SUSPICION'S GATE

by Justine Davis

  He hadn't seen then how unlikely it was, that the queen of the Lockwood clan would genuinely care about the son of the town tavernkeeper, no matter that he had saved her precious son from a brutal beating. But she'd made it clear to him that night, in this room, in front of that son, and a stricken, wounded-looking Nicki, just how fleeting that caring had been.

  As he thought it he felt a tingling at the back of his neck. He turned suddenly and found those wide eyes fastened on him. They were different now, masked, and except for that split second this morning, totally unreadable. So unlike the young, innocent girl he'd known, the girl who, without his realizing it, had wormed her way into some secret, untouched part of him. And when she'd turned away from him, she'd forgotten to give that part back. He had ached from the loss for a long time without knowing what had happened to him or how. But he'd learned it this morning, in the harsh gray mist, when he'd looked up to see those eyes once more and realized that part of him had been missing all this time.

  It was absurd, really. She'd been little more than a girl that first day that Richard—Travis hadn't yet shortened it to Rich, he'd been too intimidated by the Lockwood name—had brought him home. He'd also been awed by the grandeur of the elegant, twenty-room house, but his pride had kicked in and he'd been coolly nonchalant about it while wondering how anybody could stand to live with all this; he'd be scared to breathe. It seemed cold somehow. And empty.

  And then there had been a shriek of laughter as a bundle of fiery-haired energy had come sliding recklessly down the exquisite, polished banister to land in a heap of grubby denim at his feet.

  "Oh, geez, Nicki, grow up, will you?" Richard's face had been red with embarrassment. "You're fourteen now, why don't you act your age?"

  "And be an old fuddy-duddy like you?" she retorted, undaunted as she tried to untangle legs that seemed too long for her slim, straight body. "No way. I—"

  She stopped, abruptly realizing that her brother was not alone. Her gaze traveled upward, from a pair of worn, black leather running shoes, over an equally worn pair of faded blue jeans with a rip in each knee, and a faded dark blue T-shirt.

  He saw recognition dawn in a pair of big blue eyes when she reached his face; even people who had never met him seemed to know "the troublemaker." He waited. The trepidation he usually saw didn't appear; the blue gaze held steady on his face.

  "My sister," Richard said with all the strained patience of an aggravated big brother.

  Travis never looked away from her. "I gathered." He saw her chin come up. "Nice flight," he said mildly, "but your landing could use a little work."

  She grinned, undaunted and apparently uncowed by his presence, and he felt something odd and warm break free in his chest.

  "I know. I'm practicing," she said. "You're the one, aren't you?"

  The one? So that was it, he thought. She was one of those. One of the ones who found him intriguing, perhaps just a bit frightening. He almost laughed. If she'd been a little older, if she'd been of the age he knew found his edge of disreputability fascinating, if she'd been the kind who sent off all kinds of sexual messages, he'd have given her the expected answer. Yeah, I'm the one, all right. The one your mother warned you about, isn't that how it goes?

  But she wasn't, she was barely old enough to be aware of those things, and he was some kind of weird for even thinking that way. "Sure," he drawled, a sour undertone marking his voice. "How did you ever guess?"

  He'd meant it to be sarcastic; she took it literally. "Because you're the only one of Richard's friends I've ever seen who looks like he has the guts to stand up to those jerks."

  It took a lot to startle Travis Halloran, even at sixteen years old. He'd seen and dealt with too much in his young life already. But Nicki Lockwood had done it.

  "Oh," he said, rather blankly, only now remembering the reason he'd been invited here at all; rescuing the heir to the Lockwood family fortune had had benefits he'd never expected.

  Of course, he hadn't known that the battered, bloody shape he'd pulled out from under that pile of out-of-town punks had been Richard Lockwood at the time, he'd only done it because he hated stacked decks. And five to one had seemed very stacked to him at the time, enough for him to use his considerable strength and his tough appearance to send the punks running. Little did he know that there would come a day when even those lopsided odds would look favorable to him.

  Of course, if he had realized it was a high and mighty Lockwood, he might have done it anyway, just for the perverse pleasure of having them in the awkward position of owing him.

  The spell of memory was broken when Nicki looked away from him abruptly. Another way she'd changed, he thought. She'd always faced things head-on, never let herself be intimidated by anything or anyone. Unlike Richard, who'd taken his sense of self-worth from his family's position and wealth, Nicki had had an assurance that sprang from within, from her own indomitable strength. Had she lost that, over the years?

  Then he realized that she had looked away because John Langley had mentioned his name. He looked up to see the man holding something out, waiting, obviously, for him to come and get it. Aware of the burning stares of everyone in the room, he started forward.

  A book, he realized as he got closer. She'd left him a book? Somehow that was worse than anything he'd imagined; it brought back too many memories of when he'd sat in this very room while she prodded, pushed and forced him into using his mind to grapple with questions he'd never thought about. Memories of when he'd believed she meant it, believed she really cared. For nearly a year and a half she had—

  "You'll notice an envelope inside, Mr. Halloran. I must ask you to refrain from opening it for a few moments. Mrs. Lockwood was very specific as to the order in which this would be done."

  "I'm sure she was."

  Travis felt the crackle of tension at his flat tone, and he stepped to one side, out of the direct line of fire of those heated stares. He looked down at the book in his hand, at the leather cover in a deep, rich green, embossed with gold that was, no doubt, real. Nothing less than 24-karat in the Lockwood library.

  He didn't have to look at the title; he knew what it was. His mouth twisted into a wry, reminiscent smile. Huckleberry Finn. He'd held this book before, often, and listened to Emily Lockwood's quiet yet imperious words. He'd been angry at first, his pride rising up fiercely in the face of her arbitrary judgment of him, but he'd found it impossible to walk out on her. And that had made him angrier; he didn't like feeling intimidated.

  "I read it," he'd said shortly when she'd first handed it to him. "I do go to school, you know."

  She had brushed off his anger. "I mean really read it. It is a classic. Hemingway said that all American literature comes from this book."

  "He also said you should stop reading it at chapter thirty-one," he'd said, glad for once for the memory that seemed to soak up the oddest details, "because Twain cheated on the ending."

  That light had come into Emily Lockwood's eyes, a glow of eagerness he had seen before but didn't quite understand. She had leaned forward, speaking earnestly, and it had been the first time Travis had ever seen a real resemblance between the formal, perfectly coiffed and attired woman and her live-wire daughter.

  "You have such potential, Travis. You could go anywhere, do anything, be anything. Don't let your … circumstances keep you down. You are as independent and contrary as Huck Finn—but I believe your heart is just as good. With your brain, the possibilities are endless."

  It had been, he had often thought in retrospect, incredibly arrogant and condescending. It had also been, for the autocratic Mrs. Lockwood, amazing behavior. The queen of the manor, lowering herself to encourage the proverbial kid from the wrong side of the tracks. And it had been only the beginning, then. For over a year she had pushed, prodded and berated, forcing him up to the level she told him she knew he could reach. She had made him try, made him fight, but worse of all she had made him believe … and then she had taken it all back. She had—r />
  A sheaf of papers thrust into his hand disrupted the reminiscence, and he nearly jumped. He shook his head; it wasn't like him to go off into never-never land like that.

  "These papers are the dispensation of Lockwood, Incorporated, including the gravel and concrete operations. I assure you this is all in accordance with Mrs. Lockwood's wishes." Was it his imagination or did Langley sound a little nervous? Travis lifted the sizable stack of stapled papers, but the lawyer's next words stopped him. "You may open that envelope now, Mr. Halloran."

  With Emily Lockwood's royal permission, even after death, he thought wryly. He was tempted to ignore the directions and read the papers first, but with a sigh he reached for the rich, ivory-colored piece of vellum that had been tucked inside the flyleaf.

  His name was written across the front in an unsteady version of Emily Lockwood's elegant hand. He stared at it for a moment, aware that, could she have helped it, that shakiness would never have been evident. She must have already been quite ill. Perhaps she had already known she was dying.

  It gave him an odd feeling, one that it took him a moment to recognize as sorrow. It brought him up short, angry at himself. The woman he would have grieved for had never really existed, and he hated it when his heart couldn't seem to remember that.

  Jaw tight, he moved to rip open the expensive envelope. He stopped mid-motion when he saw, in the same hand, a notation on the flyleaf. His eyes flicked over it quickly.

  Travis—

  Everything I told you was true; it was I who didn't live up to it. See that you do.

  Emily Lockwood

  For a moment his throat tightened. Handing out orders even now, he thought. And when it was too late for him to throw them back in her face. When it was too late for him to tell her to go to hell. When it was too late for him to ask her why.

  He opened the envelope and slid out a thick sheet of stationery, her name embossed in script at the top, and covered with the same unsteady writing.

  Travis,

  If you are reading this, then I will be trying to balance my sorry books with a far more powerful accountant than you. Yet that does not frighten me nearly as much as you do, for it is you for whom I must answer.

  Nothing can make up for what has been taken from you. Only now, when time has become so precious to me, do I realize the grievousness of stealing it from someone. I won't ask for your forgiveness, for I don't deserve it. I will only ask for your understanding; I hope you have it in you to give.

  Richard is my son. He is not the son I would have wished for, I think you know that, but he is my son, and I did what I thought I had to do to protect him. That it would be at such cost to someone who was everything I wanted in that son was something I didn't realize at the time.

  I know you will not want what I have given you. I beg you to give it time; don't make your decision in the heat of anger, or out of the hatred I'm sure you bear for me. Wait, think, and do what is best for you. I know that if you give yourself that chance, you will make the right choice.

  I realize that I am giving you a great deal of power. While Richard, I'm sorry to admit, deserves, as do I, whatever comes to him, I beg you not to use that power against Nicole. She is innocent in this, and I regret that I haven't the courage, even now, to tell her the truth. I love her too much. I'm sure you will tell her, as you should. I know I shall lose her love, as well; she adored you, and would never forgive or condone my betrayal. I'm thankful at least that I won't have to know about it.

  While it is true that this offering is given partially out of my own guilt, please believe that it is also given out of love. For I did, and do, love you, Travis, like the son I never had, for everything I saw in you, everything you are and can become. My final sorrow is that I never told you when it would have mattered to you.

  Emily

  He nearly crumpled the heavy sheet of stationery with the force of his grip. What the hell was she talking about? And how dare she do this now, when it made so little difference, when there had been a time when he would have paid any price to hear those words from her?

  "Damn her," he muttered, furious at the stinging of his eyes. "Damn her."

  "I … don't understand," came Richard's confused voice. "What does all this stuff mean?"

  "I understand."

  It was Nicki's voice, cool and controlled as she stood up, the sheaf of papers in her hand. She crossed the room in a smooth, graceful stride that made him wonder where the loping, always-in-a-hurry girl had gone.

  "Congratulations," she said as she came to a halt before Travis; her tone was as chilly as the atmosphere in the room. "It seems you've wound up with all the marbles."

  His brow furrowed. "What?"

  "Read it," she said shortly, gesturing with the papers. "It seems you've inherited half of Lockwood, Incorporated. Welcome to the company, Mr. Halloran."

  Her voice was bitter, harsh, a tone he would have thought impossible for the girl he'd known. Her face matched her tone, and she turned her back on him. Then, from the door, she looked back over her shoulder and fired a final, piercing shot.

  "Not bad, for the man who killed my father."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  "I don't know how you did it, Halloran, but you're not going to get away with it! We're going to fight this! You haven't got a prayer! You're nothing but a con artist! Mother must have been out of her mind to—"

  The front door mercifully cut off the rest of Richard's furious tirade. Barely aware of his own movements, Travis made it to the edge of the steps. He stopped and leaned for a moment against the upright post of the porch. His mind was spinning, racing in so many directions at once he felt almost dizzy with it.

  He was vaguely aware of the book and papers still clenched in his hand, but made no move to look at them. John Langley had made things quite clear in the stunned moments after Nicki had gone. Emily Lockwood's final blow had been the very last thing he'd expected, yet it was no less demolishing.

  A movement in the distance, a slim, darker shape in the shadows of a huge willow tree, caught his eye. He knew who it was; that cool, shady spot beside the man-made pond had always been her favorite place. They'd spent many long hours there, hours that had been both the brightest and the most painful for him to remember. Hours that had both sustained him and tortured him during all the years since.

  What would she do if he went to her? If he joined her there in that place where she had confided girlish dreams in a very unlikely confidant, and he had basked in the first freely given admiration and respect he'd ever gotten in his young life?

  Get real, Halloran. She'd do exactly what her brother had done; tell him to go straight to hell. Well, he'd been to hell, and he had no intention of going back. And if there was going to be a confrontation with Nicki Lockwood, he would just as soon it be now, and out of earshot of the shocked occupants of the big house. More importantly, out of earshot of her brother.

  He saw her sit down on the cool grass, curling long legs under her. For a moment he stood there just looking at her. And feeling things he didn't want to feel, wasn't ready to feel. Not for Nicki Lockwood, who had been the real friend her brother had only pretended to be. Things he shouldn't be feeling for the woman she'd become, Miss Lockwood, of Lockwood, Incorporated. Nicole.

  Who, he added silently with an inward sigh, quite probably hated him. He started down the steps. She didn't look up when he parted the trailing strands of the willow and stepped into the quiet, secluded, and heart-wrenchingly familiar spot. The spot he'd thought of so often, that had remained so bright and clear among his memories of the darkest time of his life.

  He hesitated for a moment, but when she didn't look up or protest, he sat down a careful three feet away from her. He tried to think of something to say, but no words seemed adequate. He turned over sentence after sentence in his head, but before he could settle on one, she spoke, still not looking at him.

  "I remember all the time we spent here."r />
  He wasn't sure if it was a reminiscence or merely an observation of fact, but her voice was low, calm, and he felt a trace of encouragement.

  "So do I."

  "I never realized what you were doing then. Until today."

  "What I was … doing?"

  "You obviously did it well. Well enough for my mother to do this."

  She still wouldn't look at him, but her words told him what he would see in her face if she did. He realized the calmness he had interpreted as cause for hope was only the outward sign of a hatred too great to be vented in words.

  "I don't—"

  "No wonder you came."

  "I didn't know about this."

  Her gaze flicked to him then, disdainfully, and just as quickly away.

  He let out a short, harsh breath. "I didn't. How could I have?"

  Her gaze stayed on him longer this time, steady and unwavering. At last she smiled, a bitter, cool smile. "You have a point. I suppose not even you would think that all the groundwork you laid back then would survive what you did to my father."

  He went rigid, his expression going flat, emotionless, his eyes chilly.

  "Oh, yes," Nicki said brittlely, "I forgot, I'm supposed to believe that that wasn't your fault. Just like I'm supposed to believe you didn't know that you were going to inherit half of Lockwood."

  His grip tightened on the book in his hand, the book that held the letter from her mother. The image of that letter, of the shakily written words, danced before his eyes. Show her, some little voice inside him screamed. Make her stop looking at you like that. It's so much worse from her…

  In the act of reaching for Emily Lockwood's letter he stopped. No, damn it. She should have known. She never should have believed it in the first place. He'd bared his soul to her, trusted her with his deepest thoughts and emotions. She'd known him better than anyone ever had; she should have believed him.