SUSPICION'S GATE

by Justine Davis

  How could she? that little voice spoke up. How could she, knowing what believing you would mean? How could she have made that kind of a choice? She'd been just a girl…

  A girl. Well, she wasn't a girl now. She was a woman, a full-grown woman who had turned out more beautifully than even he could have guessed, although he'd always known the seeds were there. He wondered idly if Richard ever felt foolish for all the times he had teased her about being a gangly, rough tomboy.

  His eyes went over her, from the burnished auburn hair, worn in a sleek, smooth sweep, to the clear, sky blue eyes rimmed with thick, heavy lashes, to the sassy nose and pert chin. And the rest of her was all woman, too, ripely curved in all the female places yet still long, taut, and supple. He felt a twinge he suppressed before he even had a chance to admit what it was.

  No, she wasn't a girl now. And if the woman still didn't believe him, he wasn't about to beg. He had gone too long without any pride at all to easily surrender what he had gained now.

  "What was in the letter … she left you?"

  He nearly jumped. Trust her to read his mind; she'd always been uncannily able to do so. The temptation to tell her rose in him again, but this time it was that tiny pause in her words, that catch on the word "she" that stopped him. If he showed her, told her, it would destroy her vision of her mother forever. I know I shall lose her love, Emily had written. His gaze went to her pale, strained face, to the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  He couldn't do it. He couldn't be the one to add the straw that might break her fragile strength. Not now. Besides, the letter didn't prove anything except that Emily Lockwood had felt guilty for some unspecified reason. Just like her to leave the dirty details to someone else. And just like her to drop this bombshell in his lap without warning.

  "It's … personal," he said at last.

  "And none of my business?" She laughed. It sounded harsh. "I'd say it's—or at least it was—quite literally 'my business.'"

  "I don't want it." His voice was flat, inflectionless.

  "I'm supposed to believe that, too? Believe that you don't want half of an operation that grosses over thirty million a year?" Her voice went from bitter to sarcastic, and it bit deep. "Oh, I suppose you're so successful now you don't need it, right?"

  For just a moment he wanted to throw the book, the letter, and the business papers in her face. He wanted to shout his achievement at her, make her see that he wasn't the failure everybody had expected him to be. He didn't do it; he wasn't at all sure she'd even care. Not only was she no longer a girl, there was no trace of the girl he'd known in the icy, distant woman before him.

  "I never would have figured you for such a superior bitch," he ground out.

  For a split second something showed in her eyes, something alive and pained, glittering as she scrambled to her feet. "And I never would have figured you for a liar, a killer, and now a … a thief."

  His breath left him in a rush, as if her words had been a lethal blow. Pain knifed through him, slicing through old, buried scars. Oh, yes, it was so much worse from her.

  She turned and ran toward the house. The only resemblance to the girl who had raced that path so often came when she bent to tug off her high heels so she could run barefoot through the lush grass. But in those days she had run it joyously, not in anger and hatred.

  Wearily, Travis got up and followed, trying to piece together the mental armor she had shattered so easily. She, of all of them, had the power to get to him, to pierce that thick shield he'd worked so hard to build.

  And he was going to need that shield, he thought as he saw Richard come out the front door, followed by John Langley. He heard the lawyer say something in calming tones, but Richard wasn't listening. He was tugging at his rather lank, dull brown hair, as he always had when upset, and his words carried easily across the wide front lawn.

  "I don't care what you say, Langley! This is the most outrageous thing I've ever seen. We're not going to stand for this." He looked up and saw his sister. "Are you coming?"

  "Where?" She sounded as tired as he felt, Travis thought. This had to have been rough on her. She and her mother had been close. Not, he reminded himself rather fiercely, that he cared.

  "To see Frank Hartford! A real attorney, one with the brains to stop this farce! He'll put this con man in his place."

  He saw Nicki look at Langley, who shook his head. "As I've told your brother, the provisions are unbreakable. Your mother was of sound mind, and quite explicit in her desires." He went on in the tone of one who had explained this far too many times. "Her interest in all the Lockwood holdings are now Mr. Halloran's, and by the terms of the will, non-transferable for a period of six months. After that he may dispose of it as he wishes."

  Richard snarled something unintelligible, then turned back to Nicki. "Are you coming, or not?"

  She sighed. "All right."

  "Good." Richard clambered down the steps, moving awkwardly, as if they were much steeper than they were. He came to a halt when he realized the Cadillac's door was blocked by an immaculate black Mercedes. "Who the hell left this here? Langley, is this yours? Move it, right now."

  "Not mine," the man said nastily.

  For the first time since he'd admitted to himself that he'd intentionally driven the Mercedes instead of the Jeep, Travis was more glad than rueful.

  "So sorry, Richie," he said blandly as he pulled the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He didn't even try to smother the little spurt of satisfaction he felt at Richard's gaping stare. He tried to ignore Nicki's look of doubt as she stared at the expensive car.

  "That's yours?" Disbelief rang in Richard's voice, and it scraped over nerves already raw.

  "No," Travis snapped. "I stole it." His eyes flicked to Nicki, the memory of her words still burning deep in his gut. "But I'm sure that wouldn't surprise you, would it?"

  He yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat, anxious to put this place that seemed to be the scene of every crisis in his life behind him. Fool, he berated himself silently. That's what you get for thinking you could impress anybody in this town.

  He turned the key and shoved down the accelerator; the powerful engine roared to life. He heard the tires squeal as he raced the car out of the long, curving driveway, but he was beyond caring. And he denied inwardly that it took any effort at all not to look in the rearview mirror as he left.

  "And so, Mr. Halloran, that is essentially it. Both Lockwood children hold the half interest left them by their father, twenty-five percent each. You hold the other fifty percent."

  Travis leaned back in the leather chair, his elbows resting on the arms as he steepled his fingers in front of him for a moment before he spoke. "So what you're saying is, there is no majority."

  "Exactly."

  Langley sounded pleased. Since there was nothing he could see to be pleased about in the arrangement, Travis assumed it was because he had understood the implications of what Emily Lockwood had done.

  "Mr. and Miss Lockwood together can match, but not outvote you. If one of them was to join with you, of course, you would have a decisive majority."

  "And it might snow here on the Fourth of July."

  "Er … yes, I gathered there is … some tension there."

  Travis chuckled dryly. "You have a flair for understatements." He looked at the attorney behind the big oak desk curiously, then scanned the office. After a moment, phrasing it carefully, he said, "No offense, Mr. Langley, but why did she come to you? The Lockwood's legal affairs have been handled by old man Hartford for years."

  Langley coughed. "Yes, I'm aware of that. Mrs. Lockwood explained the situation. She said in this instance she most particularly did not want to deal with Mr. Hartford's firm."

  "Because?" Travis prompted when he hesitated.

  "I got an idea—strictly an impression, you understand—that she was afraid he would try quite adamantly to talk her out of what she intended to do."

  I'll bet he would have, Travis t
hought sourly. Old man Hartford had hated him from the day he'd let the air out of the tires of his new Lincoln when Travis was ten years old. He would have thought she was crazy, Lockwood or not. He met Langley's bland, professional gaze, and thought he saw a spark of, if not curiosity, at least interest.

  "And you were new in town. You didn't know enough to try and stop her. Am I right?"

  "I've been here only a few months, yes. But in any case, it's not my job to judge. I'd like to think I would have fulfilled her wishes in any case."

  Travis studied the man for a moment. Yes, he thought, maybe you would have. "Did she tell you … why?"

  Langley didn't pretend not to understand, and Travis liked him even more for that. "Not really. No details. Just that it was to pay a huge debt. One that was long overdue."

  Travis closed his eyes. "And far too late," he murmured.

  "Pardon?"

  "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

  "The answer? Or the payment?"

  Travis smiled slowly, in acknowledgment of the man's perception. "Both." He let out a long, weary breath. "I don't want it."

  Langley never blinked. "I see," he said, as if people turned down millions of dollars in his office every day. "Hmm. I'm afraid the conditions are unalterable. The percentage, and the income, are yours whether or not you decide to take an active part in the business."

  "I don't want it," he repeated.

  "I'll have to consider this," Langley said, brow furrowed. "I suppose there could be a way, a trust, perhaps. Of course, as I explained, in six months it becomes yours free and clear, and you may sell it, turn it back, or do whatever you wish."

  "I don't want it, now or six months from now."

  Langley studied him for a moment. "You do realize the amounts we're talking about here? The concrete operation alone—" he paused and shuffled through some papers until he found the one he wanted "—pours an average of a thousand yards a day, five days a week. At a current rate of about sixty dollars a yard that's—"

  "Three hundred thousand a week. Fifteen and a half million a year. I know."

  "Yes. And with the gravel pit operations on top of that, you're looking at—"

  "I know how much it's worth. Believe me. I spent a great part of my life envying it."

  "Oh?" For the first time, Langley looked startled. "I shouldn't have thought that you would envy anyone."

  His mouth twisting wryly, Travis answered the unspoken question. "Did you think I've always been where you found me?"

  "No, but—"

  "It was a long haul to that office. Speaking of which—" Travis sat forward suddenly, fixing his gaze intently on the other man "—that is between you and me. No one else is to know."

  After a moment's hesitation, Langley nodded. Travis didn't miss the pause, and his gaze narrowed. "You've already told someone?"

  "Not exactly."

  "'Not exactly'?" Damn, Travis thought, he would have sworn he could trust this man. And these days he wasn't usually wrong; he'd learned the hard way to judge people. But if he'd already been flapping his mouth…

  "I mean, I haven't told anyone who … could tell anyone else."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It … took me quite some time to locate you. My client was concerned that I wouldn't be able to do so in time. So when I did, naturally, I had to reassure her."

  "You told … Mrs. Lockwood? About Willow Tree? That I…?" He was stunned, the emotional turmoil that had finally abated after he'd left the house—and Nicki—rising anew.

  "Yes."

  He tried to bite back the words, he didn't want to ask, didn't want to admit that it mattered. And then he was asking anyway. "What … did she say?"

  As if he understood the dilemma of the man across his desk, Langley answered quietly, gently. "She knew the company name immediately. When I told her you owned it, she said, 'Of course. I knew he would do it. It would take more than a foolish, wicked old woman to break Travis Halloran.' And," he added as Travis closed his eyes as if against great pain, "she said it with more pride than I've ever heard from anyone. As if she were speaking of … a beloved son."

  Something broke deep inside him, and Travis felt the hot, flowing relief of a festered wound lanced and cleaned at last. It was the release of a pressure carried so long it had almost been forgotten, yet the relief was almost dizzying.

  For the first time he thought, not of what he had gone through since that fateful day in the Lockwood house, but of the hell Emily Lockwood had lived with. She had been a polished, discriminating woman, with most definite views on right and wrong, and the wrong she had done must have gnawed at her no less than her betrayal had eaten at him.

  More so, probably, he realized now. She had had a lot farther to fall; he had only begun to climb when she had knocked him down to the bottom rung once more.

  I love you… My final sorrow is that I never told you when it would have mattered to you.

  It matters. Damn it, I don't want it to, but it does, Travis thought, trying to control the urge to blink against the stinging behind his eyelids, unwilling to betray so much even in the unexpectedly neutral company of John Langley.

  Neutral, he thought suddenly. Neutral only because he didn't know. But he would, soon. As soon as the amazingly efficient grapevine of San Remo passed on the news of Emily's will, the eruption would be heard for miles.

  "…research this. When I have some options, where can I contact you?"

  Yanked back to the present by the words, Travis noted with appreciation that Langley had assumed he would not be at the Lockwood house. When he opened his mouth to answer, the words that came out were not at all what he had planned to say moments ago.

  "No. Let it stand, for now. I need to … think about this."

  Don't decide in the heat of anger, or out of hatred, she had written. Well, he wasn't angry now. And he wasn't sure he hated anymore. What he did know was that he was tired. He'd driven since before dawn to get here; that and the confrontation with Nicki had drained him thoroughly.

  Richard, he could deal with; his hate meant less than nothing. But the realization that Nicki so utterly and completely loathed him had shaken him. He had hoped—foolishly, he admitted now—that over the years she might have softened a little. He supposed she would always blame him for her father's death, but he'd thought when the initial grief had passed, she might remember how close they'd been, might think about it, and begin to wonder.

  Right, he told himself scathingly. You never believed in Santa Claus, and he's a lot more likely to exist than a believing or forgiving Nicki Lockwood.

  "I'll be staying down in San Clemente," he said abruptly. He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and read off an address and phone number.

  "No room number? A residence?"

  He nodded. "I'm borrowing it."

  Langley nodded and wrote it down.

  "I won't be there until tomorrow. I have some arrangements to make at home."

  "I imagine so."

  There was no expression in Langley's voice, merely an acknowledgment of fact. Despite himself, Travis smiled.

  "You don't give much away, do you, Mr. Langley?"

  The thin man raised an eyebrow. "Hardly appropriate, in my line of work."

  The smile widened. "I think I'm glad she came to you."

  "Thank you." He studied Travis for a moment. "You've changed your mind, then?"

  "I don't know. I'm going to think about it."

  "Good. It's not a decision to be made in haste." He began to gather up the papers on his desk.

  Travis lifted an eyebrow. "No advice?"

  "I don't recall you asking for any."

  With a wry laugh, Travis said, "I didn't think lawyers waited to be asked."

  "Some don't." He shrugged. "It's clear to me that there are things involved here that I don't know about. Any advice I might give would quite possibly be useless, or even harmful. Besides," he said, eyeing Travis assessingly, "some people need advice. I don't t
hink you do."

  Travis stood up. "I don't think you do, either. So I won't bore you with the gruesome details. You'll hear about it all soon enough, I can promise you that. When it hits the fan, I'll leave you to make your own judgment."

  And hope like hell I'm not making a mistake, he thought as he drove down the coast. But I have to trust him, for now. I don't have the time or the energy, to deal with the details now. It's going to take all I've got to handle facing one Nicole Lockwood for the next few days.

  Nicki rubbed at her forehead, then propped it in one hand as she dropped her pencil on top of the stack of papers on her desk. She couldn't seem to concentrate today. It was as if there were some gnawing, annoying thing flitting around the edges of her consciousness, distracting her without revealing itself so she could do something about it.

  It wasn't the usual distractions; she'd long ago grown accustomed to the constant noise, the rumble of material trucks arriving every few minutes and off-loading tons of sand, rock and gravel, and the rolling sound of the mixers that had been loaded. She'd learned to ignore it all, to tune it out, to relegate it to the background as she worked, as she had once done her homework over the background of the rock and roll blaring from her headphones.

  But today that ability to concentrate had deserted her completely. Every time she yanked her mind away from the knowledge that, just down the hall, her mother's office sat empty, it seemed to go to the shocking fact of Travis's presence. And the even more shocking realization that he now owned half of the company she'd devoted the past five years of her life to.

  Work, she ordered herself silently, turning back to the pile of papers on her desk.

  Richard had done it again. He'd sent out forty yards of concrete to a buyer who already owed them several thousand dollars, tying up four mixers they'd needed elsewhere, for paying customers.

  She couldn't count the number of times in the past six months that he had done it, or something like it. Something that cost them time or money they could ill afford. Like buying a new, unnecessary truck to the tune of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Or putting money down on an adjoining piece of property for an expansion they were nowhere near ready for. Or promising deliveries that were far over and above the plant's already filled capacity.