Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5) Page 5

  Would these feelings erupt again? Erika swung her feet to the side of the sofa and sat up. She was certainly capable of controlling her feelings and the situation. She'd been in his bedroom, in his bed. That would certainly not happen again.

  Why had Carlton done this? There was no reason to give her an overseer for a year. She was capable of running Graves Enterprises alone. She'd done it for the past year with a huge degree of success.

  What was Carlton's purpose in making a will that forced them together, and what was her part in it?

  ***

  Michael turned over. Light streaming through the window cut across his eyelids. He smiled. He felt refreshed. He'd had the dream—he remembered that—but then he'd slept well, better than he had in months.

  The smell of coffee wafted through the morning air. Where was it coming from? Then he remembered Erika. She'd stayed the night, refused his bed, and slept on the sofa in the next room. He listened to her movements. He wondered what she looked like this morning. Was she grouchy before her first cup of coffee or was she easy to talk to? Michael sat up, pulling his jeans on and walking barefoot to the door. After last night's dinner, his stomach growled at the smell of an anticipated breakfast.

  Erika stood at the stove, her back to him. She no longer wore yesterday's clothes, but had on navy blue pants. Her blouse had been replaced with a long white sweater. A wide blue line angled across the back, beginning at her shoulder and crossing her back to her hips. Her hair had less curl on the top, and the sides were straight and ended in sharp points, yet he wanted to run his hands through it.

  "Good morning." She smiled, turning to face him.

  He swallowed, thinking how lovely her smile was and that he'd like to see it more often. His insides started a slow melt, and he wished he'd put on more clothes than a revealing pair of jeans, which he had only zipped part of the way up.

  "Would you like some coffee?"

  He came into the room and took the cup she offered.

  "I found some syrup and enough ingredients to make pancakes. I had to use dried milk, powdered eggs, and water, since there's no refrigerator. I don't think they taste too bad. Of course, there was no bacon or ham."

  She put a plate in front of him. It smelled wonderful. She sat down, her own plate before her.

  "You look a lot better this morning."

  "I slept well," he told her. She had no way of knowing the dreams that tortured his nights, how he'd wake in the middle of the night and not be able to get back to sleep. Michael took a fork and dug into the plate of food. "How about you? Did you sleep all right?"

  "Most of the night," she said, bringing the coffee cup to her lips. Her eyes almost closed as she looked down to the cup. Michael noticed her long lashes.

  "You should have taken the bed."

  Her hands shook as she placed the cup on the scarred table. She checked her watch.

  "I have to leave soon." Her lip twitched slightly. "Are you sure you won't go with me?"

  She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was trained on the broken cup handle. Her fingers played with it. Michael found it unnerving. He could talk to her better if she looked at him. He'd been trained to make eye contact, to stare at his opponent on an even scale and deliver his message. With Erika looking down he had only her body language to respond to, and it told him she was disappointed in his reply.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "My returning to Philadelphia won't accomplish anything. I'll get in touch with the lawyers and turn everything over to you."

  "You know that won't work. We're talking about a will. Carlton's lawyers are as adamant as he was. They'll make sure the terms of that will are followed to the letter. If we don't do as requested, all Carlton's money goes to the defense fund of someone named Frank Mason."

  Michael stopped eating. The fork in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. Erika stopped talking. Time on the planet ceased. The only thing that moved was the thumping of his heart, which threatened to jump out of his chest. That damn old man Graves. The sonofabitch, who'd never seen him face-to-face in life, would try to manipulate him in death.

  Swallowing the mouthful of food he hadn't chewed, Michael scraped the chair back and stood up. He went to the door and out of it. His bare feet stepped onto the cold ground outside the cabin and he went into the woods toward the stream.

  He didn't know how long he stood there, the past running through his head like a old movie. Erika came to stand next to him. She remained quiet. He couldn't talk to her. He couldn't tell her that after the dream and after the first peaceful night he'd had in months, that some unknown relative he couldn't care less about was trying to force him to return to a life of defending people like Frank Mason.

  "Who is he?" Erika asked quietly.

  Michael turned to her. He liked Erika St. James. He wished he could meet her sometime in the future when he'd made peace with the demons, if that ever happened. She had an underlying compassion about her. He wouldn't invite her into his nightmare, though.

  "I won't return, Erika. I'm not sure Carlton Lipton-Graves was my grandfather. My life is here, and here is where I stay." He took her hands in his and looked at them. They were cold. She had long, slender fingers with a strength that was evident in them. "I think you'd better go now." Impulsively he pulled her forward and kissed her on the mouth.

  Erika closed her eyes. It was the lightest feather of a kiss, yet she felt as if he'd lifted her off the ground. Her body trembled with reaction. She put her hands up to take hold of his bare arms, but he pushed her back and released her. Her eyes came open. The world was back in place, exactly as she had left it, yet she felt as if something about her had changed. She'd stepped over some imaginary line which she could never again retreat across. She stared at Michael, looking for some sign that he felt the trauma that had gone through her, but he'd turned away. His body was stiff, impenetrable. She knew nothing she could say or do could change him. He was no longer in her world. He'd retreated into the one he'd been in when she arrived a lifetime ago.

  ***

  Erika placed her fingers on her lips. They still tingled from the memory of Michael's kiss. She was nearly back to the main highway. His short kiss remained at the top of her thoughts. Not even the swerving mountainous roads or the need to get Michael to return to Philadelphia could replace the feel of his mouth against hers. Why hadn't she stopped him? She'd seen it coming, but wanted it. Since she'd found him in the throes of the nightmare, she'd wanted to kiss his hurt away.

  The sensation was new to her. She'd never wanted to mother anyone, to fight anyone else's battle. She had too many of her own to fight to take on a stranger's. Yet Carlton had told her about Michael. She'd promised him she'd try to get him back to the city. He'd said Michael had been on the mountain too long. Had he thought she could get him off of it? Well, she'd failed in that, too, just as she'd failed in everything else she'd ever tried except running Graves Enterprises. Her mother had been right. She was no good at anything, and no man would ever want her.

  Suddenly Bill Castle's face came into her mind. What was he doing now? It had been almost two years since he'd abruptly married Jennifer Ahrends, her secretary. Just before she'd boarded the plane leaving California she'd heard Jennifer was pregnant. Her baby should be born by now. Erika's eyes were dry, her body numb. She couldn't imagine herself with a child, a baby. She'd loved Bill, but she couldn't see herself as the mother of his children. She couldn't see herself as a mother at all. Some women just weren't cut out for nurturing, she told herself.

  Then she remembered Michael's nightmare. Her mouth tingled again. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She raised her hand to touch them. Michael's mouth had been soft, undemanding, warm, and tasting of the morning coffee she'd brewed in the ancient coffeepot.

  Why could she still feel it? Why could she still taste him? And why did a feeling deep in her belly tell her she wanted more than a taste?

  ***

  "Damn!" Michael cursed as he pulled the starter cord for the
ninth time. What was he doing? It wasn't going to start. In the last three hundred and sixty odd days he hadn't once tried to get this generator to work. He'd never felt the need for electric light. Yet tonight he wanted to flood the cabin with it. He'd already cleaned the chimney and started a fire in the seldom-used fireplace. The glow was yellow-gold, and he needed more light. He needed these damn electric lights to work. Why didn't he light the kerosene lamps? A voice inside his head spoke to him. She lit them, that's why. He didn't want to think about her or the way that yellowed light cast golden shadows across her face.

  As he tried the cord again the mechanism churned, sputtered, coughed, then died. Michael pulled one of the spark plugs, dusted it on his pants legs, which were black with the soot of the chimney, and replaced it in the generator. He grabbed the cord and yanked. His index finger caught between the frayed nylon cord and the metal casing, ripping through the skin.

  "Ouch!" he shouted, sticking his finger into his mouth. He tasted soot, dirt, oil, machine grease, and rust. Quickly he snatched it from his mouth and inspected it. He'd live, but it was her fault. If she'd stayed away from here he wouldn't have to be reminded of the world below the mountain. He wouldn't have to remember Abigail Mason.

  Michael glanced one more time at the generator and grabbed for the cord with his uninjured hand. Stubbornly the mechanism refused to perform its intended purpose. It was the belt. The machine needed a new one. The one there was cracked and brittle, and refused to hold the required RPM's to begin the generation of electrical power. Mr. Hodges would have a belt, he thought. Mr. Hodges, over at Hodges General Store and Mercantile, stocked everything from aspirin to cure a simple headache to supplies to fully outfit a mountain climber.

  The walk was at least two miles uphill. Michael stared at the road—the same road that Erika's Bronco had taken when she left that morning. He took a step. The walk would do him good. A climb up the mountain would be better, but it was dark and that made it dangerous. He'd get his exercise on the way to the store. He hoped the walk would keep his mind off her and that kiss.

  It didn't. His mind replayed it over and over with each step he took. Why had he done that? Many woman tourists had come by in the last year. He'd never wanted to kiss any of them. But he'd wanted to kiss her the moment he'd seen her in the afternoon light. And later, in the cabin, when he'd come upon her by surprise, his heart had jumped in his throat at the way she looked with the gold, autumnal effect of the kerosene lamps. When she'd followed him to the stream he could no longer resist. She was leaving. He never expected to see her again. It was his request that she leave. Then he'd looked at her, with the sun behind her, her brown hair showing highlights that framed her head with a red-gold aura. His head had just tilted. His mouth touched hers softly and the shock of heat which attacked him—he couldn't think of another word to describe the sudden impact on his body—had told him to run— quick and fast. If he didn't, she'd have him back where he didn't want to be, down the mountain, in a dark suit with red suspenders and a white shirt. She'd have him seeing clients and going to court, and he'd be right back where he was before he'd ever heard of Abigail Mason. And that's exactly where he never wanted to be again.

  Michael unbuttoned his jacket. He was warm despite the cool mountain air. Late August in the city would produce warm nights, but on the mountain it was cold. He wondered if it was warm where Erika had gone.

  The air here was cool and crisp, but he was sweating. He told himself it was from the exertion. The store was just up ahead. He could see the roof of the building. It was no more than a rustic log cabin with a wide porch. The overhead covering protected barrels of various seasonal items. In summer one of them was filled with pickles, with dill seed and spices floating in the dark brine around them. Winter saw barrels of salt to control the ice that seemingly grew on the steps leading to the door. Since it was August he was likely to find the last remnants of summer seed packets and trays of vegetables.

  He wasn't disappointed. Michael smiled to himself for being right. Also present were wooden cases of sweet potatoes, string beans, and fresh broccoli. Last night's dinner came to mind, and the way Erika had draped his vegetable with melted cheese. Damn, she was back—in his mind, in his head. His walk hadn't produced the desired effect.

  "Hullo, Michael." Gerald Hodges came toward him with an outstretched hand. Michael took it and shook hands.

  Michael had little contact with any of the full-time residents on the mountain, but he had met Gerald Hodges and knew that he'd lived all his life on this mountain except for a two year stint in the peacetime army.

  "She found you, I take it," he said.

  Michael looked blankly at him. How could he know about Erika?

  "The Lipton-Graves heiress," Gerald went on to explain. "She came in here looking for you a couple of days ago. I gave her your order. Didn't you get it?"

  "The food, yes," Michael told him. "She brought it."

  "She's quite a looker."

  He had to agree with that. Although she wasn't beautiful, not the way Michael liked his women, there was something about her. Something that had made him kiss her.

  Abigail Mason had been beautiful. When he'd first seen her he'd been struck by her beauty. With Erika there was something more than beauty, some deep inner loveliness that touched him deep inside. The word compelling came to him. She compelled him to remember her.

  "I never met an heiress before," Gerald was saying when Michael brought his attention back. "At least not one with as much money as she has. I did meet Milton Hershey's grandson once, but I don't think he—"

  "Would you have a generator belt?" Michael interrupted. If he let Gerald go on he'd be there until closing. Talking was the only thing Gerald liked more than listening to gossip. Michael knew that whatever the inhabitants of Highland Hills, Maryland, population 140, knew about him they'd gotten from Gerald Hodges.

  "What kinda belt?"

  Michael suddenly felt like a fool. He'd been so intense in his thinking about Erika he hadn't even looked at the make and model number of the generator. "I don't know," he said.

  Gerald checked the ceiling as if it knew the answer. "Let's see, I believe ole man Nelson bought that generator back in. . .must be ten years ago." He brought his gaze back to Michael. "Don't worry, Michael. I have one." He turned to leave, presumably to go and get the item, then stopped. "I've been saving something for you," he said. Going to the counter he pulled a newspaper from beneath it and pushed it across to Michael. "I thought you'd enjoy reading about her."

  Michael picked up the paper. Gerald smiled, nodded, and went toward the back of the store. Michael studied the grainy photograph of Erika St. James. Again her eyes captured him. Even from the paper she called to him. Next to her was the photograph of a man. William A. Castle was written under the picture. A streak of anger sliced through Michael. It came unbidden and unwanted, but was there nevertheless.

  "Erika St. James, longtime friend of Carlton Lipton-Graves, will walk away with the lion’s share of the corporate giant's estate," Michael read. "The thirty-four-year-old former vice president of La Canada Manufacturing Corporation near Los Angles returned to Philadelphia last year and took over the operation of Graves Enterprises from the ailing owner."

  Why, Michael wondered, would Gerald save this for him? He knew nothing of the news Erika brought up the mountain in her Bronco. She wouldn’t have told a total stranger that Carlton Lipton-Graves was Michael’s grandfather.

  Glancing toward the back of the store, he checked to see if there was anything else he needed. Going to the refrigerator, he grabbed a bottle of beer and twisted the cap off. He took a long swallow, but when he dragged the bottled away from his mouth, his eyes landed on the newspaper laying on the counter. Michael’s gaze was drawn to it. The photograph pulled at him, forcing him to look into those deep eyes. He looked away, checking the back room to see if Gerald appeared. Michael was alone, except for the presence of Erika. Michael set the bottle down and rested his hands o
n the counter. His head bent forward toward the paper. It was dated two weeks ago.

  "Ms. St. James formerly engaged to William A. Castle, noted entertainment lawyer, also of Los Angeles, in September of last year when, in a surprise move, Mr. Castle married his fiancee’s secretary, Jennifer Ahrends."

  She was engaged, and jilted, Michael thought. He looked at the photograph of William A. Castle, irrationally disliking the man. How could he hurt her so? The man was a coward, running off and marrying someone else, without the backbone to tell her. In a surprise move, the words jumped off the newsprint. How often had he seen those words? They were lawyer's words. Michael was a lawyer. No wonder Erika St. James looked so sad. She probably also hated lawyers. Good, he told himself, but his heart wasn't in it. He had been a lawyer once, but not anymore, and he'd never be one again.

  The rest of the article detailed Erika's education and qualifications. It also touched on the direction of Graves Enterprises and ran a few quotes from Erika. His name wasn't mentioned, but it did allude to some details of the will which had not been disclosed.

  Yeah, Michael thought, like he was an equal partner in everything Carlton had left behind.

  Gerald startled him when he came in. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Michael. It took me a while to find the thing." He held up a hard rubber oval partially hidden inside a faded cardboard rectangle. The word "generator" could easily be read through the watermark circle, indicating it was nearly as old as the one on the dead machine back at his cabin.