Chance Meeting (16 page)
“—are all used for storing equipment and machinery,” Steve replied, cutting her off.
“And your barn manager, where does he live?”
“About three miles away. He’s a local.”
Seeing his smile widen with each rebuttal only increased Ty’s determination, no matter how ill-conceived the idea. “What about your former partner, Jason Belmar? Where did he sleep?”
“We shared the house,” came the reluctant reply. Then abruptly, Steve shifted his weight forward, bringing his face close to hers. His eyes were mesmerizing, a cold hard blue. “Thing is, Junior, Southwind is a
working
farm. Not a resort. Anyone staying at Southwind has to be willing to put in some serious labor. As you yourself admitted earlier, horses require hours of care, involving a hell of a lot more effort than punching numbers into a calculator.” Steve paused. A truly beautiful plan was taking shape in his mind.
For the first time since the ear-popping elevator ride up to the lawyers’ offices, he was enjoying himself. So Tyler Stannard wanted to move in, take over, dictate to him how to run a horse farm? How long would she last, if she were removed from her pampered, hothouse environment?
In open challenge, his blue eyes skimmed over her, taking in the gentle swell of her breasts. Nope, no boob job there, he reflected, his earlier curiosity satisfied. Women who’d gone under the knife generally wanted a lot more to show for it—too much, in his opinion. But Tyler Stannard’s body was a dream come true. And those legs. He frowned, pushing the errant thought away, belatedly conscious of how long his eyes had lingered, cataloging her assets. She was the last woman in the world he should be thinking of in those terms.
As though merely musing aloud, he laid the trap. “It just so happens I’m a little short of able bodies right now. I had to let go of some of my stablehands ’cause I couldn’t pay them.” His eyes raked her slender form once more, considering. “Admittedly, you’re on the scrawny side. Still, you look strong enough.” At the sight of him nodding happily, Ty felt a sick kind of foreboding settle over her. “Tell you what, Junior, if you’re all fired up about being an active partner and wanting to keep a close eye on your investment, you better be resigned to ruining that manicure of yours.”
Steve Sheppard certainly knew which buttons to press. Ty ignored the gibe with difficulty. “This is surely unnecessary. If you sign the contract agreeing to the partnership, you’ll have the sufficient funds to hire these people back.”
“Yeah, and I will . . . eventually. But this way I’ll economize until I’ve convinced enough clients that I’m not the demon from hell these weeks of rumors have made me out to be. So, how about it, Miss Stannard? You up to the terms, or not?”
The unexpectedness of the situation threw her. Especially as this sort of scenario had been the farthest thing from her mind when she’d approached him. Coming into this meeting, Ty had had every intention of being a ghostly, silent partner—exactly what Steve Sheppard would have wished for. She’d have supplied the money and let him run Southwind; the legal business contract would simply have made everything legitimate. Indeed, she’d pictured herself fading discreetly into the background once they’d signed the contract, perhaps offering advice—only occasionally, and only when solicited, of course. That way, she’d have helped save Southwind but not imposed. But then her bruised ego had caused her to demand stipulations she’d never intended. And when Steve Sheppard had fired one right back at her, he’d shattered that safe, comfortable fantasy to smithereens.
So here it was. Steve Sheppard had thrown down the gauntlet. She could back down, let him believe she was nothing more than frivolous fluff—wealthy but, beyond that, useless. Or she could shove those prejudices down his throat and hope she’d have the pleasure of watching him choke. But that would entail agreeing to live in his house and accepting whatever jobs he assigned her. In spite of herself, in spite of her frustration at being temporarily outmaneuvered, Ty felt a surge of admiration for Steve. He’d walked into this meeting with his life, his career, his finances in shambles, and now here he was, forty minutes later, dictating the terms of their partnership. That took nerve, arrogance, and ruthless calculation. Traits Steve would have honed to a sharp edge from years of professional show jumping. A part of her was secretly glad those qualities hadn’t dulled over time. She could understand how he must chafe at the idea of taking on another partner. The conditions he’d laid out gave him a fighting chance, so to speak.
What this terms allowed for was essentially this: Steve Sheppard could break his back trying to repay Ty’s investment, or he could try to break
her
and make her forfeit her fifty-percent stake in Southwind. The determined glint in his eyes indicated he’d probably try to work both fronts simultaneously. A truly neat plan, one with short-as well as long-term goals.
Was she up to the challenge?
Ty had never been afraid of hard work. No, it wasn’t the prospect of the long, grueling hours involved or the countless jobs he’d undoubtedly throw her way that were making her hesitate. It was Steve Sheppard himself. Ty remembered vividly how infatuated she’d been as a teenager, those wildly handsome blond looks of his captured in countless photographs causing her heart to flutter madly, like the wings of a hummingbird.
Ten years later, the effect he had on Ty was enhanced one hundred percent. Like a potent distillation, his presence made her head swim and her heart pound.
But why? The idealized dream man of her youth had clearly vanished. Here Steve Sheppard was, sprawled casually, contemptuously before her, looking his very worst, about as awful as she could imagine: unshaven, unkempt, eyelids reddened with fatigue and drink, his face set in an expression that conveyed patent dislike.
It didn’t matter. Something about him still called out to her.
Ty knew that living in such close quarters with Steve Sheppard would be like playing with fire. Then again, she was twenty-five years old and had been playing it safe for . . . forever. Why not do it? Her apartment already had a contract on it; the sale would close in a matter of weeks. All the money she saved by not renting or buying a smaller place could go directly back into shoring up Southwind financially.
Okay, it made sense economically, if disastrous emotionally and logically. Ty’s head lifted at the muffled laughter escaping Steve’s lips. The smile on his face wide, entertained by the spectacle of Ty’s internal debate.
He was certain she’d fold, Ty thought, feeling her spine stiffen instinctively. No way was she going to be so easily intimidated, so easily bested. Summoning a bland expression, she leaned forward nonchalantly and pressed a round button on the intercom.
“Yes, Ms. Grenelli? This is Ty Stannard. Could you please ask Mr. Douglas and Mr. Wallace to come back in? There are a few details Mr. Sheppard and I would like to insert into the contract.”
“As your lawyer, Ty, it’s my obligation to point out how disadvantageous these amendments to the contract are. It’s a serious mistake to agree to any of these conditions. Steve Sheppard is taking shameless advantage of your compassionate nature. I fear you’re going to regret the day you signed your name at the bottom of this contract,” Douglas Crane finished heavily. Ty was glad to note his color had returned to normal. Crane’s face had turned an alarming shade of purple as Ty outlined to the lawyers the terms Steve had insisted on. For the following forty-five minutes, Douglas Crane had argued, using his best rhetorical skill, trying to dissuade Ty, to make her see
“reason.”
Failure didn’t sit well with Douglas Crane. It was clear that he was personally affronted by the events of the past hour. Not only did he dislike being on the losing end of a deal, but Ty’s apparent na?vet? was like a stain of dishonor. Douglas Crane’s clients were many things but never saps. The irony wasn’t lost on Ty that Steve, as he was leaving the meeting, virtually echoed Douglas Crane’s words, having just signed his name with a flourish next to hers. Only Sheppard hadn’t been puffed up with righteous, lawyerly indignation. No, he’d been laughing, a low rumble emanating from his broad chest.
With a careless flick of his wrist, he’d tossed the Mont Blanc fountain pen onto the table, its cylindrical form skittering across the shiny black surface. “Well, Junior. All I can say is that you’re going to be mighty sorry you signed on for this pet project. I’ll be expecting you at Southwind at the end of the week.
Oh, by the way, you got an extra twenty bucks you could spare? And I’d appreciate it if you could deposit a little petty cash into the checking account.” He’d grinned in unholy amusement. “A couple thou should do the trick.”
Both men, Douglas Crane and Steve Sheppard, were wrong. At least in terms of timing. It wasn’t that Ty was
going
to regret her decision to agree to Steve Sheppard’s terms. She already did. What in the world had she gotten herself into?
T
he place appeared to be deserted. Ty breathed a sigh of relief as she killed the engine of her little silver VW bug, then grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car. Unwilling to announce her arrival, she’d parked the car behind a tall hedgerow in dire need of pruning. Above all, she wanted to postpone the inevitable confrontation with Steve Sheppard for as long as possible. It would give Ty the opportunity to look around Southwind on her own, without Steve Sheppard’s undoubtedly hostile presence distracting her.
It was a blustery day. The wind from the ocean was strong, pushing battleship-colored clouds across the sky, whipping strands of Ty’s long brown hair across her face. Feeling the autumn chill, she pulled the edges of her black shearling, three-quarter-length jacket more closely about her. Yet even the grimness of the overcast sky couldn’t detract from the beauty of her surroundings. Steve Sheppard’s farm, Southwind, was located a few hundred yards off a small, relatively untraveled road, Horsemarket Lane. The slice of land Southwind occupied was ideal and, best of all, protected, the farm and the immediate area around it having escaped the seemingly relentless development and overbuilding that plagued so many other areas in the Hamptons. Facing south, Southwind’s fields and paddocks ended just shy of the wide, creamy band of sand that bordered the Atlantic Ocean. To the west, Ty could see the silvered reflection of one of the area’s many ponds, home to fish, crabs, swans, and egrets. And adjacent to Steve’s property, to the east, Ty had spotted another farm, from the looks of it a potato farm, its barns surrounded with acres and acres of neatly tilled dark brown soil. Ty knew enough about the history of the South Fork of Long Island to assume the farm was one of a handful remaining in the area, one that had been passed down from generation to generation. Since the settlement of the area, Long Island farmers had taken advantage of the favorable soil conditions to produce renowned and bountiful crops of potatoes. But, with property values now skyrocketing, an increasing number of these farmers, whose ancestors had worked the land before them, were finding it far more profitable to sell out to developers. And who could blame them when they could make huge sums of money, far more than they’d ever make growing potatoes, corn, or any other crop the soil could support?
If she discounted the pale yellow corrugated roof of Steve’s indoor riding ring, partially obscured by the main barn running parallel to it, a glance at the barn and the outbuildings on Steve’s property led Ty to believe that Southwind, too, must have originally been a potato farm. Perhaps part of the adjacent property she’d passed, parceled off during a period of economic hardship. If so, the split had happened a long while ago, because some enterprising individual had planted a continuous, unbroken line of cheyenne privet along the border of the two properties, which rose now, a dense, majestic line of green, helping to create a sense of privacy in a landscape where huge skies met flat open land, where each house and building rose up, exposed to all and sundry.
Yes, Ty thought, her father’s company would have cut this stunning piece of land like an expensive pie and sold each slice topped with a mini-estate. People would have been lining up to taste Stannard Limited’s version of the good life.
Ty’s thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of crunching gravel. With reluctance, she turned her attention away from the landscape. Steve was seated astride a light bay, walking toward her on a loose rein, the horse’s neck bobbing rhythmically from side to side as it made its approach. Its ears were pricked forward, revealing far more enthusiasm than its rider showed. Ty wasn’t fool enough to believe it was the smoke curling upward from his cigarette that was causing Steve’s narrow-eyed squint. The slightest tightening of the reins brought his horse to a halt a few yards away from her. A tense silence followed as Steve casually dropped his reins and rested one hand on his thigh, the other cupped around the end of his cigarette. With a final, deep drag, Steve bent over and ground the butt against the heel of his scarred leather workboot. In a gesture that was clearly habitual, he pushed aside the front of his black fleece vest and stuck the tan filter into the left pocket of his denim shirt. The scowl on his face remained.