SUSPICION'S GATE

by Justine Davis

  Nicki found it difficult to concentrate with his eyes on her so hotly, still dark with passion. Her own breathing was only now slowing, the pace of her heart easing, but what she was hearing began to get through.

  "What?"

  Travis's brow furrowed at the sharpness of her tone. The heat began to fade from his eyes. "How?"

  She was gripping the phone tightly, and Travis frowned. She listened a little longer, then expelled an angry breath. "All right. I'll be right there."

  She hung up sharply. She just stood there, staring at the phone. Travis waited. At last she lifted her head to look at him.

  "We seem to have had another … mishap."

  Her voice was carefully even, without a trace of accusation, but he knew her too well to be fooled. Knew that look of doubt that shadowed her blue eyes.

  He drew back as if she'd slapped him. And without a word, he turned and walked out.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Nicki stared up at the towering slurry water tank. The sides were still wet with the overflow that was streaming down the sides.

  "It's my fault, Miss Lockwood," Max said glumly. "I checked that the motor was running last night as usual, but I never thought to check the valve."

  "Has it ever stuck before?"

  "No." Max frowned. "In fact, it's not stuck now." He reached out and squeezed the ratchet handle; the ten-inch butterfly valve that controlled the flow of water through the tank moved easily. "It's working perfectly."

  "Yes," Nicki said grimly, "it is, isn't it?"

  And if it was working perfectly now, chances were it had been last night. Yet it had been closed, preventing the essential movement of the water in the tank that kept the residue of cement from settling to the bottom. And this morning, when they had begun to refill the tank, the overflow told them immediately what had happened; the sediment had settled and filled the bottom of the tank.

  "That's why the function light didn't go off in dispatch," Max said. "It only registers whether the pump is running or not."

  "I know."

  Nicki's voice was tense with the effort of shoving her suspicions to the back of her mind. Deal with this now, she told herself, and think about how it happened later.

  "Get a crew together to clean it out." She eyed the lowest hatch that gave access to the tank. "Let's hope it's below that level."

  Max nodded. "Otherwise we'll be here for days."

  Nicki stared at the valve handle. It would be easy, she thought. Just walk by, squeeze the ratchet and turn. You'd barely have to break stride, and chances were nobody would even notice. Anyone could have done it. Anyone.

  "Miss Lockwood?"

  She lifted her gaze to Max's face. He looked troubled, his graying brows furrowed.

  "What's going on?" he asked. "We've had so many things like this happen lately."

  "I know."

  Max scratched his chin. "Some of the guys… Well, they've been saying…" He looked uncomfortable.

  "Saying what, Max?"

  "That all this started when Mr. Halloran showed up."

  Nicki kept her expression even. "Who's been saying that, Max?"

  He coughed. "Well, Carl, mostly."

  "And you believe him?"

  Max looked perplexed. "Well, I don't generally put much stock in what he says…"

  "So why are you now?"

  Max eyed her levelly. "Because he said you think so, too."

  Nicki's eyes widened. "He said that? That I think … Mr. Halloran is responsible?"

  "You and Richard both."

  Nicki noted the absence of the respectful title that was always present when he spoke to her, or Travis, when Max spoke of her brother, but she didn't say anything. She was too busy trying to control the sick, roiling feeling that had risen in her stomach. She had admitted her suspicions to herself, why did it hurt so badly to hear?

  God, she was so confused. Did she feel sick because she didn't want to believe the man who could kiss her senseless was capable of this kind of thing? Or because she let the man who might be responsible, the man who had caused her father's death, kiss her until she forgot where she was, who she was? And who he was?

  But she couldn't help that, could she? Was it her fault all he had to do was touch her and she went up in flames? It didn't matter, she thought grimly. She couldn't control it, so it didn't matter whose fault it was. She couldn't—

  "Miss Lockwood? Are you all right?"

  She took in a deep breath and steadied herself. "I'm fine, Max. Sorry. What were you saying?"

  "Just that it doesn't seem like Mr. Halloran would do something like this." Max looked embarrassed. "I mean, I remember what happened to your father and all, but…"

  "I understand."

  "'Sides, why would he? He owns half the company now, doesn't he? Why would he want to hurt it?"

  "I don't know, Max."

  "Problem is, I can't think of anyone else who'd want to, either."

  Nicki couldn't, either, and only shrugged.

  "So you don't think it's Mr. Halloran?"

  "Even if I did," Nicki said, meeting his eyes, "I'm not going to make any accusations without proof."

  Max pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "I should'a known better than to listen to that bag of wind. You're not the kind that goes around spreading dirt behind someone's back. If you really thought he did it, you'd come out and say it to his face."

  Nicki colored slightly, not at all sure she deserved the compliment. Yes, she'd admitted her suspicions to herself, but she'd never truly confronted Travis with them, beyond that one desperate plea that he tell her hadn't broken the valve on the acid tank. Not, she thought ruefully, that she'd needed to; he knew what she'd been thinking as clearly as if she'd accused him openly, just as Richard had.

  A sudden thought narrowed her eyes. Where had Richard, who, she'd admitted at last, was patently afraid of Travis, gotten the nerve to accuse him face to face? It was a note out of tune, as had been his unexpectedly spirited defense of Carl the other day. Had he just been striking back out of that fear she didn't understand? Or had he found some unexpected strength in an anger born out of Travis turning his own accusations around on him?

  It was absurd, of course, to think that Richard might be behind all this. Whatever his faults, her brother loved this company. It was the one thing that gave him a sense of worth, and she knew he would never risk that. But if not him, or Travis, who? Why? And why now? She had no answers, but as she trudged back to her office the questions wouldn't go away.

  But her office was no longer the refuge it had once been. She stopped just inside the door, staring at her desk. Her stapler was on its side, the blotter turned at an angle, the paper clip holder lying atop the pencil she'd dropped.

  A vivid image leapt into her mind, an image of how they must have looked together, Travis standing between her parted thighs, pressing her back on her own desk, and her letting it happen, wanting it to happen, reveling in it.

  God knows what would have happened if the phone hadn't rung when it had, she thought. She shuddered at the images that raced through her mind, and though she told herself it was with distaste, the sudden acceleration of her heart and the instant heating of her blood made the avowal a sham.

  She crossed the room, walking as if barefoot on the three-quarter rock that filled the bunker outside the window. With controlled, careful movements she returned everything on the desk to its former place. It didn't help. The images were still intense in her mind.

  And they stayed that way, never dulling as the days dragged past, flashing into her consciousness at unexpected moments, catching her at any unguarded moment and causing that tumbling free-fall of her senses and emotions.

  The fact that Travis seemed to be avoiding her these days didn't make one bit of difference. He was ever present in her mind, and her senses remembered all too clearly every breath, every touch, every kiss.

  She knew he was around, could feel
that odd tingling of that old radar, but she saw little of him over the next week. She came face to face with him only once, after an angry phone call from Sam Shelby, when she had hurried to the dispatch office to find out what the mix-up had been.

  "I swear, Miss Lockwood, the call came in last night, just as we were closing up!" Ed Hartman, the chief dispatcher, said earnestly. "They said they were running behind, and couldn't take the loads until tomorrow."

  "Never mind that now. How fast can we get them rolling?"

  "We're at capacity now. The Hornung job is taking—"

  "Re-route them."

  Hartman gaped at her. "What?"

  "Pull the loads Shelby needs from the Hornung job."

  "But I can't do that! Richard said—"

  "I don't care what my brother said," she said flatly. "He shouldn't have promised it in the first place. Re-route the loads to the Shelby site."

  "Yes, ma'am," Hartman said quickly, respectfully.

  Nicki was aware that Travis was there, had known it since she'd come into the office. He was leaning against one of the desks, arms folded across his chest, watching her impassively. His eyes were that harsh, granite gray, and they chilled her as thoroughly as if she'd touched the cold stone itself.

  She knew he would hear, knew exactly what he would think, but she had to ask. So when Hartman had finished relaying her instructions, she took a deep breath and forced out the words.

  "Who called, Ed?"

  "Sanders, one of their foremen."

  "You know him?"

  "Well, no…"

  "But you've talked to him before?"

  Hartman's brow furrowed. "Actually, it's usually Sandy in the office who calls us with any changes."

  Nicki reached for the closest phone and quickly punched out a number.

  "Sam? Nicki Lockwood. Do you have a foreman by the name of Sanders?" She waited, and then said grimly, "I was afraid of that." Another pause. "I know, Sam. I understand. The mixers will be there within an hour." She winced, then sighed. "I can't blame you. There's no excuse for such shoddy service."

  When she hung up, Ed Hartman was staring at her, wide-eyed. "They don't have a foreman named Sanders?"

  Nicki shook her head.

  "Damn! I never questioned it, because he had all the details on the order."

  Nicki looked at him sharply. "All the details?"

  Hartman nodded. "The order numbers, the amounts, the dates—and that it was thirty-five hundred pound stress concrete instead of twenty-five."

  Nicki's heart sank. It could mean only one thing: whoever had cancelled the run was on the inside, on one end or the other. And the way things had been going, there was little doubt about which end it was.

  "I never thought that it might not be legit," Hartman said worriedly.

  "I know, Ed. You had no way of knowing."

  "But who the hell—"

  "I don't know." She bit her lip before asking quietly, "Did you … recognize the voice, Ed?"

  He looked startled. "Recognize it?"

  "Yes. Was it … anyone you've talked to before?"

  His brow furrowed again. "I don't know…" He trailed off, obviously thinking hard. Then he looked up at Nicki. "You know, now that you mention it, he did sound kind of familiar."

  She tensed. "But you don't know who it was?"

  "No. But now that I think about it, it seems like I'd talked to him before, you know? Maybe that's why I didn't ask any more questions about it."

  Nicki sighed. "Maybe. Don't worry about it, Ed. You couldn't have known."

  Hartman scratched his head. "Who would do something like that? Why?"

  Her lips tightened; she didn't like thinking about the possibilities. Especially the most likely possibility.

  "Could somebody be trying to mess up Shelby?"

  "Or us," she muttered.

  As she turned to go she felt Travis's gaze on her, and she couldn't help looking over at him. His eyes were icy, the planes of his face set in harsh, rigid lines; he'd heard her. And knew she was wondering yet again if he was the one. If he'd been that "kind of familiar" voice Hartman had heard.

  He held her gaze for one long, cold moment, then turned his back on her, bending over the screen of the computer that monitored the storage levels in the bunkers and silos. Debby Manelli, the petite brunette who sat at that station, smiled up at him and went on with her explanations of the system.

  Travis smiled back at her, and Nicki felt a ripple of queasiness go through her. He'd always had that effect, as if the sight of that flashing smile softening the grim lines of his face made every woman start thinking about what lay beneath the tough exterior. And thinking about being the one to reach it.

  The queasiness settled in the pit of her stomach, and Nicki turned away. Stop it, she ordered herself fiercely as she hurried down the hall. All he did was smile at her. It doesn't mean anything. Besides, Debby's happily married. And what have you got to say about it, anyway? He's … nothing to you. Not anymore. So stop acting like she's poaching on your territory.

  Your territory. She closed her office door behind her, leaning back against it. That was how she'd always thought of it, wasn't it? That special, vulnerable part of him, that deeply buried, gentle place he kept so hidden from the rest of the world, was hers, and only hers.

  Or it had been. Then. And now? She wasn't even certain it existed anymore. Sometimes, when he would look at her with that tenderness that left her breathless, when he touched her so gently, she was sure that it did. And other times, like now, when he looked so grim and forbidding, she was certain that any softness in him had died long ago.

  Or been killed. By the Lockwoods.

  She fought off the traitorous thought. He'd brought it on himself, she told herself stubbornly, and wondered why she was having so much trouble hanging onto the convictions she'd held for fifteen years.

  "I told you so!"

  Nicki looked up at her brother, then at the sheaf of papers he was waving in front of her face. "Now what, Richard?"

  "You said I was wasting my time, wining and dining that guy. You said they didn't work that way." He waved the papers triumphantly. "Shows you what you know, little sister! Just leave the politicking to me from now on, you obviously don't understand how these things work."

  "A fact for which I am eternally grateful," Nicki muttered under her breath. Then, aloud, "What is it you're gloating about?"

  He thrust the papers at her again.

  "I can't see it if you don't stop waving it like a flag, Richard."

  With a smug smile, he dropped the papers onto her desk. The top sheet was a letter, and the logo on the top sheet caught her eye immediately. She scanned it hastily. Her eyes widened, and she read it again, more carefully, certain she had misunderstood. "We … got it? Willow Tree?"

  "We sure did," Richard crowed, "thanks to my influence. I told you you have to know how to treat those people."

  "But the bid was way up—"

  "Oh, Nicki, you're so naive. Don't you know the numbers don't mean anything? It's all in how you handle the people in charge of the bids."

  "But—"

  "That guy Howell is no different than anybody else. You show them a good time, spend a little money so they know you don't really need their business, and boom, they fall right into line."

  Nicki looked at the acceptance letter with a sudden distaste. "I didn't think they were like that."

  Richard looked at her pityingly. "That's your trouble. You're always looking for principles, and there aren't any in the business world. At least, not if you're going to be successful."

  A condescendingly instructive tone came into his voice. "It's dog eat dog out there, and you have to bite before you get bitten. That's why you should leave this kind of thing to someone who knows how things are. Like me."

  "Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back," she said wryly.

  She looked at the letter again, wondering if the Chuck Howell who had signed it was truly as easi
ly swayed as Richard was saying. She remembered the night after they had submitted the bid, when her brother had come home after taking the man out to the ritziest place in ritzy Newport Beach, just up the coast, muttering that he was the toughest nut he'd ever tried to crack.

  "He acts like it doesn't mean a thing to him," Richard had complained. "Says I'm wasting my time, that he's only a vice president, and his boss has the final say."

  "So why don't you take the president out instead," she'd said, tired of hearing about her brother's machinations.

  "I tried. He won't go. Won't even talk." Richard's brow had creased. "Hell, I don't even know his name. Weird. Howell says he usually likes to know the people he deals with, but he turned this completely over to him."

  If he's talked to his vice president, maybe he knows as much about you as he cares to, Nicki had thought glumly. And had consigned the hope of getting the marina contract to the slag heap.

  And yet here she was, looking at the letter of acceptance she had never expected to see. Somehow she wasn't nearly as happy as she should have been.

  "Well, don't you have anything to say?"

  She looked up at him. "Like what?"

  Richard flushed, then glared at her. "You're the one who wanted this job so bad. I did it for you."

  She doubted that, then felt guilty for the thought. He was her brother, and the only blood relative she had left, she shouldn't immediately assume the worst. Perhaps he really had done it because he knew she wanted it so much. Perhaps.

  "The least you could do is say thank you, or congratulations, or something," Richard grumbled.

  She supposed he was right. They had gotten the contract. And she had wanted it. Did she have any right to quibble about the method?

  "Of course, Richard. Congratulations." She smiled a little sadly. "I guess you were right."

  "Well," Richard huffed, slightly mollified, "you could look a little happier about it."

  "Sorry," she said automatically. "I am happy about it." Just not nearly as happy as I thought I'd be.