Bride in Barbados (2 page)

Then, two years ago, the old man had tracked him down in
Kenya and, over a crackling telephone line, informed Travis that he'd
suffered a severe heart attack, that he would be a semi-invalid from
then on out, that he needed Travis to take over the plantation and his
controlling interest in a Bridgetown bank. There was no one else he
could trust.

What demands and threats had failed to do, a weak-voiced
plea had accomplished. Travis had gone home.

When he had walked into his grandfather's bedroom, the old
man, in cotton pajamas several sizes too large for his shrunken frame,
had been sitting propped up in bed with business papers and account
books scattered across the rumpled sheets. Travis had been stunned at
how frail and old he looked.

Slowly, Harris's still sharp hazel eyes had traveled up
the long length of his grandson before he observed, "Well, I hope
you're through punishing me for my myriad sins. We've a helluva lot of
work to do."

In the two years that had followed, Travis had gained a
grudging respect for his grandfather. Running a vast sugar plantation
while supervising the affairs of a good-sized bank on the side was a
herculean task. But it wasn't long before he knew that this green and
verdant land was where he belonged.

Never one to praise overmuch, Harris had nonetheless made
it clear that he was well satisfied with his grandson's management of
his affairs. "It'll all be yours when I'm gone, Travis," he had said.
"You've proved you're man enough to handle it." There had been frequent
speeches, too, about the importance of keeping everything in the
family, the implications of which Travis had not seen at the time.
"It's time you married and had a family," Harris had told him on
several occasions, "a son who can take over here when he's needed. You
shouldn't have to stay in the driver's seat as long as I have."

It wasn't that Travis meant never to marry, but a wedding
wasn't in his plans for the foreseeable future. Once, Kay Harte, a
friend since childhood, had accused him of never having been in love.
Until then Travis hadn't given it much thought, but he guessed Kay was
right. He'd lost count of the number of women he had known, but none of
them had ever made him want to hang around long after he had, to use
the old-fashioned phrase, had his way with her. He'd assumed he still
had plenty of time before he must think about giving up his freedom.
His grandfather had had other ideas…

Abruptly, Travis reversed his direction and returned to
the Jeep. Anger made him grind the gears before, grim-faced, he drove
toward the plantation great house.

As always, the sight of the stately old mansion sent a
feeling compounded of pride and family continuity through him. Built in
1690 of coral stone by the son of one of Barbados's first British
colonists, it had been in the Sennett family ever since. Its wide,
white two-story expanse, red-roofed with dozens of green-awninged
windows, sat in an oasis of encircling trees and neatly landscaped
gardens and lawn. Travis turned the Jeep into a palm-fringed avenue
that led to a cluster of white frame structures of much more recent
origin—gardeners' sheds, workshops, garages—at the
back of the house. He left the Jeep in one of ten garage stalls and
walked toward the kitchen entrance.

Mala Jaimes, a descendant of the slaves brought to the
Sennett Plantation in the 1700s, who, along with her married daughter,
Amii, ran the house, glanced up curiously as Travis stalked through the
kitchen on his way to the study.

Upon entering the maple-paneled, leather-furnished room
where he conducted most of his business, Travis tossed his hat on a
chair and, going to the bar concealed in a section of the bookshelves,
poured himself a shot of rum.

He drank, then his eyes traveled to the desk and he walked
across the room. He set his drink down and picked up the folded sheet
of white paper that was anchored by a pink conch shell.

His grandfather's will was short and to the point. Reading
the words again, Travis discovered that his feeling of betrayal was
almost as strong now as it had been the first time three days ago, the
day after Harris's funeral, when he had discovered the will in the
study wall safe.

A hefty portfolio of stocks and bonds was left to Curt
Winston and Violet Winston Graves, the children of Harris's daughter in
England. The remainder of the estate—the plantation and bank
in Bridgetown—were left wholly to Travis, upon one condition:
that he produce a legitimate heir by the time he was thirty-five. If he
did not, the entire estate was to be split three ways, an equal share
going to each of Harris's three grandchildren.

Harris had given Travis fifteen months in which to marry
and father a child, or he could say goodbye to all that he had come to
cherish so deeply. Travis had no doubt whatever that, should everything
be apportioned equally, the Barbadian interests would be sold, for
neither Curt nor Violet had the slightest interest in them. They did,
however, have a burning desire to live in a much more luxurious style
in England than the one to which they were accustomed.

Travis downed the rest of the rum and, clutching the will,
left the study with purposeful strides. At the foot of the stairs, he
shouted, "Mala!"

The small round-faced woman appeared promptly, as if she
had been expecting the summons. "What you want, Mistah Travis?" Her
voice was rich with the melodious Bajun patois.

"Call the airlines and get me on the next flight to Miami."

Mala regarded him with the same disapproving stare she had
used on him as a child. "Why I not know you goin' on dis trip? I fixin'
you a feast for dinner, mon."

"I just decided to go," replied Travis, his words short
with impatience to follow through on his sudden decision. "I'm sorry
about dinner, Mala. Why don't you feed it to Abraham and Jim?" He named
her husband and son-in-law, both of whom worked for him. "I'm going up
to shower and pack a few things. Let me know how soon I can leave. Oh,
and after you get the flight reservation, you might phone Tony Valdez
and tell him I'll be coming to his office from the
airport—unless it's after five, in which case I'll go
directly to his house."

"Valdez? You mean Mistah Harris's lawyer?"

"That's right."

"When you comin' back?"

"Two or three days. I'm not sure. Just leave the return
open."

Mala heaved a put-upon sigh. "Rush, rush— all
dis rush. Oh, mon, you always was a heap o' tribulation."

Travis grinned and, without waiting for further objections
from Mala, bounded up the carpeted stairs two at a time. The old man
might have thought he'd had the last laugh, but now that Travis had his
wind back, he wasn't taking this lying down. "Harris," he muttered as
he crossed the threshold of his bedroom, "thanks for the advice. I'm on
my feet now—and swinging."

The traffic was enough to make even that jungle in Kenya
he'd left two years ago seem attractive, Travis thought as he deftly
sidestepped a taxi and gained the curb. The taxi's horn blared and
Travis turned to wave at the fuming Puerto Rican driver.

The driver thrust his head out the window. "
Pare
!
You wish to die?" He shook a fist at Travis. "
Loco hombre
!"

"Likewise!" Travis called back before turning to scan the
facades of the office buildings on the block. The Blaylock Building was
only two doors east of where he stood. He had walked from the downtown
hotel he'd checked into at two that morning, after deciding it would be
the better part of wisdom not to get Valdez out of bed at that hour of
the night. No point in riling the man whose help he was going to need
before he'd even had a chance to tell Valdez why he was there.

He'd reached Valdez's secretary at nine and been given a
ten o'clock appointment. She'd rearranged some other appointments to
work him in after receiving Mala's phone call the day before. She made
it clear that she wouldn't do that for any Tom, Dick or Harry who
walked in off the street. But since he had come so far and his business
was apparently urgent…

Stifling his impatience, Travis had managed to sound
properly grateful. Entering the air-conditioned building, Travis
shrugged his shoulders to settle the warm weight of his pearl gray
jacket more comfortably on his shoulders. He stood beside the bank of
closed elevator doors and ran a finger around the perspiring skin of
his neck inside the stiff white collar. It was even warmer in downtown
Miami than at home. Whatever breezes might have been wafting in from
the ocean were cut off by the tall buildings.

In the crush of bodies riding up in the elevator, Travis
glanced down at the cute redhead, in a too tight clinging jersey dress,
beside him and caught her giving him the once over. The challenge in
her smile made his lips twitch and he lowered one eyelid in the
suggestion of a wink. A shame he didn't have the time to make the young
lady's acquaintance. Unfortunately, more important matters demanded his
attention.

Valdez's starched, middle-aged secretary looked as aloof
and proper as her voice had sounded on the telephone.

"You're fifteen minutes early, Mr. Sennett. Mr. Valdez
still has another client in his office." Although a head shorter than
he, she somehow managed to look down her nose at him.

"I don't mind waiting." Travis sat in a chair of white
molded plastic that felt as if it had been designed for some being
other than man. Shifting uncomfortably, he took in the white shag
carpeting with its large black geometric design, the plastic cubes of
yellow and black that served as tables, the chairs identical to the one
in which he sat, and decided he was right. Surely this was a set from a
science fiction movie.

"Mr. Valdez wanted to know the nature of your business,
but I was unable to enlighten him." The secretary watched him squirm in
the chair with a superior expression on her pinched face. "The woman
who called yesterday had a most— ah, peculiar accent. I
hardly understood half of what she said. If you will tell me a little
more than you did on the phone earlier, I can pull the proper files."

"That won't be necessary. I have all we'll need right
here." Travis patted the jacket pocket that held Harris Sennett's will.

Her eyes made a quick appraising survey of him, a tiny
nerve near the corner of her thin mouth jerking as if she were
marshalling her small reserves of patience. Then the telephone on her
desk rang, distracting her. While she was still speaking into the
receiver, Valdez's office door opened and an elderly woman came out,
followed by the short, fleshy olive-skinned lawyer himself.

"Now don't you worry about a thing, Mrs. Harelson. All is
in good order and we should get a hearing with the probate judge within
the next few days."

The woman smiled uncertainly before she crossed the
reception area and left the suite.

"Travis! How in the world are you?" Valdez's smooth pudgy
fingers gripped Travis's calloused hand.

"I've been better," Travis observed dryly. "That's what I
want to talk to you about."

Hesitation glimmered in the other man's dark eyes, but it
was quickly banished as Valdez said jovially, "Come on in, man."

Travis followed him into a generous-sized office
soothingly decorated in subdued earth tones. The Florida sun was
filtering through the loosely woven beige draperies that covered the
large window behind the massive golden oak desk. Travis sank gratefully
into a well-stuffed leather armchair. "I see the decorator didn't get
past your office door, thank God."

Valdez looked puzzled for a moment, then made a dismissive
gesture with one arm. "Oh, you mean the reception area? My wife is
responsible for that, I'm afraid. I convinced her that my office must
remain inviolate." He sat behind the desk and leaned back in his chair.
"Now, what can I do for you?"

Travis pulled the will from his pocket and tossed it on
the desk. Valdez picked it up, scanned it briefly then handed it back.
"I know what it says. Your grandfather mailed me a copy. He wanted me
to know that the earlier will my former partner had drawn up for him
had been superceded."

Travis raised a questioning eyebrow. "What was in the
earlier one?"

Valdez studied him for a moment. "It divided everything
between his daughter in England and your father. He made it about a
year before your parents died. I reminded him several times during the
past ten years—ever since Mr. Brandt retired and I took over
his clients—that he ought to make a new will. He always said
he would when he was ready."

A trace of a smile twisted Travis's mouth. "He almost
waited too long." The new will was dated less than a month before
Harris Sennett's death.

"Evidently he knew he hadn't much longer to live."

"Yeah," Travis agreed sardonically. "I watched him fight
it for two years, but even Harris Sennett had to admit defeat
eventually. Except he didn't quite, did he?"

Valdez sat forward in his chair and waited. "Tell me,
Tony," Travis went on, "are you interested in handling my legal affairs
now that my grandfather is gone?"

The lawyer's expression was eager, yet guarded. "Certainly
I am, Travis. I'm already familiar with your grandfather's business, so
I can do a better job for you than anyone else. If you would like, I
can supply several references. I think you'll find my professional
reputation is above reproach."

"I won't need references, Tony. I had you thoroughly
checked out soon after I returned to Barbados and took over the
management of my grandfather's affairs."

Surprise flashed across Valdez's face to be followed by a
grudging respect. "Are you saying you've already decided to retain me
as your attorney?"

Travis regarded him with assessing eyes before he nodded.
"The first thing I want you to do is to break that will."