Chance Meeting (11 page)
In horror, Ty felt him grab a handful of her dress and begin working the expanse of fabric up, revealing her slender legs. Panted words accompanied his groans of arousal. “Ty, baby, let me tell you, you are definitely as hot as you are rich.” His mouth captured hers in a brutal kiss, his tongue forcing its way deep into her mouth.
Ty never knew whether it was the effect of Michael Strickland’s revolting words, the awful destination of his hand, or the obscene presence of his tongue lodged halfway down her throat, gagging her, that saved her. She preferred to think it was the sudden memory of her former bodyguard, Sam Brody’s instructions to Ty on how to save herself should she ever be sexually assaulted. “Pee in your pants if you have to, Ty. Puke. Do
anything
you think will repulse the creep enough to make him think twice or give you an opportunity to escape.” For whatever reason, and to her later amazement, Ty’s body decided to follow Sam’s suggestion to the letter. Like a geyser, Ty suddenly reared back and heaved, vomiting her wedding breakfast all over the front of Strickland’s pristine black-and-white cutaway.
“Aagh! Goddamn frigid bitch!” Michael screamed in disgust as he leaped back, his own face turning a grayish green as the stench of Ty’s vomit assaulted him. Ty would have laughed had she not still been heaving wretchedly, tears streaming down her face.
Tugging furiously at the black satin button, Michael Strickland tore off the jacket, desperate to escape the stinking mess that covered him. Holding it at arm’s length, he looked down at Ty with hatred as she huddled miserably in the corner of the bathroom, as far away from him as she could get.
“Listen up, you pathetic cocktease. You blab a word of this to Lizzie, and I’ll tell her that you came on to me. She’s probably noticed herself how you can’t keep your eyes off me. It wouldn’t take much to convince her of the truth.”
Ty’s eyes, glazed with shock, unwillingly locked with his. “She’d never believe that. I’m her best friend.”
“God, you are so naive. You bet your puny little ass she would. All I have to do is touch her, and she comes like it’s the fucking Fourth of July.” Raking her with an insolent gaze, Michael sniggered, his contempt obvious. “You think your ‘friendship’ can hold up to what I give her every night? Think again, Ty baby.
And keep your prissy mouth shut.
Or I’ll make it so Lizzie never wants to see you again.”
Ty hated herself for having been cowed by the likes of him. But Michael’s gross self-confidence had shaken her own. She’d been so scared of losing Lizzie’s friendship that she’d buried the incident deep
within her. And, of course, there’d been the guilt. Could she somehow have unconsciously encouraged Michael’s advances? Could her speculative looks really have been so easily misinterpreted?
Certain only that their friendship might be irrevocably damaged if she told Lizzie about what Michael had done, Ty kept the shameful truth bottled up inside.
But all by herself Lizzie soon discovered her new husband’s appetite for adulterous affairs. Whispers of his infidelities began buzzing about like flies on roadkill, until soon the majority of Lizzie’s friends and acquaintances would look at her with ill-disguised pity before plastering bright, phony smiles on their faces. At first, Lizzie did her best to dismiss the stories. Then she pretended not to notice that her husband came home reeking of another woman’s perfume.
Ty felt that there, too, she had failed Lizzie. At a loss about how to approach Lizzie on the subject of her crumbling marriage, she had taken the easy route, letting Lizzie pretend that everything was just dandy. To make matters worse, Ty was often absent, traveling all over the globe for Stannard Limited, locked away in meetings, temporarily stepping into her father’s shoes while he recovered from an emergency quadruplebypass surgery.
Only after the birth of her daughter, Emma, did Lizzie realize she could no longer live with a husband who valued her so little and who made a mockery of their marriage at every opportunity. It was terrible luck that Lizzie’s filing for divorce coincided with a particularly long trip Ty was forced to make. Even though her father had made a complete recovery, he’d insisted on her representing him. As his replacement, Ty’d been obliged to travel to nine different countries, closing deals, inspecting properties, going over the books at the luxury estates her father owned, never coming up for air between whirlwind inspections and negotiating sessions. By the end of that five-week period, Ty had lost close to fifteen pounds she could ill afford to lose and was teetering on the edge of a physical breakdown. In an effort to escape from her father’s constant demands and exaggerated expectations, Ty drove alone from Dublin, where the company jet had dropped her off, to a village on Ireland’s west coast. She’d hidden out in a tiny, windswept cottage on the outskirts of Connemara. There was not a phone, fax machine, or computer within reach, and she’d consciously left her cell phone on the plane. For two wonderful weeks, she tuned out the world, unaware that during all this time, while she’d been traveling and stuck in meetings, Lizzie had been frantically trying to reach her, needing a loan so she could continue paying the lawyers in the custody battle for Emma. To no avail. Then Lizzie, beyond despair, approached Ty’s father. Mr. Stannard not only turned Lizzie down flat but had her escorted out of Stannard Limited’s offices and then gave orders to the staff that Ty’s whereabouts were not to be divulged. Anyone who disobeyed would be fired. So, as Ty unwound from the stress of a brutal year of twenty-hour workdays, Lizzie’s life was being destroyed. Their savings depleted, Mr. and Mrs. Osborne were unable to continue to offer their daughter financial support. Lizzie was faced with her lawyer withdrawing from her case for nonpayment of his astronomical bills. She was faced with losing her baby girl, Emma.
By the grace of God, Ty returned just in time.
T
he benefit was packed. The glitterati of the New York social scene always responded particularly well to animal causes and this night was no exception. The fund-raiser served as a kickoff for the fall show season and the National Horse Show, traditionally held at Madison Square Garden, little over a month away. Important sponsors and patrons were in full attendance, as well as quite a few professional riders. The cause was a good one: to raise money for nonprofit organizations that helped old, retired horses of every category—pleasure, race, or show. Across the country, a number of horse farms had begun caring for these aged equines, letting them live out their final years in comfort rather than the neglect, abuse, sometimes outright slaughter far too many of them faced once their usefulness was past. Lizzie and Cobble Creek Stables were on the list of patrons for the fund-raiser, having made a sizable donation: an entire year’s worth of riding lessons that would be offered in the silent auction, the evening’s main event. Already, a large number of people were congregating around the cloth-covered tables where auction items were displayed.
Like many other people involved with horses, Lizzie was more than happy to help this cause. It was heartbreaking to think that a cherished horse or pony that someone sold might one day be led to slaughter. And while it was clear that not everyone could afford to keep horses past their prime, the benefit was a big step toward providing funds for their care and protection. And from the perspective of Lizzie’s fledgling business, getting Cobble Creek’s name on people’s lips at such an event could only be advantageous. Lizzie had a handful of young riders who had brought their horses to her barn, most of them thanks to Meghan Grimshaw, currently so popular a trainer that she was forced to turn riders away. Determined to build an equally successful riding program, Lizzie, with Ty’s help, was planning ahead, trying to round up enough children for a summer camp that would offer three months of intense horsemanship and weekend competitions in the tri-state area shows. Sometimes together, sometimes separately, Lizzie and Ty worked the crowd, targeting couples, grandparents, any likely-looking candidates, managing with enviable finesse to extol the virtues of the evening’s benefit and the cause it served, at the same time putting in a plug for Cobble Creek’s young riders’ program.
Everywhere they went, heads turned. Beauty and notoriety often have that effect. Rumors that the stunning, reclusive Ty Stannard, daughter of the billionaire real estate magnate, was present sent whispers abuzzing. Weaving elegantly through the crowd, her silver lam? evening dress catching and reflecting the light that fell from the chandeliers, Ty looked beautifully mysterious, like a silver statue come to life. Her presence endowed the benefit with a special touch of glamour that other guests were eager to believe rubbed off on them, enhancing their own social standing. As Ty passed, backs straightened and smiles brightened.
Of course, the big question on everyone’s mind was
What was she doing here?
People in the know immediately spread the word that she must be attending the fundraiser because of Lizzie Osborne—the two had been friends forever.
Heads nodded sagely. Of the two women, Lizzie Osborne was an even juicier topic for discussion than her mysterious, wealthy friend. Even eighteen months later, the weeks of headlines that Lizzie Osborne’s deliciously nasty divorce provided for the gossip mill had yet to be eclipsed by a newer, bigger scandal. Each tidbit of speculation about the outcome of the Strickland custody fight had been served up by the
Daily News,
the
Post,
and the
New York Observer.
All there, in black and white, everyone had read Michael Strickland’s shocking accusations concerning his wife, gasping in outrage over their morning lattes. Infidelity, abuse, alcohol . . . When, weeks later, Michael Strickland abruptly recanted and apologized publicly for those accusations—a comeuppance virtually unheard of—overnight Lizzie Osborne was transformed into a symbol of hope for the many women undergoing the emotional torture of a tug of war over a child.
The large, lustrous pearl, suspended from a black silk rope, its upper portion encircled with a tiny ribbon of diamonds, cooled the flesh just below the hollow of her throat. This was the only piece of jewelry she wore, but its elegant simplicity matched the flawless lines of the silver lam? Valentino dress. Nevertheless, Ty thought fleetingly of her heavy antique gold and leather Swiss watch bought years ago in Gstaad, lying on the marbletopped dresser in her bedroom. Even though it was far too clunky and sporty to go with her dress, she wished she were wearing it now. It was too bad that rules of fashion had been drummed into her so ruthlessly and effectively.
How much time before she could escape? It was impossible to trust her own judgment: minutes crawled by like hours under such intense scrutiny and speculation. She’d give anything to be home, curled up on her sofa with a book, a fire burning merrily in her granite fireplace. The thought of Lizzie and Emma made her shake off her fatigue, the headache that threatened. Ty continued smiling, eyeing faces for potential clients. This was too big an evening for Lizzie and Cobble Creek not to give it one last effort before she called it a night. Her gray eyes traveled over clusters of people, arranged like little islands in the vast expanse of the Waldorf’s ballroom. Ah, there were some likely candidates. Her satin stiletto-heeled pumps played peek-a-boo beneath her gown as Ty glided across the polished wooden floor toward the forty-something couple who appeared to be engaged in a lively conversation with a group of women she recognized as committee members for the National Horse Show. Ty assumed an expression of polite interest. Timing was everything. She’d have to wait for just the right break in the conversation before she could artfully slip in a few glowing remarks about Cobble Creek’s riding program.
“Well, I can’t say I blame them. You have to wonder what kind of security they have that allows a horse to die in its own stall.”
“And what happened, really? How did it die?”
“I heard it choked to death and was lying there for hours before anyone found it.”
“Well, that’s not what Kiki told me!” a statuesque woman in a copper taffeta gown interrupted. Her voice rang with the harsh boom of authority. “She said Sheppard was higher than a kite that evening, and when he found the horse lying in its stall, it was still alive.
Apparently, Sheppard just lost it, went berserk or something. He grabbed a rifle and emptied it into the horse.”
There was a collective gasp from the small circle. Filled with self-importance, the lady continued, all eyes on her. “He didn’t stop there, either. Afterward, he went and beat up his partner, Jason Belmar, who wound up in the hospital. Someone must have called the cops, because they were crawling all over the place within minutes. That’s why Sheppard didn’t have time to hide any of the drugs. They found coke and God knows what else in the house. And Fancy Free, one of show jumping’s best, shot dead in his stall.”
“How ghastly! Well, no wonder he’s disappeared from the circuit. And it’s true some of his owners have sent their horses to Greg Fawlton’s place?”