Nicki stared at the copy of the forms she'd mailed out, knowing that although she'd trimmed all she could trim, the bid was still too high. With all of Richard's foolish maneuvering they would be lucky to meet the orders at all, and although she'd cut the profit margin to nearly nothing, she knew the end figures were above what other operations could offer.
She sighed, mentally giving up the idea of winning this bid on the marina project. No company would accept this when they could get their product so much cheaper. Not even to deal with Lockwood, who had the best reputation in the area for quality and service. At least they did for now, she amended sourly. If this kept up, that reputation would be crumbling quickly.
She leaned back in her chair, running a hand over her denim clad knee. She'd gone back to her usual uniform of jeans paired with soft silk shirts; the denim for practicality around the yard, the silk a touch of feminine luxury she needed in this place. Today it was a simple shirt in a deep teal, which gave her eyes a turquoise tint.
She tried desperately to keep her mind off Richard's accusations. Every time she thought of them, her own doubts rose up to taunt her. And her own harshest judge, her inner self, berated her for being more upset at the idea of Travis using her to gain total control of Lockwood than at the thought that he might be behind the sabotage.
God, maybe Richard was right. Maybe she did have a blind spot when it came to Travis. What else could explain why her mind always came up with explanations for everything when she was with him, rationalizations that soothed a doubting mind, only to have it torture her again when she was alone? Did his mere presence have such a power over her?
Stop it, she ordered herself. Get back to work. She forced her gaze back to the papers in her hand.
No, she thought, no company in their right mind would take this bid. And this company was most definitely in their right mind. Willow Tree had come out of nowhere six years ago to become one of the biggest in San Diego. She would have liked to have been in on the ground floor of their expansion into Orange County, but based on these figures, there wasn't much chance of that.
Her eyes strayed to the logo that graced the newspaper ad soliciting bids. With a wry smile she wondered how much of her attraction to this company was based on the appeal, to her at least, of their name. Lord, she thought, you're a soft touch. Just the name Willow Tree, and you're a goner. One slender finger reached out and traced the flowing lines of the simple design. The movement was interrupted when a small sound at the door made her look up. "Good morning."
His voice was low and husky, and if he was feeling any lingering anger after she hadn't denied her suspicions, it wasn't showing now. The only thing in his face was that same soft, warm tenderness that had weakened her knees yesterday. It was lighting his eyes, and sent a shiver down her spine and all thoughts flying from her mind.
"You're here early." He came in quietly, pulling her office door closed behind him.
"I couldn't … I had some work to do."
"I couldn't sleep, either."
She colored, knowing it would do her no good to deny he was right; he knew it, and she knew he knew it. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her desk.
"Watch the dust," she said, eyeing his dark slacks. "We had a pop-off this morning."
"A what?"
"Don't tell me you missed something in your brain picking."
He looked at her a little sharply, as if weighing her voice for any sarcasm. After a moment he shrugged. "Guess so. What's a pop-off?"
"It happens when they overfill the cement silo. It pops off the filter bags at the top and sends this—" she ran a slender finger over the polished surface of her desk and held it up; the tip was covered with a fine, grayish-white coat of dry cement "—everywhere."
He looked at her finger intently. She saw his left hand begin to move, as if he were going to reach for her, then he stopped. An odd, almost bitter smile flickered over his face.
"The cement equivalent of blowing a gasket?" he said wryly, in the tone of a man all too familiar with the feeling.
"Sort of. It's a nuisance, but harmless, as long as you get this—" she gestured at her computer "—covered in time."
Instinctively he followed the movement of her arm, and saw the newspaper clipping that sat on her desk. His gaze snapped quickly to her face, as if startled.
"You're making a bid on the marina project?"
She nodded.
"I didn't see the figures in the records anywhere."
With a sigh, she nodded again. "I know. I didn't really want to keep a record of them. They're pretty grim."
He lifted a brow. "You don't sound very confident."
"I'm not. My minimums are way too high."
He reached out for the papers. She hesitated, then realized that what they held would come as no surprise to him. He knew where they stood. And, she thought, he knew why. An odd feeling of assurance filled her; she didn't have to explain, he knew it wasn't her fault. She handed him the bid copy.
She watched him as he read it, saw his eyes dart quickly over the pages, scanning columns, zeroing in on totals. He read it, she realized, as if he'd read hundreds of them before. Her brow creased, but before she could speak he was looking at her, a low whistle escaping him.
"Whew."
"It's the best I could do. We'd have to run double shifts to do it."
"It's not that. Your figures are a bit high, but not outrageous. But you really pared this down to the bone, didn't you?"
She smiled wryly. "I ran out of places to trim."
"I can see that. Your profit margin is down to practically nil."
She shrugged. "It was the only way I could come close to being feasible."
He set down the papers. He looked at her for a moment. "Why?"
She looked blank. "Why what?"
"Why are you trying so hard? You wouldn't be making any money on it, even if you got the contract."
She flushed. "Look," she began defensively, "I know what our financial position is—"
"Take it easy. I just wanted to know why this project is worth it."
"It's a big contract."
"That you'll barely break even on."
"It's a good project. Good exposure."
"You sound like Richard."
She bristled. "This is entirely different. They're a good, honest company, not a political stepping stone. They do quality projects. They have an excellent reputation in San Diego, and … and…"
Something about the way he was looking at her made her falter, her words trailing off.
"You seem to have done your homework."
Why was he staring at her like that, almost warily? "I try to find out about companies I deal with."
"What … else do you know about them?"
Her brow creased. "That this is their first project here. And I'd like for Lockwood to be part of it."
"Why?"
"It's good business."
His eyes flicked to the bid papers, then back to her face.
Nicki gave a disgusted sigh. "All right, all right. I can't explain it. I just like the way they work. Everything I've read about them, I like. This project, and the way they made the planners accept the expansion to include the youth dock and facilities. And they built an office complex in San Diego where they added a day care center, and footed most of the bill for it. And it's not for anyone's personal gain, either. I couldn't even find out who the president is. He keeps a very low profile, they say."
He looked away, quickly, and Nicki got the oddest feeling he was embarrassed. "You have done your homework."
"They're the kind of people I'd like to do business with. It would be worth the narrow margin on this project, if we can get a foot in the door. Then we might have an edge on future projects with them." She sighed. "But there's not much chance of that. We may have the best product, but those numbers aren't going to help."
"The best product." He gave her a crooked smile. "That old Lockwood superiority again."
<
br /> "It is not," she said instantly. "It's the truth. Our sand is the purest, and Capistrano rock—"
"—is the hardest, densest rock in southern California, and makes the best cement. I know."
"Well, then you—" She caught the glint in his eyes. She flushed, then smiled reluctantly. "Darn you, Travis Hal-loran! You know that always gets me on my soapbox."
His gaze softened for a reason she didn't quite understand. "It always used to. I didn't know if it still did."
"It does," she admitted. Then, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was just thinking that 'Darn you, Travis Halloran' sounds a hell of a lot better than 'Damn you,'" he said softly.
She blushed. "Small difference."
"It's a step." He smiled ruefully. "I've learned to take great comfort out of small crumbs."
She lowered her eyes, that undertone in his voice causing a sharp little stab of pain.
"But then," he went on, in a low, soft tone that was nearly a caress, "a crumb from you always was worth more than the whole loaf from anybody else."
Her gaze shot up to his face. That tenderness was there, warming the granite of his eyes, softening the lines of his face that had seemed so harsh, so severe to her when she'd first seen him after all the years he'd been gone.
The thought of how long it had been brought back what she had wondered earlier.
"It looks like you've read a few of these before," she said, lifting the bid papers.
He shrugged. "I've looked at a couple."
Enough to accurately judge this one. He did know a lot more than he was letting on. And he had already learned enough about their individual operation to recognize how close she had cut their profit margin. He was proving, if she'd had any doubts, just how right her mother had been about him. And she wondered where they might be today if they'd had Travis instead of Richard to help them run the place.
That old pang of guilt at her disloyalty dug at her. Her brother, who was the only family she had left. The only Lockwood left, other than herself. Again she tried to convince herself that for that reason, if no other, she should give him her allegiance. They should stand together, as the Lockwood heirs, the last of the Lockwood family. But Richard could be so … so exasperating. He was immature, and such a braggart, and at times made her so furious she could barely function.
And Travis Halloran still had twice the brain, the drive, and the potential that her brother had. She could see it as clearly now as she had then, and it tugged at her raw emotions to think what he might have become had it not been for one wild, careless moment.
It would be so easy, she thought, if it were merely an analytical, logical decision. Richard was an arrogant humbler, Travis was quick, sharp and competent in a way Richard could only fake. There was no doubt about who, logically, was the best man for the business. Yet Richard was a Lockwood and her brother. And Travis was the man who'd killed her father, accident or not.
And quite possibly, he was the man out to sabotage the company she loved. And the man who might be using her to do it. The thought sent a shiver through her.
Travis stood up so suddenly her desk shook with the strength of his movement. She looked up, startled.
"Damn it," he swore under his breath, through teeth clenched so tightly she knew she hadn't been meant to hear it. She stood up, staring at him.
"What's wrong?"
"Damn it," he said again, "can't you—" He stopped abruptly, his jaw clenching again as he looked away from her. When he spoke again, the words were low and tightly controlled. "No. After fifteen years, of course you can't."
"Can't what?" She shook her head in mystification. And trepidation. He looked as he had at the funeral, his face carved into rigid, forbidding lines, as if he'd walled himself away so completely there was no way out.
Or in. She wondered why that thought bothered her most. He looked so grim she came around her desk, almost frightened for him.
"Travis…"
"Never mind," he said at last, calmer. "I hate it when you do that!"
It was a reflex, the answer she'd always given him when he used to try to end a conversation that way. It startled him out of that rigidity. In his eyes she saw the memories come alive once more, just as she felt them flooding her until she felt she couldn't hold them anymore.
She tried to speak, but no words would come past her suddenly dry lips. Her tongue crept out to wet them, to try again, but the low groan that broke from him stopped her.
"God, Nicole…"
She knew before he reached for her that he was going to do it. And knew, with a burst of fierce honesty, that she wanted him to. Wanted him to touch her, kiss her again, wanted to know, had to know if it was as sweet as she remembered, as hot, as melting.
He pulled her hard against him, and fire leapt between them like a lightning strike. She gasped, stunned by the tingling of her body as it pressed against the hard, muscled length of his. The sound was cut off by his mouth taking hers, his lips urgent and demanding yet somehow pleading at the same time.
He backed her up against the desk, trapping her with his legs and arms, as if he feared she might try to escape. She couldn't find the breath to tell him she wasn't going anywhere; she couldn't do anything while he was kissing her like that, anything except turn to some hot, flowing mass of feeling beneath his mouth.
His hands came up to cup her head, to tilt it back as he probed deeper with his tongue. She felt his wet heat, dancing over her lips, then inside, stroking the soft, sensitive surfaces. He traced the even ridge of her teeth, then dove past them to flick at her tongue with his.
Nicki's hands went around his neck, whether to pull him closer or because she needed the support she wasn't certain. She just knew that his solid, taut body was the only anchor she had, the only thing that kept her from flying away on the updraft of the inferno he'd created in her.
His tongue flicked over hers again, then drew back. A tiny moan of protest rose in her throat at the loss. He did it again, deeper, sweeter, and again drew back.
More, she thought hazily. She wanted more. But he was gone, that hot, rough velvet was gone, and she felt bereft. But his lips were there, soft and warm and coaxing, rocking on hers gently. Then, through the dizzying waves of sensation, it occurred to her that she could get what she wanted, so easily.
Tentatively she tried it, the tip of her tongue brushing lightly over his lips. She felt him go still, felt the little shiver that rippled through him. It pleased her somehow, to know that she had done that, and she ran her tongue over his lower lip again. He tasted hot and sweet and male, and she quickly found that a taste was not enough. Especially when he groaned like that, low and gruff and deep in his chest, as if she had stroked someplace deep inside him. If this was an act, it was the most convincing one she'd ever seen.
She probed deeper, as he had done, seeking the same spots he had discovered in her, the places that sent fiery little bursts of heat shooting through her like a rain of sparks.
"God, Nicole," he gasped at last, wrenching his mouth away.
He stared down at her, his eyes as dark as charcoal. And as hot as charcoal could get, she thought, a little dazedly.
And she needed that heat. Needed it like she had never needed anything before in her life.
She lifted her hands to cup his face, having to order her passion-drugged muscles to obey, not realizing the sensuous grace the slowness of the movement gave her. With one slender finger she traced the line of his mouth, wondering why she had never known that a kiss could give such pleasure, why she had never felt this leaping fire before.
"Travis," she whispered, and knew that it was the answer.
As if he'd read her thoughts, as he'd always seemed able to, he groaned hoarsely and closed his eyes. When she gently stroked his lips again, his arms tightened suddenly, fiercely. His mouth came down on hers again, his tongue driving, thrusting; she welcomed him with a glad little cry.
He moved, nudging her knees apart with one
strong thigh as he pressed her back against the edge of the desk. She never thought to deny him; the need to have him closer was much too strong. His hips came up hard against her, and she felt the pressure of aroused male flesh at the same moment his left hand slid down to cup the outer curve of her breast.
She twisted sinuously, not to get away from that searing touch but to bring it closer to the tingling peak of flesh that was crying out for his heat. And then his hand moved, his palm cradling that feminine curve tenderly, as if savoring the soft weight. His thumb flicked quickly, fleetingly over her nipple, sending a blast of flame rocketing through her.
She gasped, instinctively arching her back, thrusting herself against his hand. It stunned her even as she did it; she didn't know this creature she'd become, couldn't find the self she'd always known in this body that craved nothing more than his hands on her in ways she'd never dreamed of before.
She heard him make a sound, a low, husky whisper of her name that was nearly a growl. Then he stroked that begging crest again, and a little cry broke from her. She felt the caress in every part of her, felt the hardening of her own flesh beneath his touch as if the fragile silk of her shirt had melted away.
But most of all she felt that need again, that need for more, so much more. She had to have more. More of his kiss, more of his touch, more of things she'd never really believed possible. She had to believe it now. She had no choice. Travis had shown her it was possible. That with him, anything was possible. She could soar, she could fly, she—
The sudden clamor of the phone at her elbow made her jump and Travis stiffen. The spell broken, his head dropped to nestle in the curve of her neck. She could hear his quickened breathing, echoing her own. Her hand crept up to rest on the nape of his neck, her fingers threading through the heavy silk of his hair as she pressed his head to her.
"You gonna answer that," he asked thickly, "or shall I yank it out of the wall?"
What she wanted to say was yes, shut off the damned phone and go right back to what you were doing. What she did, after a little shiver, was pick up the receiver. As she answered, Travis, with a great effort, straightened up and released her.
SUSPICION'S GATE Page 14
