just by smiling impishly up at her father while her blue eyes twinkled as if with a private secret. Anyone who could manipulate the old man was someone Zach respected. Even if she was only a precocious four-year-old.

He was sorry she was gone and had to keep his mind from wandering too far toward the murky thoughts of what had become of her. He, for one, had written her off as dead. Or else whoever kidnapped her wasn’t going to let her go-not after so long.

“Okay, that should do it!” Manny tested his post, and, satisfied that this section of fence would stand, gave Zach the high sign. “It’s Friday. Let’s call it a day.”

Zach checked his watch. Five-fifteen. Since he’d been at the ranch, a little over a week now, Manny hadn’t let him off work until eight at night. The routine had been the same. Dog tired, Zach had returned to the house each night, washed, eaten, and fallen asleep before nine, so that he would be ready for a new day starting at five the next morning.

He stripped off his bandanna, wiped the sweat and grime from his face, and walked to the shady banks of the creek where he’d left his horse after lunch. He could’ve ridden in the dusty cab of the truck, or even sat on the flatbed as it bounced along the rutted dirt roads of the ranch, but he preferred the horses and this one, Cyclone, was his favorite. A headstrong sorrel colt with four white stockings who was known to kick and bite, Cyclone was the fastest horse on the ranch.

“Come on, boy,” he said, hoisting the blanket and saddle onto the colt’s back. “It’s time.”

Ears back, the horse shifted and kicked but Zach was quick enough to dodge the blow and tighten the cinch. “You’re a mean son of a bitch, aren’t you?” He swung into the saddle and yanked on the reins. “Well, that’s all right by me, ’cause I am, too. Hiya!” Heels pressed into the colt’s sides, he leaned forward in the saddle and Cyclone took off. Wind streamed through Zach’s hair and brought tears to his eyes. Spindly jack pine and red-barked ponderosa pine trees flashed by in a blur and once again Zach felt wild and free-as if he could do anything he damned well pleased.

He didn’t miss his siblings. Jason would sell his soul to the devil for a small amount of cash, while Trisha was rebelling in the best way she knew how-by getting involved with Mario Polidori, son of Witt’s old nemesis, yet again. Obviously she didn’t subscribe to the “once burned, twice shy,” theory. There were whispers that she was into drugs, though Zach had seen no evidence of it. As for Nelson-the kid was a pain-plain and simple. Ever since the kidnapping, Nelson had puppy-dogged after Zach, wanting to hear over and over again about the hooker and the thugs with the knife-like Zach was some kind of war hero. It bothered Zach because Nelson was a little on the soft side, his adoration a little too intense.

But London, she was another matter. He closed his mind to all thoughts of her, preferring to be numb rather than think about the horrors his little half-sister might have endured. “Come on,” he yelled at the colt.

Zach kicked the sorrel and the horse responded without a second’s hesitation, gathering speed like a comet streaking across the sky, approaching the ravine where the creek slashed through the field. Massive muscles bunched, then lengthened, and horse and rider were soaring across the rock-strewn chasm where only a thin stream of water trickled.

The colt landed with a thud on the pebble-strewn bank and, with renewed energy upon sight of the stables, ran flat out across the yellow stubble of the pasture. Grasshoppers and pheasants, wings flapping in a frenzy, were flushed from the straw.

Zach leaned low over the sorrel’s neck and urged the horse ever faster. Cyclone took the bit between his teeth, his legs flashing over the cracked earth. Wind screamed past his ears and sweat darkened the horse’s coat. Laughing for the first time in weeks, Zach yelled, “Move, you miserable hunk of horseflesh.”

Only when they were near the paddock did Zach pull back on the reins, wrestling control from the headstrong beast. “Slow down,” he growled, standing in the stirrups. By the time they entered the paddock, the colt had switched from a gallop to a trot and finally into a reluctant walk. Cyclone tossed his head, his bridle jangling as he fought the demanding demon on his back.

“You did good,” Zach said. Cyclone was blowing hard and Zach kept him moving, walking slowly, until the colt’s breathing was normal again. “That’s better.”

Zach didn’t see Trisha watching him, didn’t notice her lurking in the shadows of the scrub pine until he’d reined up at the fence and she climbed onto the top rail. With a sinking sensation, he knew he’d have to deal with his family again and suddenly his wings seemed clipped. All the old anger and resentment welled up in him and the ranch that had moments before appeared so vast quickly became confining and small.

“This place is a prison!” Trisha said as she pushed aside a long-needled branch encroaching over the fence.

“What’re you doing here?” But he knew. They were all here. For good.

“Family vacation,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm. Her nose wrinkled when she saw the horseflies gathering near the colt’s rump. The smells of manure mixed with urine, sweat, and dust apparently offended her. “Believe me, I tried to talk Dad out of it, but you know how he is when he makes a decision.”

“Humph.” Zach swung down from the horse’s back.

“In a way, I understand. Dad’s tired of everyone just sitting around and waiting for the phone to ring at the house in town-even the police and the feds. Doing nothing!”

Zach remembered.

“Dad said we were all getting on his nerves-now, there’s something new,” she added sarcastically.

Zach didn’t respond.

“Anyway, I think he was worried about another kidnapping.”

“No way.” Zach hauled the saddle off the horse and hung it over the top rail of the fence. “Aren’t you the one who pointed out that he wouldn’t care if one of us was abducted? Just London.”

Trisha pouted.

“You know, if I turned up missing, I think he might buy a bottle of expensive champagne and have himself a celebration.”

“He’s not that bad,” she said without much conviction, then catching Zach’s steady gaze, sighed. “Okay, so he is that bad. Anyway, it doesn’t matter why he sent us here-the fact of the matter is that we’re all stuck in this godforsaken place.”

“Is that so?”

“Including Kat.”

Zach’s stomach dropped a little, but he managed to keep his face from registering the slightest trace of emotion. “She’ll hate it here,” he said flatly.

“Already does.” Plucking a few needles from the branch near her head, she sighed and twirled the sprig between her fingers. “You should have heard their fight. It reminded me of Mom and Dad before they split up. Kat put up a battle, I’ll give her that, but despite her excruciatingly loud protests against being shipped out of Portland, she wound up here, with the rest of us, and that really pissed her off. She wanted to stay close to the investigation and I thought she might grab Dad’s.22 and put a bullet through him before she’d leave town. But, of course, Dad got his way.” Trisha’s eyes clouded and Zach knew she wasn’t thinking about Kat any longer.

“He always gets his way.”

Trisha glanced up at her brother. “I think Dad had an ulterior motive for shipping her off.”

Zach lifted a disinterested eyebrow.

“Kat’ll freak, ’cause I think the investigation’s winding down. The cops are out of leads and the FBI isn’t doing any better. All a bunch of fools with their thumbs rammed up their asses.”

“What about Phelps?”

“The private investigator? He’s a joke. Have you ever seen anyone so…ordinary in your life?” Dropping the pine needles, she dusted her hands and glared up at Zachary as if the situation were all his fault. “It’s all a front, anyway. Dad wants to believe that the Polidoris are behind the kidnapping.”

“Are they?”

“They’re not stupid, Zach. Anthony has to know that he’d be at the top of the suspect list.”

Zach wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t bother to comment. Let Trisha believe what she wanted.

“It’s all such a pain. Ever since London disappeared no one can go anywhere without some damned bodyguard prowling around behind.”

Zach tied the reins to the second rail of the fence. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to his sister’s whining. Trisha was just ticked off because she couldn’t sneak around meeting Mario Polidori. Both families disapproved of the romance between Mario and Trisha. The only subject the Polidoris and Danverses had agreed upon in the last hundred years was to forbid Mario and Trisha from seeing each other. They were adults, she’d argued, and Witt had told her that she’d better start acting like one and move out, but as far as he was concerned, while she lived under his roof, she’d abide by his rules.

Trisha had other plans. She seemed to think she was some modern-day Juliet and Mario was her Romeo. The thought made Zach sick and he spat on the dusty ground. She should have learned her lesson about Mario Polidori. With a grunt, he grabbed the saddle and slung it over his shoulder to carry it into the stable.

Following him inside, Trisha said, “I thought you and I could work a deal.”

Zach sent her a look telling her silently to get lost. He didn’t need Trisha’s kind of trouble. He had enough of his own. Though he’d gotten a slight reprieve, the old man was still making noise about boarding school and Zach was considering walking through the Danvers gates and never looking over his shoulder.

“C’mon, Zach. I need your help.”

Zach swung the saddle over a sawhorse, then dropped the blanket over the top rail of a stall. Dust and horsehair rose in a cloud that clogged the air.

Trisha coughed and Zach swallowed a smile. Served her right. She’d never shown any interest in the horses-she was only here because she wanted something. And badly.

“Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal-I need to find a way to sneak out of here. At night.”

“Why?”

“It’s personal.”

“To meet Mario, right?”

“The less you know the better.”

“No.”

“What?” Her face crumpled into a look of wounded pride. “I stood up for you-”

“How?” he demanded.

“I told Kat that you wouldn’t hurt a hair on London’s head.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered as he yanked the bandanna from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck.

“That’s more than anyone else did for you, and Kat’s still not convinced that you weren’t involved somehow. If you were any older everyone would think you were behind it, but since you’re only seventeen-”

“Why would I kidnap London?”

“For money,” Trisha said slowly and Zach couldn’t help his reaction. His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed on his sister.

“Then wouldn’t I demand ransom?”

“It’s only been a little while.”

“So how would I do it? How would I grab Ginny and London and stow them away God-only-knows where while I got myself cut for an alibi. It doesn’t make sense, Trisha, and everyone knows it. They’re just pointing at me because I was gone that night and there’s no one else to blame.”

“Tell that to Jack Logan.”

“Logan’s a jackass. Oh shit, who cares?” Zach stormed outside and unknotted the reins. Cyclone sidestepped and tossed his head as Zach led him into a stall. Muscles knotted in quiet rage, Zach filled a bucket with water and let the colt drink before rubbing him down. “You’re way off base, Trisha,” he finally said.

Trisha dusted off the burlap and sat gingerly on a sack of oats. Leaning forward, propping her elbows on her knees, she cradled her chin. Her gaze narrowed through the dusty window and she chewed on her lower lip. “Okay, okay, maybe you really shouldn’t be the number-one suspect.”

“Thanks.”

“So who do you think took her?”

“I don’t even want to think about it.” And that was the truth.

“Well, someone had to.”

“Okay, Ginny, then.”

“Yeah, but who was she working for?”

“Don’t know. Hell, do we have to do this-dredge it all up again?” Zach hated to admit it, but he missed the little kid. True, she’d bugged the hell out of him and tagged after him. More often than not he’d told her gruffly to “get lost,” but he worried about her and had trouble sleeping at night just wondering what had happened and if she were all right.

Trisha plucked a piece of straw from the manger. “One word from me and you’d be shit out of luck.”

“How’s that?” With the currycomb, Zach worked on a knot in the colt’s mane.

“I could say that Mario told me you were involved in the kidnapping.”

Zach tensed. Where was this going? Slowly, he resumed brushing the horse. “It would be a lie.”

“Everyone would believe it. You know, there are still a few rumors floating around about you.”

“Can it, Trisha.” He’d heard all the gossip and didn’t want to be reminded that when he’d been conceived his mother was having an affair with Polidori. His teeth ground together but he just kept working, ignoring Trisha’s innuendoes and veiled threats. Christ, what did she want from him?

“It’s just that I hate it here, Zach. This is…nowhere. I want to go back to Portland.”

“You just got here.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You want to be close to Mario.”

“So what?”

Zach slid her a look that called her stupid. “Get smart, Trisha. It’s never gonna work between you and Polidori. Dad’ll never approve.”

“Since when do you care?”

“I don’t. I’m just giving you some free advice.”

“Save it.”

“Fine.” He opened the door at the back of the stable, then let the colt trot outside. With a snort and toss of his head, the horse ran free, bucking and kicking up his heels before lying in the thick dust and rolling. Clouds of dry earth roiled to the sky and the colt grunted in pleasure. Soon all Zach could see of the animal were four white-stockinged legs thrashing madly.

Trisha made a face. “You’re not going to help me?”

Zach shook his head. “No way.”

She arched a delicate brow and set an expression somewhere between a sneer and smile on her pouty lips. “You’ll be sorry.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Irritated, he strode out of the stable and wished that the rest of his family would just leave him alone.

It was hours later when Kat found him. The sun had set and Jason had taken Trisha and Nelson into town. Zach, avoiding his family as much as he could, had stolen two beers from the refrigerator and had climbed onto the roof of the tack shed that butted up to the stables. The dark sky was alive with shooting stars and Zach sat alone, his back propped against the rough outer wall of the second story of the stables, his legs stretched out on the sloping cedar shingles. Through the tar paper and split shakes, he heard the muffled sounds of horses, snorting, rustling in the straw, letting out an occasional whinny.

The moon was small, just a sliver, but gave off enough light so he could see the stands of trees flanking the rambling ranch house and outbuildings. The house was lit like a Christmas tree, patches of warm light glowing through the windows. Kat was still awake, prowling the rooms. He caught glimpses of her now and again, moving restlessly from one window to the next, and he decided he wouldn’t slip through the French doors to his room until all the lights had been turned down and he knew that she was asleep. So far, he’d avoided her, but he wouldn’t be able to sidestep her forever.

He opened a can of Coors and beer foamed over the side. He took a gulp, catching most of the overflow when he heard the old dog let out a quiet bark, then the unmistakable sounds of footsteps walking unerringly to the stable. His heart nearly stopped. Seconds later the rungs of the ladder to the hayloft clicked as someone climbed to the top. Now what?

He smelled the scent of her perfume before he saw her in the open window of the hayloft, her face white, her black hair the color of midnight. His chest felt as if it were suddenly constricted with iron bands.

“Manny said you might be here,” she said as casually as if she’d spent all her life creeping around barns and climbing into haymows.

His gut tightened as she slid through the window and stepped onto the roof. Balancing herself with a hand on the roof of the stable, she walked the short distance to his side and slid onto her rear.

The scent of her perfume was stronger as it drifted to his nostrils, and her arm was so close to his that he could feel the heat of her body. He remembered how she’d felt in his arms, supple and pliable and willing…Oh, God…“What do you want?”

“Company.” She offered him a smile. “I thought we were friends.”

Off in the distance a coyote howled.

“I don’t know if that’s possible.”

“We could try to be. Especially if you offered me a beer.”

Throat so dry it felt like sand, he handed the second can to her, and she, with a smile that flashed in the dark night, popped the tab and giggled when the foam erupted and spilled across her fingers. She lapped it up with her tongue and Zach tried not to notice how sexy she looked with the white flecks on her lips.

“It’s beautiful tonight,” she said, staring up at the heavens and sighing loudly. “If you like this kind of thing.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m a city girl.” She drank from the beer, then drew her legs up and wrapped her arms over her bare knees. Her shorts barely covered her butt, but Zach tried to keep his eyes and mind on anything but how damnably sensual she was. “Grew up in Ottawa.”

He didn’t reply, couldn’t.

They sat in silence for what seemed forever. Zach’s heart was drumming so loudly, he wondered if she heard it, and though he pretended disinterested insolence, he suspected she saw right through him.

“I didn’t want to come here,” she admitted. “I don’t like being this far away if there’s any news about London…” Her throat caught on her daughter’s name, but she didn’t break down. Instead she sighed and ran her fingers through the thick black curls that framed her perfect face. “You don’t like me much, do you, Zach?” she asked suddenly.

“You’re…my stepmother.”

“As in wicked stepmother?”

He lifted a shoulder and took the last gulp of his beer. His fingers were still around the empty can when she turned her eyes up to him and they sparked with an inner light. Zach could barely breathe as she, staring at him boldly, placed her hands on his shoulders and brushed her lips across his.

“Jesus, Katherine-” he breathed, his heart knocking crazily. “Don’t!”

“Shh.” She placed those supple lips against his again, just for a second-a second he was certain would change the course of his life forever. Her mouth was teasing and warm, filled with promise.

Zach groaned low in his throat. “Don’t do this, Kat.”

“You want it, too,” she murmured in a sigh as soft as the summer night.

He told himself that he couldn’t kiss her or touch her or even think about her, and yet he was too weak to tear away from her embrace. Her lips fastened over his and her breasts, beneath the fragile barrier of her T-shirt, brushed across his bare chest.

A thousand reasons to stop screamed through his head but when her tongue skimmed his lips, then pressed urgently, demanding entrance, he gave up and he kissed her back, closing his mind to the warnings.

Her tongue was wet and slick and wonderful. It touched the roof his mouth, flicked against his lips and teeth, and promised untold delights.

Heat swirled through his blood and his cock was so hard it strained against the zipper of his cutoffs. Don’t do this! Don’t! an inner voice cried, but instead of protesting, he reached up and his fingers wound in her thick hair. She slid down him and kissed his naked chest, her tongue licking its way against his skin.

A shudder that felt like fire ripped though him. He dropped his beer and the empty can rolled noisily down the roof. His body convulsed and hot desire pumped through him. Grabbing her with strength born of desperation, he kissed her hard on the lips and all he could think about was kissing her and touching her and riding her all night.

She’s your father’s wife, Danvers! his mind yelled, and for once he listened to it. He found the strength to push her away. “This isn’t gonna work,” he said, breathing hard, wishing he could call back the words. He was so hard he was sure he would explode. His fingers clamped around her shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length.

Katherine chuckled deep in her throat and the sound seemed to echo off the distant hills. “What is this, Zach?”

“Wrong. That’s what it is!” He dropped his arms, scooted farther away from her, and ran sweaty, trembling fingers through his long hair.

She pouted a little in the darkness. “Since when did you care about right and wrong?”

“Don’t play with me, Kat,” he warned and was surprised at the conviction in his voice.

“I just felt we had an understanding.” With a lift of her shoulder, she tucked her feet under her and stared down at him. “I don’t get it Zach. I thought-no, I knew-you wanted this.”

“I don’t.”

She snorted. “As a matter of fact, I was certain this is what you needed.”

“I don’t need you, Katherine,” he said, wishing he could put more distance between her sensual body and his own. “I don’t need anybody.”

“Oh, baby, that’s where you’re wrong.” To his mortification, she slid closer and patted his head as if he were a naughty little boy finally forgiven. Zach jerked away from her touch as if she repulsed him.

“Leave me alone, Kat,” he muttered between his teeth. His groin still ached and he was on fire inside, but he stared off into the distance, refusing to look at her. He focused instead on the ridge of dark mountains that loomed on the horizon and heard her sigh before she climbed to her feet, walked the short distance along the roof, slipped through the window, and disappeared into the hayloft.

When she was gone he flopped back on the weathered cedar shakes, angrily gazed up at the stars, and wondered why he was such a fool. He could have had her; she was there for the taking and he, because of some latent sense of nobility, had shrugged off her advances. He could still smell her perfume mingled with the lingering smoke from her cigarettes and he remembered her touch-that warm, bone-melting touch.

Jesus, you’re an idiot!

For the next few days, Zach managed to keep his distance. Up hours before Katherine ever thought about rising, he worked long hours in the fields and returned at sundown. Kat, invariably, was locked in her room, the television blasting. He never ran into her. As for his siblings, they all bothered him. Jason kept crowding him, offering to take him into Bend to meet women, but Zach declined and Jason went off prowling on his own. Trisha was pining for Mario and probably plotting her escape from the family compound. Sometimes she reeked of marijuana smoke and her eyes were often glassy. Zach had less trouble dealing with her stoned than when she was straight and plotting ways to escape. As for Nelson, the kid was still in the throes of hero worship, tagging after Zach as he went about his chores, trying to find ways to talk about his night with the prostitute. It didn’t seem to matter how many ways Zach explained that nothing really had happened except that he’d managed to get a few new scars; Nelson was still enthralled, certain that Zach had really “scored” with the whore but was protecting her honor, or some such crap.

The kid was sick, Zach thought as he stepped out of the shower and threw on a pair of cutoffs. Nelson’s fascination with all things sexual seemed bent. He wanted to know all about bondage and S &M and all that shit that Zach didn’t really know about and didn’t want to know. Men and women in leather and chains-like some kinky group of Hell’s Angels or something. It kind of made his skin crawl.

Pushing all thoughts of Nelson aside, Zach found leftovers in the kitchen, and since the maid had already retired for the night, he heated up the pork chops in the microwave, snatched himself a beer out of the fridge, and took his meal onto the back porch where the old collie was curled near the swing. Shep perked up at the smell of the meat and whined as Zach sat down and started in on the chops.

“Don’t give me that,” he said to the dog. “You’re too fat as it is.” Shep thumped his tail on the floorboards. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted softly and the sounds of bats’ wings disturbed the silence. The air smelled of horses, dust, and sagebrush. Zach thought he could find peace out here in the middle of nowhere. If it weren’t for his family.

Zach finished his dinner, tossed the bones to the dog, and wiped his fingers on the frayed edges of his cutoff Levi’s. He finished his Budweiser in two swallows, then walked back to the kitchen for another. Downing the second can quickly, he began to feel a slight buzz as he crushed the aluminum in his fist. He made his way back to his room, where he flipped on his stereo and flopped onto this bed. The song was an old one by the Doors.

“…Come on baby, light my fire…”

Like Kat. Boy, could she light dangerous fires. Zach closed his eyes and let the music surround him.

“…Try and set the night on fire!”

The French doors were cracked and the hint of a breeze stirred the curtains. His eyes opened and he stared up at the ceiling. He was hard, as hard as he’d been when Kat had kissed him on the roof of the tack room. Just thinking about being with her had given him wet dreams for three nights running. The ache in his loins was so bad that he’d even considered driving into Bend with his brother and looking for some woman who would ease his pain, but the memory of his last visit to a whore had kept him at the ranch. He didn’t need any more trouble but, Lord, did he need some release. The pressure. Pounding, pounding…

Deep down, in the darkest oblivion of his soul, he knew that he didn’t want just any woman, that though he would go through the motions with any willing female, he was certain that anyone but Kat wouldn’t do and Kat, his stepmother, was the worst choice of all. He rolled over to his side and considered jacking off. It sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time, but it left him so…empty or lonely or feeling stupid. Face it, Danvers, you want her. All you have to do is walk down the hall, turn the corner, and tap on her bedroom door and the sweetest bit of pussy this side of the Rockies will be waiting to give you any fantasy you can dream up!

His throat was so dry he couldn’t draw up any spit and he squeezed his eyes shut, resigned to his fate as he reached for the fly of his pants.

He heard the creak of the door, felt the wind turn, and his heart jolted. His eyes flew open. At first he thought she was a vision, the beautiful woman on the other side of the glass. Moonlight spangled Kat’s black hair silver and her silk pajama top shimmered. His heart began to pump so loudly that he was certain she could hear it.

The doors opened further and dry leaves blew into the room. The wind tossed her hair away from her face and as she entered the room, he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Her lips trembled and her nose ran.

“What-what are you-?”

“Just hold me, Zach,” she whispered in a voice strangled by grief.

“What is it?”

Walking numbly to the edge of his bed, she sniffed loudly, then stood in front of him, as if hesitating.

He drew himself into a sitting position. “You shouldn’t be here, Kat-”

“I know, but…Oh, God…” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and tears trickled down her cheeks. Between the broken sobs she said, “Witt just called and the police have run out of leads…the investigation is still open but they all think, the police and the FBI, that London…that London is dead.” The last word was barely a squeak and Zach couldn’t help himself. He stood and took her into his arms, trying to comfort her as sob after heart-wrenching sob shook her body.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Burying his face in the crook of her neck, holding her close, he willed himself to think of her not as a woman, but as a person to whom fate had handed a crushing blow. She clung to him and cried like a child, her tears raining down his chest. He told her it would be all right, that of course London was alive, that someday they would all see her again, but even as he said the words, he believed them to be lies.

When at last the racking sobs quieted, he lifted his head. “You should go back to the room, take some sleeping pills-”

“I can’t. I don’t want to be alone. Please, Zach, don’t make me go. Let me stay with you. Just hold me. Please.” Her words held the echo of doom, but he couldn’t deny her and when she turned her face up to his, he kissed her trembling lips, knowing that he was about to cross a threshold from which there was no return. Life would never be the same. The truth would be blurred with lies, but he kissed her and she responded, her body quivering in fear and desire.

His brain thundered and his blood turned to liquid heat as she let her fingers slide down his scarred back, along the slope of his spine and lower still to his buttocks. He felt his already stiff cock rise to the occasion, knew there was no turning back as she tugged and the buttons holding his cutoffs together popped in a ripple and her hands were upon him. Warm and soft, her fingers brought a magic that he never dreamed existed.

They tumbled on the bed together, lips searching, tongues eager and before he could consider all the consequences of his actions, Zachary stripped her of her nightshirt, ripping the buttons from their holes as the seams of the soft fabric gave way. Then he gazed at her breasts, felt the gentle pressure of her fingers on his spine, and watched as she licked her lips. He could barely breathe when she ran her tongue across his nipples and anxiously parted her legs, lifting her hips to rub her dewy nest of curls to his crotch.

He thought he might come all over her. “Kat-”

“Just do it, Zach. Please.” Her fingers dug deep into his muscles.

Closing his eyes, he entered into that moist, dark warmth. A primal cry rumbled from his throat and he couldn’t stop himself. In three long strokes it was over; Zachary came fast and hot and fell against her, realizing dimly that he’d just doomed himself to a living hell. No son dared lose his virginity to his father’s wife and expect to survive.

But he didn’t care. He wrapped himself in her warmth and kissed her again, more sure of himself. He’d take it slower with her this time, learn from her and be the best damned lover she ever had.

Zach couldn’t remember when he’d slept so soundly. He moved slightly and felt another body, warm and soft and naked. With a smile, he remembered the night of lovemaking and he rolled over to find Kat, her eyes half open, staring at him. Dawn was breaking over the horizon and soon the ranch hands would be up; she had to leave.

“I wondered how it would be with you,” she said as she slid a finger along the scar that was still visible near his hairline. Though she smiled, a sadness lingered in her eyes.

“How was it?” He nuzzled her check. Though it was dangerous to be with her, he couldn’t give up. He’d made love to her three times last night, and he’d woken up with a hard-on. Maybe there was still enough time for a quick…

“It was the best, Zach,” she said, though her face remained troubled and he knew she was lying.

He touched her hair, brushing soft curls off her face and wished he could stop the agony that pinched the corners of her mouth. As if reading his thoughts, she began to weep; tears suddenly starred her lashes and he pulled her closer to him, holding her naked body next to his. “Don’t worry.”

“I can’t help it, I-”

“Shh. We’ll find London.” He felt suddenly strong, as if he could change the world. “I’ll find her.”

“Oh, Zach, what can you do-”

“You’d be surprised.” His hands found her breasts and he toyed with a nipple that stiffened expectantly under the gentle teasing of his fingers. “Let me show you-”

She broke off suddenly, her eyes wide. “Do you hear anything?”

“No-”

“I do.” She scrambled away from him. “I hear something-”

Zach listened and groaned at the sound of an engine whining as some kind of vehicle-most likely a truck-approached.

“Probably Pete coming early. He does that sometimes,” Zach said, already aroused again. God, he couldn’t get enough of her. He let one hand rest on the curve of her waist.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Mmm.” He listened again and felt his heart knock a bit. The engine wasn’t the deep rumble of a truck, but the smooth purr of an expensive car’s engine as it sped down the lane. An expensive car like a Lincoln Continental. “Oh, God.”

Gravel crunched and brakes squealed.

“Witt,” Katherine mouthed.

“No-” But even as he denied it, he heard the car door open and brisk footsteps sound on the path. Footsteps he’d recognize anywhere. Authoritative footsteps belonging to his father. Footsteps of doom. “Damn it, Kat! You’ve got to get out of here.”

But it was too late. The front door opened and the footsteps continued the short distance to the master bedroom. Kat froze at the muted rap of fingers against wood.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God, oh, God.”

“Leave. Through here.” He was pushing her now, toward the open French doors. She rolled out of bed, grabbed her torn nightshirt and was stepping outside when Witt’s voice reverberated through the rooms. “Katherine? Are you here?” There was a worried edge to his voice.

“Go!” Zach reached for his cutoffs as he heard the first door in the hallway open, then close. Only a few more seconds.

The door to his room opened just as Kat disappeared through the doors.

His father looked gigantic. Zach didn’t bother feigning sleep and Witt didn’t say a word, just looked at the rumpled sheets and sniffed at the lingering odor of Katherine’s perfume. His mouth flattened to a white line of fury and an ugly tic developed under his eye. “Get out,” he said under his breath. Zach rolled off the bed as his father’s fist collided with his face. Pain exploded in his jaw. “You no-good bastard!”

“Witt!” Kat stood in the doorway, her fingers curling over the brass door handle. “Don’t. It…was my fault.”

“Your fault? You forced him to screw you?” He slammed Zach against the wall. Zach’s head smacked against the plaster and pieces of stucco crumbled to the floor. Pain ripped all the way down his spine. “You fucking son of a bitch!” Witt snarled, shaking the life from him as the mirror over the bureau rattled. “I always suspected you were no son of mine and now I’m sure of it. Get out before I kill you!”

Zach staggered toward the door. His eyes barely focused and he felt something sticky and wet running down the back of his head.

“You can’t do this!” Katherine cried and Zach heard a slap that made his stomach turn over. He turned and saw the welt forming on Katherine’s cheek and Witt’s stunned expression, as if he couldn’t believe that he’d struck her.

“Don’t you ever touch me again!” she said, backing outside.

“I’m sorry. Christ, Katherine, I swear, I’d never do anything to hurt you-”

He took one step toward her but she kept backing up. “Stay away from me, Witt. I mean it,” she said, before turning and running into the grayish dawn. Witt’s great shoulders slumped and he sagged against the wall. He turned damning eyes up at his son. “Now look what you’ve done, Zach,” he said, barely able to breathe. With an expression straight from hell, he loosened his tie then reached for his belt buckle. Zach remembered the times he’d been whipped by a thin leather strap. Not again. He wouldn’t suffer like he had when he was eight, leaning over the bed and biting his lower lip until it bled to keep from crying out as his father flayed him with the stinging leather. No way.

“Leave now and don’t ever…” Witt, suddenly ashen, reached into his pocket, fumbled for a vial of pills and popped the top. He stuck one of the tablets under his tongue. “Don’t ever come back here.”

“I won’t,” Zach promised, jaw clenched in determination. Injustice burned through his veins and he held his father with his remorseless stare. “You’ll never see me again.”

Witt’s blue eyes were cold, his fury evident in the white lines of strain near his mouth. “That’s the way I want it, boy.” He took one menacing step toward his son. “However, if I find out that you had anything to do with your sister’s kidnapping, I swear I’ll personally hunt you down like the lying dog you are and rip you apart with my bare hands.”

Zach stumbled back toward the door. His head throbbed, his jaw ached, and he glared at the man he’d called father all his life. He had to leave. Now. Run as far and fast as he could. And if he never saw Witt Danvers alive again, it would be much too soon.