See How She Dies by Lisa Jackson

seemed to learn that very important lesson about men.
    Just because Zach might be her half-brother didn’t mean he was safe. He was a predatory man, a man who would take any challenge, a man with a wild streak that he hadn’t yet tamed, a man who wouldn’t care one bit if she were his half-sister. There was an animal side of him—pure male and extremely lethal—that defied the bounds of kinship. He was sexy and rough and seemed about as stable as a blasting cap.
    No wonder she was attracted to him. It had been the flaw in her character to be attracted to rough-and-tumble, irreverent boys and men all her life.
    â€œYou’re an idiot,” she told her reflection as she stood barefoot on the tan carpet that had worn thin near the door.
    So if she couldn’t trust Zachary, who in the family could she trust? No one. Just as they couldn’t trust her.
    Half dressed in her lacy slip, she walked back into the tiny bathroom where her dress hung on a hook in the door. She’d found the dress in a boutique that handled “previously worn” items. A white, silky confection with a designer label, the gown fit her perfectly. She’d never owned such a creation before, never spent so much money on one dress—and a used one at that!
    Her adoptive mother had been a frugal, God-fearing woman who didn’t believe in women wearing ornaments of any kind—no jewelry save a gold wedding band or a gold cross suspended from a necklace and clothes that were practical, shoes that were sensible and sturdy.
    Not so her father. Unlike his wife, Victor had been a dreamer, always expecting a larger crop than the land would yield, always certain that the next year, life would become easier.
    And she’d believed him. When she’d discovered his secret, that he thought her to be London Danvers, she’d grabbed that gold-plated carrot he’d swung before her nose and held on with a death grip.
    She’d done her research, read every clipping on the Danvers family and the kidnapping, searched through all the old papers in her father’s desk, called her deceased Uncle Ezra’s secretary, searching, digging through every scrap of information, praying she’d find some irrefutable evidence that either proved or disproved that she was the little lost princess. Ezra Nash, a lawyer known to bend the law, had handled the adoption. Either he hadn’t bothered with records, or they’d long-since been destroyed, or there was a secret surrounding her birth that he’d wanted to keep hidden.
    She’d fought the anticipation that had raced through her bloodstream when she’d learned that she might be London Danvers, that she might finally discover her true identity. She told herself the chances that she was the missing heiress were a billion to one, but in the end, she’d followed her heart—her father’s dream—and driven her beat-up Chevy steadily westward to Portland, London’s hometown. She’d nearly convinced herself that she was London Danvers, believed that she would finally find her family, and after the initial shock had worn off, they would welcome her with open arms. Now, as she tilted her head and screwed on the back of her zirconium earrings, she bit her lower lip. The teardrop earrings sparkled in the light, as if they were diamonds, but they were fakes, made to look like expensive jewels when they were really cheap and common.
    Like you.
    No! She wouldn’t believe the speculation she’d heard all her life from the people in the small town where she’d grown up. Wouldn’t!
    She ran a brush through her hair and started working with the long, black curls. Wild, “witchy hair,” her adoptive mother had often called the long, riotous waves that Adria didn’t bother taming, and she was right.
    She planned to crash the party celebrating the grand opening of the Hotel Danvers. It was time to face the family. She’d