Ever since their mother had become too ill to work and Nicki had begun to spend more time with her than at the plant or the pit, Richard had, with a grand display of nobility, doubled his own time there. The work had to be done, and he wouldn't dream of taking Nicki away from home at a time like this. He would handle things, and they weren't to worry about anything. Which had made her worry all the more.
She sighed. Richard enjoyed playing the wealthy benefactor. He extended credit, he donated money, material and time—more often than not her time—to any cause that might get the Lockwood name in the papers. He played the successful, generous businessman to the hilt, and refused to listen to her warnings that if he kept it up, there wouldn't be any business.
She nearly laughed. As of yesterday, there was no business, at least not for them. Why? she asked herself for the thousandth time. Why had her mother done this insane thing? For the person responsible for her beloved husband's death? Had Travis truly wormed himself so fully into her mother's heart fifteen years ago that she had left half of the company she and Robert Lockwood had built up from nothing to him, to the exclusion of her own children?
She knew Emily had seen something in Travis, even as a teenager with a wild reputation as the son of the ludicrous town drunk, something that she had never seen in her own son. She had more than once told Nicki that she wished Richard had half the brains and gumption of Travis Halloran. Silently, although she felt slightly disloyal to her brother, Nicki had agreed. Even at fourteen, she had sensed the tremendous difference between the two; it was what had drawn her to Travis—
Stop it, she told herself sharply. Concentrate on this mess. Her mother had been proven right too many times to count in the years since her father had been killed. Richard had absolutely no head for business, and it had taken both her and her mother to undo the damage he seemed to inflict so easily.
In the past six months, Nicki had had little time left for the day-to-day business operations; she'd spent every possible moment with her rapidly failing mother. And she was only now finding out what six months in Richard's hands had done to their financial situation. She hadn't had a chance to go through everything yet, but perhaps Travis wouldn't be getting such a prize after all.
And why, she thought suddenly, was she bothering with this? He was half owner now, let him straighten it out. She smiled icily. Whatever Travis Halloran had been doing all these years, she doubted it ran to solving problems of this kind or size.
The smile faded as she remembered his words, flung at her under the tree that had sheltered so many of their quiet, heartfelt talks. A superior bitch. Had she really become that? That last thought had been decidedly arrogant, she admitted. Who knows what he'd been doing? And on the heels of that thought came a quick, vivid memory of a gleaming Mercedes sitting in their driveway. The expensive car shook all her disdainful assumptions, she admitted ruefully. For all she knew, he was—
He was standing in her doorway. One shoulder against the doorjamb, he stood with ankles crossed, as nonchalantly as if he— She nearly laughed at herself as she realized her next thought would have been "as if he owned the place."
"Somehow I don't think that smile is for me."
"Oh, it was. Indirectly." She managed to keep her voice cool despite the sudden hammering of her heart. In the hours she'd spent with him as a girl suffering from a severe case of puppy love she'd tried to hide, she'd often fantasized about what he would look like years ahead. Nothing, she'd thought then, could surpass those dark good looks, that air of reckless energy. But the boy had become a man, and he was more devastating than she had ever imagined.
He wore jeans today, faded and snug, but whole. A sudden vision of the first time she'd seen him flashed through her mind, a memory of sitting in a heap at his feet, expecting him to laugh at her because all of Richard's friends did.
But he didn't. And she'd known instinctively that this one was different, this one was special.
She hated the fact that he was able to affect her like this, and she narrowed her gaze. The jeans were faded, but the leather sport shoes were new, and the gray sweater he wore looked like some kind of linen blend. And expensive. As was the soft gray, suede bomber-style jacket he wore, she realized. And the thin gold watch that banded his right wrist.
Only now did she remember that at the funeral he had been wearing an exquisitely cut suit that bore the unmistakable stamp of an Italian designer. And, she thought as the pictures played back in her mind, a silk tie. The Mercedes, she thought again suddenly. She'd known he was mocking them when he'd made the crack about stealing it, but she'd wondered if perhaps he'd rented it in an effort to impress them. Maybe it was his, she thought now. And despite having spent a great portion of a sleepless night telling herself she didn't care, she wondered what he'd done all these years.
"Taking inventory?"
There was a touch of asperity in his voice, and she snapped upright. "Why not? Isn't that what you're here for?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Why not, indeed," she said tightly. "So tell me, Mr. Halloran, where would you like to start in surveying your new kingdom?"
The only visible reaction to her tone was in the slightest chilling of already cool gray eyes. "Why not right here?" he said, his tone carefully level.
"Here?"
"I've heard if I want to know what's really going on around here, I should come see you."
"Richard is the—"
"Figurehead. You're the brains." She flushed, then was furious when he added, "Not my opinion, of course. But the guys out in the yard say you do all the work."
"Then let me do it. I have too much to do to—"
"Besides," Travis interrupted smoothly, "Richard and I are hardly on speaking terms."
"What," she grated, "makes you think that we are?"
"We're talking, aren't we?"
"You're talking. I'm trying to work."
"I always knew you'd wind up running the place."
"I didn't. But then I never knew you'd end up owning the place, either."
"Half."
"A half that makes it impossible for us to function."
"Then you're admitting there is an 'us'?" His tone was sweetly even.
"By 'us,' I meant Lockwood, Incorporated." The words nearly hissed through her clenched teeth.
"And heaven forbid a non-Lockwood should be part of that."
"If heaven could forbid it, you wouldn't be here."
"Is it that, or is it just me?" he asked softly.
"Both," she said flatly.
"You hate me that much?"
"What did you expect? To be welcomed with open arms?"
"I was, once."
"Get out."
A dark brown shot upward. "Orders, Ms. Lockwood?"
"You may own half of this place for now, but this is still my office. Get out."
"My, you do that well," he said, that casual nonchalant tone back in his tone. "That imperious, nose-in-the-air Lockwood glare. You do it almost as well as your mother did."
She stood up suddenly behind the wide desk. "You bastard," she snapped.
"Oh, no. I'm many things, but not that. My parents may not have been much by the exalted Lockwood standards, but they were married."
Her cheeks flamed. She felt it, hating her telltale fair complexion. "Those 'exalted Lockwood standards' seemed attractive enough to you, once."
"And unattractive to you, as I remember. You called them … arrogant, I think was the word."
A chill swept her as he called up more of the memories she was trying so hard to suppress. "Perhaps," she said, struggling to retain a fragile control over her voice and emotions, "I was too young to realize the importance of standards, then."
He didn't miss the implication that if she had, she wouldn't have spent so much time with him. "But you're older now," he said coolly.
"And wiser. Enough to know that standards are what give us integrity and principles."
"Well, since obviously I can't
offend your mother's standards anymore, it must be your personal version. It goes against them to let in an outsider?"
"No." The memories were stinging inside her, pushing her to the edge of tears that she swore she would not give in to, and she struck back in the only way she was sure would hurt him. "It goes against them to let in an ex-con."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
She'd meant it to hurt, but she hadn't expected to cringe inwardly at the flash of pain in his eyes. And she certainly hadn't expected that the look of stone-faced resignation that replaced the instant of pain would somehow strike a blow to her as deep and harsh as the one she'd delivered.
She didn't understand it. She should be exulting in the knowledge that she could hurt him as he'd hurt her. She hadn't forgotten the nights of agony, endless hours of wrestling with the pain of her father's death. And the pain of betrayal. So why did the sight of his eyes turning to the cold, bleak gray of granite stab at her so?
"Well, Ms. Lockwood," he said, his voice cold, "I'm afraid you're stuck with … this ex-con."
"I know."
Much of the heat had gone out of her voice, and he looked at her a little oddly. But his voice was still cool, still rigidly even when he said, "In that case, you won't mind if I take a look at the books?"
One delicate brow arched. "The books? Don't you want to look at the plant?"
"I've seen it."
"That was … a long time ago."
He never even blinked at her reference to the times when Richard, eager to impress his rescuer with the true extent of his family's wealth, had brought Travis here to show the place off. He'd bragged proudly of the day when it would all be his, when he would be the Lockwood of Lockwood, Incorporated. Travis had guessed then, as he'd watched the men of the plant scowl at Richard behind his back, and smile at Nicki as she darted around and asked her quick, clever questions, how it would turn out in the end.
"I meant today." He leaned casually against the edge of her desk. "I've been here for a couple of hours."
No wonder she hadn't been able to concentrate, Nicki thought wearily. She'd always seemed to have some sixth sense when it came to him; she'd often known he was in the house before she'd ever seen him, coming downstairs or in from outside unerringly within moments after he'd arrived. He'd always laughed, teasing her about her "radar," but she'd known he wasn't laughing at her. That radar still seemed in working order.
"The books?" he prompted.
"All right." She shoved the memories back again; the effort sharpened her voice once more. "I'll set them up for you. But if you're expecting me to sit here and explain everything to you—"
"I don't expect anything from you, Ms. Lockwood."
The words, and the formal title dug a little deeper into the wound caused by that look in his eyes.
"Travis—"
"I wouldn't think of keeping you from your work. If you'll just point me in the right direction, I'll … struggle through."
Swearing inwardly at her chaotic emotions, she covered her agitation with a quick, jerky movement for the power switch of the computer terminal on her desk. She flipped it on with an angry flick of her wrist.
"Nothing's been entered in the past few weeks," she said shortly, with no attempt at justification as the machine ran through all the system checks and loaded the accounting software. She'd been much too wrapped up in the grim knowledge that her mother was slipping away from her so quickly to worry about this; thus the monumental pile of paperwork on her desk.
Travis merely nodded, not asking for an explanation. She straightened then, looking at him.
"The program is pretty self-explanatory. F1 is your help key. You just—"
She broke off, doubt showing in her eyes. Travis read her look and said dryly, "Believe it or not, I can find my way around a keyboard." He chuckled mirthlessly. "I may be an ex-con, but I'm not an idiot."
"I never thought you were. I know better. I just didn't know what you'd been … if you'd ever…"
She stopped, floundering, her color deepening. Hastily she gathered up the stack of papers and stepped out from behind her desk.
"I'll do these down in Mother's office…"
Travis heard the strained note in her voice, but couldn't stop himself. "Wouldn't it be easier for me to move?"
"No!"
His slow smile was a joyless one. "Sacred territory? Not to be soiled by the presence of an ex-con? What if I decide it comes with my share of the business? She did leave it to me, after all."
Nicki paled. Her hands tightened around the pile of papers, and without another word she walked out of the office. Travis knew that if he'd wanted revenge for her remark, he'd gotten it in spades.
With a smothered sigh he sat down at the desk and tugged the keyboard toward him. His mouth twisted into a wry smile as he looked at the screen glowing with the familiar logo. Ironic that they used the same program. Quickly he tapped a few keys, made a selection, and sat back to read.
By the time a sound at the door broke his concentration, the picture was gloomily clear. Lockwood, Incorporated was on the edge of real trouble. And for senseless, illogical reasons he didn't understand. What the hell had been going on here, anyway?
He looked up in time to see Nicki cross the office to a bank of file cabinets and silently file away several papers. Then she left the room again, only to return in less than a minute with a large cardboard box. She walked past him to set it on the credenza behind her desk, then, at last, turned to face him.
"I've cleared out some things." Her voice was carefully neutral. "If you don't like … that office, then as half owner, I'm sure everyone will understand if you pick whatever one you do like."
He studied her for a moment, regretting his earlier words for reasons he didn't quite understand. Lord knows, she'd fired the first salvo in this skirmish. Yet he couldn't seem to rid himself of the instinctive reaction he had to her pain. Couldn't break the old habit of wanting to protect her. When he spoke, his voice was soft.
"I don't want your mother's office."
"Fine. Take whatever you want."
The inference that he would with or without her okay was clear in the slight edge that had crept into her voice. He tightened his grip on his temper; since he'd already known how much worse that belief was coming from her, he should have been prepared. He kept his tone quiet.
"You haven't asked why I changed my mind."
She gave him a look that told him exactly why she thought he'd changed his mind.
"I still don't want it. But I want to know what your mother expected me to do with it."
"Don't ask me. I don't understand why she did it at all."
"Don't you?"
It came out as nearly a whisper through his suddenly tight throat, and Nicki's head shot up. She stared at him for a moment, and he could read in her face that this was familiar territory for her.
"No. But you do, don't you? She told you. In that letter."
Travis stiffened. Then he made himself relax, and shrugged without speaking.
"Why? Tell me why!"
"Think about it," he urged softly.
"Do you think I haven't?" It broke from her on a cry, and she looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, if not calmer. "I know she … cared a great deal about you … once. But to do this…"
She trailed off, her incomprehension apparently too deep for words.
"Looks like you've got two choices, then. Either your mother was crazy, or she had another reason."
"She wasn't crazy! She was lucid almost to the end."
Travis raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to acknowledge the alternative. Instead, her voice becoming heated, she turned on him.
"I don't know why she did what she did. I don't care what she wrote to you. And I don't know what kind of hold you had on her, or how you managed it, but we're going to see that you don't keep it. This is Lockwood property, and it's going to stay that way."
; He forced himself not to react to the not-so-thinly veiled accusations, and merely raised an eyebrow. "We?"
She looked a little surprised. "Richard and I."
"Oh." He gave her a one-shouldered shrug. "Sorry, I'm too familiar with Richie's kind of help to believe that he'll be of much use to you."
She went stiff. "I will not discuss my brother with you. You've already tried to hurt him enough." She moved forward, looking pointedly at her desk. "I've cleared out an office for you. Please use it. Now."
Give it up, Travis told himself. She'd had fifteen years to think about it, and it hadn't made the slightest dent in that Lockwood certainty. Without a word, he gathered up the notes he'd made and started toward the door. At the last minute, he turned back.
"Is it the brother we're not discussing who's been running this place lately?"
"I said I won't—"
"I know. I just wondered who'd been making all the bonehead decisions around here. Somehow I don't think it's you."
Nicki glared at him, yet there was an odd glow in her eyes, and he guessed that while she was angry at his criticism of the way the company was being run, she hadn't missed the implied compliment. Perhaps she was even pleased by it, which, he realized ruefully, would make her even angrier.
He saw her soft, full lips tighten, and guessed she was battling to hold back some sharp remark. He left before she lost the fight.
"So you've decided? You'll accept the inheritance?"
Travis paced the lawyer's office, stopping before a wall of books. "For now. Something's wrong in that company, and I want to know what it is."
And the fact that he was virtually certain the something wrong was Richard didn't hurt matters, either. He'd thought he'd outgrown the need for revenge, but perhaps he hadn't after all; he wouldn't mind finding out Richard had been the failure.
John Langley's silence caught his attention, and he turned around. The attorney was carefully setting out several papers on his desk, facing the side where Travis had been seated before he'd begun his pacing.
SUSPICION'S GATE Page 4
