Suspicions: A Twist of FateTears of Pride

by Lisa Jackson

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I think I’d better leave.”

  “Why?”

  “This is all wrong,” she began, trying to slide away from him. His fingers clamped over her shoulders.

  “This could never be wrong.” The afghan slipped, exposing one swollen breast. He kissed the soft, ripe mound.

  Sheila trembled at his touch. “Don’t,” she pleaded.

  “Why not?” His rich voice had taken on a rough tone.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t leave.”

  She pushed her palms against his chest. “Noah…please….”

  “Please what?”

  “Please let me go.”

  “Later.”

  “Now!” Her voice quivered, and she felt tears of frustration burning in her throat. She longed to stay with him, feel his weight upon her, fall victim to his lovemaking. But she couldn’t.

  “We have the rest of the night.”

  “No…no, we don’t,” she said waveringly. Her gray eyes lifted to his and begged him to understand.

  Slowly he released her and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “What is this, some latent Victorian morality?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, not really.” She pulled the afghan over the exposed breast, feeling a little less vulnerable under the soft covering.

  “Sheila.” His finger reached out and carefully raised her chin so she could meet his confused gaze. “We’re in the 1980s.”

  “I know.”

  “But?”

  “I just need time, that’s all,” she blurted out. How could she possibly explain her confused jumble of emotions. He was so close. She had only to stretch her hand and touch him to reignite the fires of desire. She shuddered and reached for her clothes.

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know… I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Don’t try.”

  Sheila closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to clear her mind. “Look, Noah. I don’t even know you, and I’m really not sure that I want to know you this well.”

  “Why not?” he persisted.

  She struggled into her blouse. “You and I, whether we like it or not, are business partners.”

  “Don’t give me any of that sanctimonious and overused line about not mixing business and pleasure.”

  “I don’t think of sex as pleasure!”

  An interested black eyebrow cocked mockingly. “You’re not going to try and convince me that you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I wouldn’t believe you. Now, what’s this all about?”

  “When I said that I don’t consider sex to be pleasurable, I meant merely pleasurable. Of course I enjoyed making love with you; I’d be a fool to try and deny it. The point is, I don’t go in for ‘casual sex’ for the sake of pleasure…or any other reason.”

  “And you think that I do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do,” he replied seductively. “I’m willing to bet that you know more about me than you’re admitting.”

  “That’s no excuse for hopping into bed with you.”

  “You don’t need an excuse, Sheila. Just stay with me tonight. Do it because you want to.”

  “I can’t.” She had managed to pull on all of her clothes and stand upright. Noah didn’t move. He sat before the fire, his chin resting on his knees, but his eyes never let go of hers.

  “Do whatever it is that you think you must,” he whispered.

  Sheila swallowed a lump that had been forming in her throat. She pulled on her raincoat and wondered if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. “Goodbye, Noah,” she murmured. “I’ll…I’ll talk to you later….” She ran out of the house before he could answer and before she could change her mind.

  Noah waited and listened to the sounds of her leaving. The front door closed, and a car engine coughed before catching and fading into the night. When he realized that Sheila wasn’t coming back, he straightened and pulled on his pants. He was more disturbed by his reaction to her than anything else. How could she have so easily gotten under his skin? Had all of the pressures of the office made him such an easy prey to a beautiful woman? There had to be more to it than met the eye. Why had she so easily responded to his touch? What the hell did she want from him—certainly more than a quick one-night stand. Or did she? He had thought that she had been hinting that she wanted out of the partnership with Wilder Investments. But when he had suggested buying her out, she had seemed indignant, as if she had already anticipated his offer and was more than ready to discard it before hearing the exact price.

  Noah’s clear blue eyes clouded with suspicion. Without thinking, he reached for the brandy bottle and poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow before swirling the amber liquor in the glass and staring into the glowing coals. What was Sheila Lindstrom’s game?

  Disregarding the fact that it was after two in the morning, Noah walked over to the desk and picked up the telephone. He looked up a number and with only a second’s hesitation dialed it. Several moments and nine rings later a groggy voice mumbled an indistinct greeting.

  “Simmons?” Noah questioned curtly. “This is Noah Wilder.”

  There was a weighty pause on the other end of the line. Noah could imagine the look of astonishment crossing the detective’s boyish face. “Something I can do for you?” Simmons asked cautiously. He hadn’t dealt much with Ben Wilder’s son, especially not in the middle of the night. Something was up.

  “I want a report on the Cascade Valley Winery fire.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Noah interrupted. “Then it’s not complete?” he asked sternly.

  “Not quite.”

  “Why not?”

  The wheels in Simmons’s mind began to turn. Wilder was agitated and angry. Why? “It’s taken a little longer than expected.”

  “I need it now,” Noah rejoined. His words were tainted with mistrust; Anthony Simmons could feel the suspicion that hung on the telephone line.

  “I can have a preliminary report on your desk tomorrow afternoon,” he suggested smoothly.

  “And the final?”

  “That will take a little longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “A week or two I’d guess,” Simmons responded evasively.

  “I can’t wait that long! What’s the hang-up?” Noah inquired. He waited for the slick excuses, but they didn’t come.

  “I’d like some time to check out the winery myself. You know, look for a few skeletons hanging in some locked closets….”

  Noah debated. He didn’t like the thought of Anthony Simmons being in such close proximity to Sheila. He had never completely trusted his father’s private detective. However, he saw no other recourse; Noah needed information—and fast. Anthony Simmons could get it for him. “All right,” Noah heard himself saying, “go to the winery and see what you can find out. Tell the manager, her name is Sheila Lindstrom, that you work for Wilder Investments and that you’re trying to speed up the arson investigation in order to get the insurance money.”

  Simmons was hastily scratching notes on a small white pad on the nightstand. It had been some time since he had pocketed expense money from Wilder Investments and the thought of it warmed his blood. “Is there anything special you want on this Lindstrom woman?” he asked routinely. The moment of hesitation in Noah’s response caught his attention. He had been trained to read people, be it in person, from a distance or over the phone. The slight hesitation in Noah’s response triggered Simmons’s suspicious instincts. There was more here than met the eye.

  “Yes, of course,” Noah said with more determination than he felt. “Anything you might find out about Miss Lindstrom or any of the employees could be useful.”

  “Right,” Simmons agreed, making a special note to himself abo
ut the manager of the winery. He hadn’t missed the interest in Noah’s voice.

  “Then I’ll expect a full report in a week.”

  “You’ll have it.” With his final words Anthony Simmons disconnected the call and smiled wickedly to himself. For the first time in quite a few years he smelled money—lots of money.

  When Noah hung up the telephone, he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Simmons had been too accommodating, too confidently obliging; so unlike the Anthony Simmons Noah had dealt with in the past. His hand hesitated over the receiver as he thought fleetingly of redialing Simmons’s number and pulling him off the case. Why did he feel that his final directive to Simmons was somehow dangerous?

  Noah shook his head, walked away from the desk and finished his drink in one long swallow. He was beginning to get paranoid. Ever since he had laid eyes on Sheila Lindstrom, he had been acting irrationally. Whether she had intended it or not, Sheila Lindstrom was beginning to unbalance him. The corners of Noah’s mouth tightened, and after forcing all thoughts of the intimate evening aside, he walked out of the den and began to mount the stairs. There wasn’t much of the night left, but he had to try and get some rest; tomorrow promised to be another battle with his son. Also, Anthony Simmons had promised the preliminary report on the fire. For some reason that Noah couldn’t quite name, he felt an impending sense of dread.

  * * *

  Sheila drove as if the devil himself were on her tail. She had checked out of the Seattle hotel without really understanding her motives. All she knew was that she had to get away from this city, the city Noah Wilder called home. The feelings he had stirred in her had blossomed so naturally in the warm embrace of his arms. But now, as she drove through the pelting rain, a cold despair began to settle over her. Why had she fallen such an easy victim to Noah’s charm? Why did she still taste the lingering flavor of brandy on her lips where he had kissed her? Unconsciously her tongue rimmed her lips, and she could almost feel the power of his impassioned kiss.

  Wrapped in her clouded thoughts, Sheila took the next corner too quickly. The tires skidded on the wet pavement and the car swung into the oncoming lane. Severe headlights bore down upon her, and she was forced to swerve back onto her side of the road. By the time the oncoming car had managed to get around her, Sheila’s heart was hammering in her ears. She had never been a careless driver, but tonight she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the rain-washed highway winding through the dark mountains. “Dear God,” she whispered in prayer as she clutched the steering wheel more tightly and realized that her palms were damp. Was it from the near collision—or the man who had played havoc with her senses?

  Why did she feel as if she were walking a thin line with Noah? It was dangerous to become involved with anyone working for Wilder Investments. Jonas Fielding’s fatherly voice echoed in her mind, reissuing the warning he had given Sheila in his office: “I wouldn’t trust Ben Wilder as far as I could throw him…. I’d hate to see you fleeced by him or that son of his.” No, she argued with herself, Noah wouldn’t cheat me…he couldn’t! But hadn’t he offered to buy out her portion of the winery, just as Jonas Fielding had warned?

  The headache that had been threatening all day began to throb at the base of her skull. She attempted to concentrate on the thin white line in the center of the road, and managed to slow the pace of the car to a safer speed. It had been a long, strained day and Sheila was dog-tired by the time she crossed the Cascades.

  Dawn was beginning to cast irregular purple shadows over the valley as Sheila drove down the final hills surrounding the small town of Devin. Located west of Yakima, it was hardly more than a fork in the road. Originally just a general store, the small hamlet had grown slowly and taken on the family name of the owners of the combined hardware, grocery and sporting goods store. That was years in the past, and by the 1980s, several shops lined the two streets that intersected near the original Devin store. Buildings, some eighty years old, complete with false wood facades, stood next to more recent postwar concrete structures. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful town, but it was a friendly, comfortable place to live and a welcome sight to Sheila’s weary eyes. She had only left Devin yesterday, but it seemed like a lifetime.

  The outskirts of the town were beautifully tended farmlands. Softly rolling hills covered in sweet-smelling new hay gave the air a fresh, wholesome scent. Sheila rolled down the window of the car and let the wind stream past her face to revive her. Her dark hair billowed behind her, and despite the weariness of her bones, Sheila was forced to smile. With the rising sun, her problems seemed to shrink and fade.

  The compact wagon rounded a final bend in the road before starting the slow, steady climb up the hill to the winery. From the gates the winery looked as proudly welcoming as ever. The main building was the most prominent, and could be seen from the drive. It had been designed with a distinctly European flair. French château architecture, two storied and elegantly grand, was complete with stucco walls painted a light dove gray. Narrow-paned windows, graced with French blue shutters, were the full two stories in height, and the broad double doors gleamed in the early morning sunshine. With the stately, snow-laden Cascade Mountains as a backdrop, the parklike grounds of the winery gave the impression of wealth and sedate charm.

  If only the truth were known, Sheila thought wryly to herself as she unlocked the rear door of the wagon and extricated her suitcase. It was fortunate, for appearance’s sake, that the portion of the winery destroyed by the fire wasn’t visible from the road. Sheila placed her luggage on the front porch and strolled lazily past the rose garden to the rear of the main buildings. She picked a single peach-colored blossom and held it to her nose. How long ago had her father planted this particular rosebush? One year? Fifteen? She couldn’t remember. Each spring he had planted another variety to add to the abundance of the garden.

  Sheila looked at the imposing buildings and meticulously tended grounds that supported the winery. All of the years Oliver Lindstrom had put into the operation of Cascade Valley seemed to slowly pass through her thoughts. He had worked so hard to make the Cascade Valley label nationally known and recognized. Sheila rubbed her palm over her forehead, and her shoulders slumped with a renewed sense of grief for her father. The guilt she bore took hold of her as she silently vowed to find a way for Cascade Valley once again to begin producing the finest wines in the Northwest. She couldn’t hide from the fact that it was her fault her father had taken out the loans from Ben Wilder in the first place. If she hadn’t needed money after her divorce from Jeff, maybe Oliver Lindstrom wouldn’t have needed to borrow the money, maybe he wouldn’t have felt so trapped, maybe he would be alive today.

  Don’t think that way, she chastised herself. She again smelled the brilliant peach-hued blossom and tried to shake her thoughts back to a viable solution to her problem. It was impossible; her thoughts were too dark and black, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if perhaps her father did start the fire.

  She didn’t answer the question and hurried to the back of the buildings. The charred west wing of the manor house, a black skeleton of sagging timbers, was still roped off. A garish sign with bold red letters was nailed to one of the surrounding pine trees. It stated, quite unequivocally, that there was no trespassing allowed, by order of the sheriff’s department for the county. Suspected Crime Area the sign pronounced boldly, and Sheila’s heart cringed at the meaning of the words. The sign, an intruder on her father’s personal life, increased the fires of determination burning within Sheila’s heart. No one, including Noah Wilder, would take away her father’s dream; not if she could help it.

  At the thought of Noah, Sheila felt suddenly empty and hollow. As crazy as it sounded, she felt she had left part of herself in the warm den of the stone mansion high on the shores of Lake Washington. The vague thought that she might be falling in love with Noah Wilder flitted through her mind, but she resolutely pushed it away. What she felt for the man was sexual attraction, physical chemistry, that
was all. Sheila was too much of a realist to consider falling in “love at first sight.” The Cinderella story just never came true. The one love she had experienced had turned sour, and her marriage had become a dismal, humiliating sham. That feeling of love she had foolishly convinced herself she shared with Jeff Coleridge had taken months to grow. But, fortunately, not so long to die, she added ironically to herself.

  She kicked a small stone on the flagstone path that led from the garden. There was no way she could be falling in love with Noah Wilder. It was ludicrous even to consider another side to the coin. She had met him only hours earlier in particularly seductive surroundings. She knew virtually nothing about him, except that he was perhaps the most magnetically powerful man she had ever laid eyes on. But what was it that made him tick? Yes, he was mysterious and alluring, but to try and call purely sexual attraction love was sheer folly, at least in Sheila’s pragmatic estimation. Too many women fell into that vicious trap.

  Sheila knew herself well enough to understand her guilt. Because of her uncharacteristic display of passion in the early hours of the morning, her subconscious was trying to soothe her by substituting love for lust. But Sheila wouldn’t allow herself that leisure. To consider what had happened in the Wilder mansion an act of love was pure fantasy, and the easy way out—merely an appropriate, if false, excuse.

  Sheila sighed to herself as she closed the garden gate. The problem was that there was no way she could avoid Noah Wilder or his enigmatic blue eyes. How could she hope to reopen the winery without his help? Unless his father came back to Seattle to take command of Wilder Investments, she was stuck with Noah. Just at the thought of seeing him again, her pulse began to race. Realistically she attempted to find an alternate solution to her problem, but found no way out of the inevitable conclusion: No one would lend her enough money to buy out Ben Wilder’s interest in Cascade Valley. And even if she were lucky enough to get another mortgage on the property, Wilder Investments was unlikely to sell.