SUSPICION'S GATE

by Justine Davis

  Travis's gaze, which had flicked to Esteban when he spoke, went back to Nicki. She was trembling, one battered hand pressed to her mouth as if to hold back something trying to break free. Something flared in the gray depths, something akin to the hope she'd seen before. And she saw him fight it in the tightening of his jaw, saw him try to deny it by turning to watch Esteban walk away.

  But then his eyes were on her again, and when he whispered her name, it was with all the despair of a battle lost, and all the hope he was trying not to feel.

  "I … thought you were dead," she choked out past her clenched fingers. "Oh, God, I thought you were dead."

  She knew what she sounded like, knew everything that the tremor in her voice was telling him, but she didn't care. She only cared that he was alive, that he hadn't been crushed beneath that killing weight.

  She stumbled forward the three steps between them. She nearly fell as the gravel gave way more under her feet, but she barely noticed. She reached out with one hand. She had to touch him, to feel that hard, living flesh under her hands, to know he was alive.

  The moment she lifted that hand Travis was on his feet. With a smothered sound that was half a groan, half a murmur of her name again, he pulled her into his arms, closing them tight around her.

  Sobbing, Nicki sagged against him. "God, I'm sorry Travis. I'm so sorry."

  "Shh," he soothed, "it's all right. Paul's okay, Frank will be okay, it's all over."

  "No, you—"

  "I'm fine." He managed a lighter tone. "I need a shower, and I may not be moving real well tomorrow, but I'm fine."

  She pulled back to look up at him. He didn't understand, she had to make him understand. "No, that's not what I mean. I have to tell you—"

  The sudden silence broke off her words; only when it stopped was she aware that she'd been hearing an approaching siren. They looked up to see the county paramedic van pulling through the gate; someone, probably Esteban, she guessed, had at least had the presence of mind to call them.

  She frowned. What she was so desperate to say was going to have to wait; there were other responsibilities she had now. "You're sure Frank will be all right?"

  He nodded. "He's just dazed, I think. The door of the cab hit him on the side of the head."

  "You're right," Esteban put in; he'd just come back from where the medics were checking on Frank. "They say he has a minor concussion, at most. He's conscious, and talking."

  "Thank goodness," Nicki said in relief. "I should call his wife so she can meet them at the hospital— Oh, she doesn't have a car, does she?"

  "Not since Frank Jr. drove it into that truck," Esteban said dryly.

  "Then I'd better go get her."

  "You can't," Esteban said.

  She looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

  "Don't forget, this was an industrial accident. You know what happens now."

  Nicki sighed. Yes, she knew what would happen now. "So it begins," she muttered.

  "They'll want to talk to everyone that was here," Esteban said.

  Travis lifted a hand to gently wipe at her damp, streaked cheeks. "They?"

  "The bureaucracy." She grimaced. "First O.S.H.A., then the Bureau of Mines, then the Bureau of Weights and Measures—"

  "Whoa," Travis said. "Occupational Safety and Health I understand, and the Bureau of Mines, but Weights and Measures? What have they got to do with it?"

  "They'll be out to make sure that the gravel in that bunker was really the right size and weight, that we didn't overload it, causing the gate to break. It'll take hours," she groaned. "They'll shut us down at least for the rest of the day."

  "If we're lucky," Esteban said grimly. Then he looked at Travis. "The medics said they're ready for you."

  "Me? Why?"

  Esteban chuckled. "I believe it has something to do with you being buried by several tons of three-quarter rock."

  "I'm fine."

  "Better let them make sure."

  His jaw set stubbornly. "They'd better just get Frank to the hospital."

  "They will, when you stop holding them up."

  "I'm not stopping them. I don't need anything."

  "You're starting to sound a bit machismo, my friend," Esteban said sternly. "Let them look at you, as Paul did."

  "Travis, please." Nicki put a hand on his arm, over the tattered sleeve. "Just let them check? So we'll be sure?"

  Travis stared at that slender hand, battered and reddened from her battle to reach him. He reached for it, then the other, lifting them and cradling them gently in his. With a voice made husky by the sudden tightness of his throat, he said, "I think they'd better look at you."

  Nicki stared at their hands, all the things she wanted to say welling up inside her. She knew this wasn't the time or the place, but she couldn't help them from glowing in her eyes when she looked up at him.

  "I'll go if you will," she said softly.

  Travis's breath caught in his throat at the tender undertone in her voice. He opened his mouth, then closed it as if he were afraid to speak. Then he simply nodded, and walked docilely with her toward the paramedic van.

  Hours later, when she'd talked to more investigators for more agencies than her tired brain could remember, Nicki felt a wave of weariness ripple through her. She looked around in the twilight-lit yard until she spotted Travis, leaning against the fender of one of the state cars as a hard-hatted Cal-O.S.H.A. representative plied him with questions. The hat was an absurd precaution, she thought, since there wasn't a piece of machinery or equipment moving, but she supposed it made them feel more official.

  She watched for a moment as Travis went through it all again; he and Paul had been on the receiving end of the most intensive questioning, having been both the victims and the closest witnesses. His normally straight, powerful body was slumped, and he was looking haggard. Bruises had begun to show up on his face, and she guessed he was feeling them all over. His shirt was stirring in the evening breeze, the torn edges fluttering. Every now and then he would run a hand over his tousled hair, brushing out some of the gravel dust.

  Her eyes focused, oddly, on the rip in the knee of his jeans. It brought back forcefully the first time she'd ever seen him. He looked as vulnerable now, yet as determined not to show it, as he had then. He looked battered, beaten, and utterly exhausted.

  And quite suddenly, she'd had enough. These men might be official investigators, they might have a job to do, but they'd had six hours to do it, and she was calling a halt. Summoning up every bit of authority she'd ever gained in her years as Miss Lockwood of Lockwood, Incorporated, she strode across the pit yard to the man in the white hard hat whom she remembered was the chief O.S.H.A. man.

  "I'm sorry, Mr.—" she paused to glance at the name on the hat "—Clarkson, but I'm afraid that's all for today."

  The man looked at her, startled. "We're not quite finished, yet, Miss Lockwood."

  "Then I suggest you wind it up in the next fifteen minutes, because that's when this pit closes."

  The man stiffened. "Look, Miss Lockwood, this is an official investigation—"

  "And this pit is governed by the Bureau of Mines. We don't have a night permit, Mr. Clarkson. These grounds must be vacated by dark. Which is, as I said, in about fifteen minutes."

  The man sputtered another protest. Nicki ignored him.

  "If you have a problem with that, take it up with Mr. Harknell from Mines. In the meantime, Mr. Halloran has … other obligations."

  Travis raised an eyebrow as the man protested. "But—"

  "You've had him for six hours. That's enough. You know where to find him if you have more questions. Good day, sir."

  She took Travis's arm, a little surprised when he came along so easily. When they stopped near their cars, she looked up at him, expecting at the least an argument.

  "What obligations?" he asked mildly.

  "Some rest. And that shower you mentioned." She looked him up and down, eyeing the reddened spots she knew would be bruises by
morning. "Make that a long, hot bath."

  Something flickered in his eyes, but he only said, a little wistfully, "Can I wash my hair?"

  She bit her lip as she fought back the sudden stinging behind her eyelids. She reached up and patted the thick, dark tousle of hair; a small puff of dust arose.

  "Please do," she teased, and was rewarded with a crooked smile.

  "You driving me home?" She looked startled, and he shrugged. "I don't think I'm up to it."

  She looked at him doubtfully. He did look exhausted, but… "Are you milking this, Halloran?"

  He grinned suddenly. "You bet."

  She laughed for the first time on this long, tiring day.

  "Only if you let me drive that honey of a car," she bargained.

  "Done."

  He dug into his pocket and dragged out the keys. He started to hand them to her, then frowned at her hands. The medics had cleaned them, bandaged two knuckles, and given her some salve and told her they'd be fine in a couple of days. But right now, they looked awful.

  "Maybe I should drive."

  "Oh, no you don't. You're not welshing out now."

  He laughed, and got in on the passenger side. She took a moment to enthuse over the luxurious interior of the car, then to familiarize herself with the controls. After she started the engine he gave her directions, then fell silent until, on the freeway heading south to San Clemente, he said suddenly, "Thanks for the rescue act." Then, as an afterthought, "Both of them."

  Nicki smiled, but the memory of her terror darkened her eyes for a moment. "I should be thanking you. For saving Paul. And Frank. What you did…"

  He shrugged off her praise negligently.

  "Don't belittle it, Travis. What you did was … heroic."

  He gave a low, denying chuckle. "Hardly. I told you, it was just instinct."

  "And your instinct was to save them instead of yourself."

  "Quit trying to make me sound noble."

  "I don't have to try. What you did speaks for itself."

  "Nicole—"

  "Why can't you accept it, Travis? You did something wonderful. Just admit it."

  "Okay, okay," he said mockingly. "So I'm noble. The very essence of nobility, that's me."

  "Very good, Travis," she said wryly, "that was very convincing."

  He grinned suddenly. "Speaking of convincing, was that for real? That stuff about the night permit?"

  "Beats me." She smiled again, better this time. "But it sounded good, didn't it?"

  His laughter welled up inside the car. "God, you shut him up. Miss Lockwood, at her imperious best."

  She remembered the insults they'd traded the first day. "You mean that nose-in-the-air Lockwood glare has its uses?" she asked softly, careful to keep any sting out of her voice. Still, she felt him tense.

  "I suppose it does," he said carefully.

  "Just like the Halloran tough-guy image does?"

  She could feel his gaze on her. "What are you saying?"

  "Only that they're both just that—images." Images, she thought that had been battling since the day he'd come back. "They don't have much to do with the real person underneath."

  He didn't say anything as she took the off ramp at El Camino Real and began to negotiate the narrow streets of old San Clemente.

  "They've been at war, haven't they?" he finally said. "The 'tough guy' and 'the Lockwood'?"

  She'd known, somehow, that he would understand what she'd been trying to say. He always had.

  "Can we declare a truce, Travis?"

  He let out a long breath. "I could use some peace."

  She slowed as the headlights lit up the number on the big white house that overlooked one of the most prized views in this coastal stretch. She pulled into the drive, shut off the motor, set the brake, then turned to look at him.

  "So could I," she said in a low voice.

  "A truce, then." He gave her that crooked smile that sent her heart into free-fall. "A long truce."

  They got out of the car and went inside. The house was much as she'd expected, spacious, airy, with expansive windows that took full advantage of the view.

  "This is lovely," she said as he closed the door behind her and flipped on a light.

  "Yes." They walked into the cool, white tile floored living room. Nicki kept going, toward the magnet of the wall of glass.

  "It's nice that the owner's letting you use it."

  "Martha's a nice person."

  "Martha? She's the vice president you mentioned?"

  He stretched, tentatively, as if checking for damage. "In charge of marketing. She's a real fireball. She came back to work after her husband died a few years ago, and we wouldn't be where we are without her."

  She turned back from the windows, looking at him curiously. "We?"

  He flushed, and looked toward the windows that looked out on the sea, sparkling in the gibbous moon's light.

  "The company I work for," he mumbled, looking much more flustered than the words warranted. "Can I get you a drink, or something?"

  "No. You're supposed to be resting, remember?"

  He glanced down at himself. "I need that shower, first." He looked wryly at the pristine white sofa that faced the windows, sitting at an angle on the white tile. "I don't dare touch anything in here."

  "You're going to be sore tomorrow. You should make it a hot bath."

  He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes glinting. "Only if you volunteer to scrub my back."

  Nicki blushed, her lips parting as her breath escaped her on a quick little gasp.

  "Pushed the truce too far, huh?" he said ruefully.

  She couldn't find the words to tell him it had been the images his words had conjured up that had silenced her, not anger.

  "Sorry," he muttered, and started to turn away. Still unable to speak, Nicki made a small, smothered sound. It stopped him cold. He turned back, his eyes searching her face. "Nicole…?"

  While her voice still failed her, her feet did not, and she ran to him across the tile floor. He winced when she threw her arms around him to hug him fiercely, but when she saw and tried to pull back, he held her close.

  "No. Stay," he murmured, tightening his arms around her.

  "God, I was so afraid," she whispered, choking back a sob. "One minute you were there, then … I thought you were dead. That I'd lost you forever."

  He went very still. "I thought…" He stopped, swallowing heavily. "I didn't think it would … matter to you."

  She leaned back to look up at him, the tears streaming freely now. "I know you didn't. I … I didn't, either. But when it happened … when I thought you were probably dead under all that damned rock… That's when I realized none of it mattered. That nothing mattered, not if you were dead."

  "Nicole," he said, his eyes wide as he stared at her, his hands slipping to her shoulders, "what are you saying?"

  She drew herself up, sniffing, and wiping at her eyes. She'd had to face her feelings squarely when she'd been clawing at that pile of stones, when she'd feared she was searching for a lifeless body, not the vital, living man before her now. She'd faced them for the first time in her life, and she wasn't going to deny them now.

  "I love you."

  He stared, then closed his eyes, swaying on his feet as if she'd struck him. His hands tightened until his grip was almost painful on her slender shoulders, but she never wavered. The hellish fear she'd gone through this afternoon had changed her, marked her forever.

  "I think I've always loved you. Even when I tried so hard to hate you."

  The thick, dark lashes lifted, revealing eyes dark with emotion. "Oh, God, Nicole… Do you mean it? It's not just … reaction?"

  "I only know that when I thought I'd lost you… Oh, God, Travis, it all seemed so stupid. So useless." She hugged him again, more carefully this time. "You were right," she whispered against his ragged shirt, "we've lost so damned much already…"

  He let out a long, shuddering breath. His arms clamped around her
, as if he could pull her inside himself by sheer strength. He murmured her name, over and over, stroking her tangled hair, then lifting her raw, red hands to his lips, kissing them gently. Nicki lifted her gaze, seeing in his dusty face everything he couldn't find the words to say.

  "Is that offer still open?" she asked huskily.

  "What offer?"

  "To scrub your back."

  He went rigid, staring at her. He gripped her arms, holding her away from him as he stammered, "Look, I… Just because…"

  He released her, his hands curving into fists as if he didn't trust what they might do. "You don't have to do this. That's not why I…"

  He trailed off as she smiled at him, a shy yet sensuous curve of her mouth that started his heart hammering double-time in his chest. "I need a bath, too. And I only mentioned scrubbing your back, I believe."

  He groaned. "You're a brat, Nicole Lockwood. You always were."

  "That's what you liked about me, remember?"

  "Always."

  "This place does have a bathtub, doesn't it?"

  "A huge one," he growled. "With a view of the ocean."

  "Big enough … for two?"

  "Nicole … don't start something you don't intend to finish. I'm fresh out of nobility here."

  "Nobility," she said, holding his gaze levelly, "is not what I want, now."

  His breathing quickened, keeping pace with his racing heart. "Exactly," he asked carefully, "what do you want?"

  "You."

  She said it simply, honestly, and it nearly brought him to his knees. He couldn't speak, could barely draw his next breath as his body surged in response to that earnest declaration. Heat rippled through him, searing him to the core. He felt like a man standing at the open gates of paradise, but not certain that they weren't going to slam shut in his face.

  His silence shook her confidence, and she drew back a little. "Am I … wrong? I thought you wanted this, too…"

  "God, Nicole!"

  It ripped from him in the instant he reached for her again, pulling her against him. His mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. She met his urgency with her own and the fire leapt to life.