The Shelter of His Arms (Harlequin Heartwarming)

by Dawn Stewardson

He didn’t press for anything more specific. “A few” left a lot of leeway, yet even as few as three was significant money.

  “Would Bryce know the amount?”

  Celeste shook her head. “My parents weren’t the sort of people who talked about their finances.”

  “Still, after the will was filed he could have learned roughly how much was involved. And sometimes,” he added quietly, “greed makes a man do things no one would have ever imagined him doing.”

  “Travis...Bryce just couldn’t be the one. But there’s something I might as well tell you right now. He doesn’t have any more of an alibi than I do for Saturday night.”

  His adrenaline began pumping harder. “How do you know?”

  “Because when he phoned to offer his condolences, he happened to mention he’d been home alone. Donna Rainfield has a part in a play, so she wasn’t there. But...that really just reinforces the fact he didn’t do it. If he had he’d have a solid alibi. Bryce is an intelligent man. He’d cover himself.”

  Travis nodded once more, thinking that even intelligent men sometimes do foolish things. Or maybe Bryce figured that going with the home-alone story was smarter than concocting an alibi that would mean relying on someone else to lie.

  A liar could always change his tune. Or try his hand at blackmail a few miles down the road.

  “Let’s play around with the possibility it was Bryce,” he said. “Even if you’re sure it couldn’t have been,” he interrupted when Celeste started to say something. “Just let me ask you a couple of questions. How tall is he?”

  She hesitated, as if uncertain she was willing to “play around” with this at all, but finally said, “Not very. In heels, I’m as tall as him. Why?”

  “We don’t think whoever killed your brother was very tall.”

  “Oh. But—”

  “And what if he’d called Steve, said he wanted to talk to him about something. Would Steve have told him to come over?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said slowly. “You know...this should have occurred to me before, but didn’t the concierge remember sending anyone up to Steve’s apartment that night?”

  Travis shook his head. “Which probably means the killer either snuck past him or got in a back way. Otherwise, it would have had to be someone already in the building.”

  “Like a neighbor, you mean.”

  “Yes, but all the neighbors have been interviewed and none of them seems to have an even remote motive.”

  Whereas the case against Bryce was looking awfully strong. When he drew up those wills, his marriage to Celeste had been intact. And if he actually was capable of murder, in the back of his mind he’d have been thinking that when Adele Langley died he’d ensure something happened to her son shortly thereafter.

  Now, though, the marriage was over. So for Bryce to get his hands on any of the money something would have to happen to Celeste, as well.

  “But...isn’t that kind of a standard thing?” she said. “The survivor clause,” she added at his puzzled glance.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, whether it is or not, Bryce just isn’t a man who’d ever... Besides, he has to assume I’ve had a new will written. Naming a new beneficiary. I mean, I should have. Months ago. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

  After considering that, Travis said, “I need to make a call.”

  * * *

  SNOOPS HAD WANDERED into the living room, his desire for attention apparently stronger than his wariness of Travis, so Celeste sat stroking him while she waited for Travis to finish his conversation.

  He’d phoned a lawyer he played handball with and explained the situation. Now he wasn’t talking, was just listening to what his friend had to say.

  As the silence lengthened, she couldn’t stop herself from contemplating the possibility that Bryce really might have killed Steve.

  Initially, she’d found the idea beyond belief, had been certain she couldn’t have been married to someone for three years without suspecting he was that morally corrupt.

  Oh, she knew from personal experience he was hardly the most principled man in the world. But cheating on her wasn’t in the same league as murdering her brother and hiring someone to kill her. Just the thought of that...

  She swallowed hard, feeling physically ill.

  “I’m not sure,” Travis said into the phone. Then he glanced at her. “Have either of you started divorce proceedings?”

  “No. I mean, I guess Bryce might have, but I’m pretty sure he’d have let me know before he did.”

  Of course, maybe she shouldn’t be too sure about anything when it came to Bryce. And now that she was thinking about it, it seemed a little surprising that he hadn’t pressed the issue. Because she’d gathered that Donna Rainfield would like nothing better than to become wife number two.

  Not that she knew Donna personally. They’d never actually met. But a few weeks after she’d left Bryce, one of his “friends” had invited her to dinner—then hit on her during dessert.

  Before that, though, over the main course, he’d insisted on telling her all about Donna. And she sounded like the sort of woman who’d be thrilled to have a lawyer for a husband. Apparently, she had much more expensive tastes than an off-Broadway actress could indulge.

  As for herself, she’d gotten as far as making an appointment with a divorce lawyer. But before she’d seen him her mother had been killed, and she just hadn’t done any more about it yet.

  “Celeste?” Travis said, interrupting her reverie. “You don’t have children, do you?”

  “No,” she said again, wondering if he imagined she had a couple hidden in a closet.

  Then, as he was telling his friend she had none, she realized that, conceivably, she might have some who were living with Bryce.

  Absently, she brushed her hair away from her face, thinking how very little she and Travis actually knew about each other. From there, her thoughts went scurrying back to what she’d been wondering about, on and off, from the first moment she’d realized how drawn she was to him.

  Was she falling for the man himself, or for the emotional anchor he represented?

  She was no closer to answering that question than she’d been in the beginning. Of course, if she ended up dead, the answer would be irrelevant.

  As the truth of that sent a shiver all the way to her toes, Travis thanked his friend and clicked off.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, setting the cordless on the coffee table. “As long as you’re still legally married to Bryce and you’re childless, he’s entitled to half your estate if you die. That would be true even if you’d signed a new will that left him nothing.”

  “But that isn’t right. I mean, it shouldn’t be.”

  “Well, according to New York State law it is. All he’d have to do is file some forms in probate court. A procedure called ‘electing against the will.’”

  She hadn’t known that, but Bryce would have.

  “What did he tell you about the survivor clause?” she asked. “Is it a standard sort of thing?”

  “Not when a mother’s leaving her estate to her offspring. It’s only standard in wills drawn up for a husband and wife—in case they’re in an accident together and both die.”

  “But...if it’s common in at least some wills, Bryce probably just put it in because he was covering all the bases. He’s picky about details.”

  Travis was silent for a minute. “Celeste,” he said at last, “someone wants you dead badly enough that he’s paid a hit man to make it happen. And thus far, the only person we know would gain from your death is Bryce.”

  “Yes, but...” She paused, considering just how much he’d gain.

  Her automatic reaction, when Travis had asked her what the estate was worth, had been to hedge a bit.
>
  As she’d told him, her parents hadn’t been the sort of people who’d talked about their finances. And neither was she.

  Besides, she honestly didn’t know the exact number yet. And even though she could have been a little more specific, she doubted it mattered.

  The key thing was that he’d assumed it was enough to interest Bryce—and it would be.

  Bryce made a lot of money, but he spent a lot, too. He liked the best of everything. And he must have told her a hundred times that he should have gone to medical school rather than law school because he’d be earning far more if he had.

  “Look,” Travis said, “I’ll fill Hank in and he’ll start doing the official digging around about Bryce. But if there’s anything more I can come up with that might help, I will.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if you’re really considering yourself off the case.”

  “No. By the time Hank and I finished talking, we decided that he’ll keep sharing information with me and I’ll share whatever I can learn with him. But he’s got to focus on nailing whoever killed your brother, while I’m going to concentrate on the contract. I’ll track down his informant, see if I can get a lead on who this Ice Man is.”

  She nodded, then said, “What about me as a suspect? Does Hank still think there’s a chance I did it?”

  “No. Since he heard about the contract, he’s dropped the odds on that to one in a million. And as soon as I tell him about Bryce, he’ll be the primary suspect.

  “Of course, if it turns out he’s not behind it... But it seems so obvious. And if we can turn up something that points more directly to him...”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “Hank will talk to him, anyway.”

  “And say?”

  “It depends. Maybe just come right out and tell him that somebody’s put a contract on you. See how he reacts.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. We do virtually anything we think might help us. And that includes telling a suspect facts about a case. Because if he’s guilty, he already knows them. And if he’s not, it usually doesn’t matter.”

  “Ah.”

  “But, look, while we’re trying to get to the bottom of things, you can’t stay here. This Ice Man will know where you live, and we sure don’t want him watching you coming and going.”

  Her mouth went dry. She knew what Travis actually meant. They didn’t want him lurking in the street outside so he could shoot her when she walked out the front door. Or want him following her, just waiting for an opportune moment.

  “No...no, of course I can’t stay here,” she murmured. “But where should I go?”

  “You should come stay with me.”

  * * *

  IT WAS ONLY THREE or four miles from the Upper West Side down to Chelsea, where Travis lived, yet in the rush-hour traffic Celeste guessed they’d be a good hour getting there. And the cat was doing his utmost to make her feel as if the trip might take forever.

  Snoops was yeowling at full volume, protesting the torture of being confined in his carrier and forced to ride in a car. The hubbub outside—Manhattan going about its routine business—was a murmur in comparison.

  “Does he do that very often?” Travis asked, glancing across at her.

  He merely seemed curious, not perturbed about the possibility, but he had to be worried that he’d let himself in for some sleepless nights.

  “Almost never,” she assured him. “Only in cars. He won’t be a problem in your apartment. Really.”

  He nodded, then checked the rearview mirror again.

  She resisted the urge to turn around and have her own look. There was simply no way the Ice Man could be following them.

  Before she’d come out of her building, Travis had walked both sides of her entire block—peering into each parked car and every space where someone might have been concealed.

  So the hit man couldn’t have been watching and seen them leave. But if Travis was positive of that, what was he so concerned about?

  When he checked the mirror yet again, she said, “Do you think he could be back there?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you keep looking?”

  “Just habit.”

  As they were inching ahead another couple of feet, the driver next to them leaned on his horn. The sudden blare made her jump, even though she was normally oblivious to the constant noises of the city.

  “Celeste,” Travis said quietly, “you’re going to be okay. He won’t have the slightest idea where to find you.”

  “He’ll try to, though,” she murmured, wishing she felt a lot braver than she did.

  “Yeah, he’ll try. But none of your friends or relatives even know I exist. So as long as you don’t tell anyone where you are, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Perfectly safe. She surreptitiously glanced at his chiseled profile, thinking that whether he was right depended—at least in part—on how she defined the term.

  She was very aware that staying with him would not be conducive to keeping things platonic between them. Yet what else could she do?

  She certainly couldn’t have asked one of her friends to put her up. Not when she’d have had to say, “Oh, and by the way, if anyone knocks on the door while I’m here, don’t answer. Because it might be a hit man.”

  And she’d ruled out the idea of going to a hotel. She’d be scared to death on her own. Whereas with Travis...well, she expected she’d only be scared half to death at his place.

  She sat staring out the car window, aware she’d never felt like such a ’fraidy-cat before. Not in her entire life. She was a New Yorker, and growing up in this city taught you to be self-assured and resourceful.

  So what was the matter with her?

  That was hardly a tough question to answer. She was probably still in a state of shock. After all, learning there was a contract on your life was hardly an everyday occurrence.

  But she didn’t have to deal with the situation alone. She had Travis—thankfully.

  And the hit man wouldn’t be able to find her. She’d already called her aunt and a couple of friends to say she was going to visit a girlfriend in Connecticut. That she would come back into the city for Steve’s service, then be gone again. So her cover story was in place. Now all she had to do was be patient while Travis got to the bottom of things.

  Which meant that feeling so frightened was positively stupid. Instead of giving in to her anxiety, she should be making every effort to carry on as usual.

  Well, not exactly as usual. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stop worrying entirely. And she’d be laying low. But if that was all it took to keep safe...

  She almost smiled. She was thinking straight again, and it felt a whole lot better than having her head filled with fears.

  “About Hank?” she said, telling herself that carrying on as usual included having normal conversations.

  “What about him?” Travis asked.

  “Are you going to tell him I’m staying with you?”

  “Uh-huh. And he’ll get a big kick out of it.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  He shrugged, his expression sheepish. “He knows I like you.”

  “You do?” she teased—then congratulated herself on managing to.

  “Very funny,” he muttered. “You think I’d invite just any woman to stay with me? Especially one with a cat?” he added as Snoops let out a particularly sharp wail.

  She actually did smile then. He’d been making the fact that he liked her perfectly obvious, of course, but his coming right out and saying so had her suddenly feeling a lot better about this mess she was in. There might not be a logical reason it should, but it did.

  After a minute or two of silence, she said, “Travis...I really, really appreciate what you’re doi
ng for me. Without you...”

  She warned herself to stop right there. She was tempted to tell him she liked him, too. Liked him very much. But until she was sure why she did, she had to be careful. Otherwise, when this was all over she might realize... No, the last thing she wanted to end up doing was hurting him.

  Reaching over, he rested his hand on hers. “You know, things aren’t anywhere near as bad as they seem. As I told you before, either we learn who this Ice Man is and take him off the street, or we establish who’s behind the contract. Then, before we arrest him, he calls it off.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Yeah, well, if I’m right, if Bryce is responsible, it will be.”

  “But even if it is him, he won’t admit it. And he’s smart enough that there’ll be nothing to link him to—”

  “Celeste, I make my living finding out things people don’t want me to know. So trust me.”

  “I do,” she murmured.

  “Good.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze, then put his own back on the steering wheel.

  She wished he hadn’t. His touch was reassuring, and she was nowhere near the point of not needing reassurance.

  Thinking that she’d just have to keep on psyching herself up, she gazed out into the gathering dusk.

  Down the block, a young mother was pushing a baby in a stroller and trying to prevent her dog from wrapping its leash around her legs.

  Watching her made Celeste wonder if she’d live long enough to have the children she’d always wanted. Or even long enough to fall in love with a potential father.

  Then she looked back at Travis and was suddenly imagining herself pushing a stroller—occupied by a little boy with big dark eyes.

  * * *

  WHEN TRAVIS HAD told her he lived in Chelsea, a few blocks south of Madison Square Garden, Celeste had pictured a somewhat tired old apartment building. In reality, his place was half the second floor of a nineteenth-century town house that had been renovated into a fourplex.

  He unlocked the door and switched on a light, then ushered her inside, setting her suitcase and the shopping bag full of Snoops’s things on the floor.