Chance Meeting (21 page)

“You mean college? Didn’t have time for it. I’ve been riding full-time since I finished high school. But there’s a lot of free hours to read when you’re on the road, stuck in airports, soaking horses’ legs, sitting around during rain delays, that sort of thing. You can only shoot the shit with friends for so long, and, anyway, I’ve always liked books.”

“And the photographs? Are they yours, too?”

The tip of his cigarette burned brighter for a second or two.

“Took a real good look, didn’t you, Junior?” The tone was slightly mocking. “Check my sock drawer, too?”

When she didn’t reply, Steve let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, yeah. My parents bought me a camera when I first went overseas. I got to know Europe pretty well, traveling from country to country, following the show circuit there. Photography’s been a great way to record all the places I’ve been.”

“They’re very good.” An understatement. The quality-of the work she’d seen far surpassed the typical holiday snapshot. “Am I right in thinking the large one over your bed was shot near Zurich?” It was a stunning picture, taken at dawn, the morning sun mixing with the mist and mountain peaks.

“That’s a couple years old, from when I competed at the Zurich International. Fancy Free won the Grand Prix for me there.” Steve paused, staring blindly at the thick clumps of dirt in front of him, while memories of that summer swept over him. Fancy had been in tip-top shape, full of his signature razzle-dazzle. The crowd had gone wild, cheering madly as Steve and Fancy Free turned in perfect round after perfect round. Fancy had loved all the attention, knowing it was his due. God, he missed his horse so damn much.

Ty’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I remember the beauty of those mountains, the peaks especially. The notion of time vanishes completely up there, perched on top of the world. There’s no past or future, it’s just you and clouds and air.”

“Sounds as if you know the area well. Winter skiing?” he drawled.

“I was at a school in Switzerland, in Gstaad, for four years.”

“Oh. Did you like it?”

“No.” Her response was flat, unequivocal.

Steve was beginning to expect the unexpected from her. For the past three days, he’d watched her—

surreptitiously, of course. Three days of observation to realize just how different a woman she was. Definitely not the spoiled, flighty type. No, she was a class act, unflappable and efficient. With no fuss or muss, Ty got things done. He’d dumped some shit jobs on her, too, both yesterday and today, waiting to see what she’d do— everything from paying the mountain of overdue bills that covered his office desk, to telephoning the insurance company and badgering them for information on the status of his claim, to cleaning out and organizing the tack room. He’d even given her water buckets to scrub. She’d tackled each without a murmur of complaint.

It annoyed the hell out of him that he was beginning to like her.

That she was way too bloody desirable for his peace of mind wasn’t helping a whole lot, either. Especially when he could tell that most of the time, she wasn’t even trying to turn him on. Like now. Simply sitting next to him, warm, quiet, talking to him as if she were trying to understand, as if it
mattered

.

He wanted to touch her. Badly. The thought hadn’t ceased drumming inside his brain. He ached to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pull her close, and breathe in the intoxicating scent of lemon on warm skin that was her. As if of its own accord, his hand rose. Then stopped and dropped. Because doing what he wanted, holding her, kissing her, would be too fucking stupid for words, and his stupid quota was already maxed out.

Christ, what was it they’d been talking about?

Oh, yeah. School. He wondered why a girl like her hadn’t enjoyed being at one of those swank Swiss schools, the kind of school that has no need to advertise, its clientele assured: children of royal families, of oil magnates, of the ultra-rich. Her kind. “So what was wrong with the place?” he asked at last, picking up the thread of the conversation.

“I don’t think any one particular thing stands out in my memory. It was just the school’s overall atmosphere. I didn’t like being in a place where the teachers judged the students and the students judged each other solely in terms of their parents’ bank accounts.”

“Bet that’s true in a lot of rich kids’ schools.”

“Yes, probably.” She fell frustratingly silent.

“So, what’d they teach you there?” he found himself asking, just to hear her voice. Her soft laughter had a musical quality. “Oh, everything. That is, everything they considered essential to producing picture-perfect representatives of the upper class. Lots of economics, languages, history, math. Of course, we girls were given extracurricular classes in ballet, table setting, flower arrangement, and comportment.”

“Comportment?”

“You know, walking, standing, turning, descending stairs, getting in and out of a low-slung sports car dressed in a brand new pair of Manolo Blahniks. All these skills were considered absolutely essential.”

Humor still laced her voice.

“What the hell are Manolo Blahniks?”

“An eastern European torture device designed especially for women.”

“Come again?”

“Shoes,” she explained patiently. “Very high heels.”

“Jesus.” He exhaled. “I thought you were talking about chastity belts.” The corner of his mouth tilted, pleased that he’d made her laugh. “How’d you do?”

“At school? Oh, I was raised from birth to be an overachiever. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable to my father. I can run in my Manolos if I have to, though that wasn’t actually required. Running was frowned upon.”

Silence descended once again as Steve tried to imagine that kind of an upbringing. Then Ty spoke. “I was wondering whether I could ask you something.”

“Depends what it is.”

“Would you mind telling me what your plans are? As your partner, I think I have a right to know. You can’t seriously intend to rebuild your business by having me scrub water buckets and groom your horses. Though I’m sure it probably hasn’t occurred to you, it’s possible I can help.”

The momentary sense camaraderie between them vanished into the frigid night. Steve’s back stiffened.

“Don’t sweat it, Junior. The only help I need from you is the green kind. Matter of fact, I’ve been devoting most of my waking hours to mapping out how I’m going to spend all that ‘ready cash’ you’ve been stockpiling. That is, when I’m not thinking I should have my head examined,” Steve finished softly, bitterly under his breath.

She caught it. She didn’t miss much.

“Oh, please.” Her own voice was now heavy with sarcasm. “Whatever for?”

“Who wouldn’t in my shoes? First of all, I must have been frigging nuts to enter into this partnership with you . . .”
Especially because I’m wasting way too much time thinking about how badly I want to
jump your bones. When instead I should be figuring out how to get you to sign over your half of
the partnership.

“Not everyone would immediately conclude that was a sure-fire sign of insanity,” she retorted drily. “And second?”

“And second, for missing a horse so goddamn much that every night, I’m either sitting in his empty stall or out here by his grave, looking for answers in the dark.” The despair was as raw and ugly as the large rectangle of torn earth before them.

A sense of helplessness gripped her as she sat, not knowing what to say, her mind awhirl. There was so much anger and pain inside him. More than anything, Ty wished she could reach out and touch him but didn’t dare. She was sure he’d only rebuff her, thereby making the situation between them even more awkward and uncomfortable.

“Everybody deals with grief in their own way,” she observed at last, speaking quietly. “I don’t think there are any special rules written down outlining appropriate behavior when you’ve lost something or someone you love.”

“And you’re clearly an expert.” He fired back, eager to lash out, letting the words hang there, a razor sharp barrier between them.

Ty thought of the mother she’d never had, the woman who’d died giving birth to her. She thought of her horse, Charisma, vetted, sold, and delivered to new owners without her even able to say good-bye. Thought of the hurt of being packed off to a finishing school, thousands of miles away from home, from everything familiar. “No, I’m not an expert,” she agreed, suppressing the slight tremor that threatened her voice. She wasn’t entirely successful but prayed he wouldn’t notice. Ty refused to lose her composure in front of someone who thought so little of her, who wanted nothing to do with her. Then, in a tone layered with the impeccable politeness drilled thoroughly into the students at Ty’s Swiss alma mater, she spoke.

“Excuse me, won’t you? I find I’m suddenly tired.” She rose swiftly, gracefully to her feet, her retreating figure quickly enveloped in the cold, black night.

From Tyler Stannard’s penthouse office in the towering steel-and-glass skyscraper built and owned by Stannard Limited, breathtaking bird’s-eye views spanned all of Manhattan. On a clear day, such as this, Stannard could see as far south as the Statue of Liberty. The sweeping vista, like so many other things he possessed—from the butter-soft matching black leather sofas and armchairs hand-stitched in Italy to the large eight-by-ten-foot electronic panel that, at the push of a button, descended silently from the ceiling—

underscored the impression that Tyler Stannard was a man who had the world at his fingertips. Clients appreciated this. Delighted to receive an invitation to view videotaped presentations of Stannard Limited’s newest development or luxury resort, they would sit, their bodies curled into the supple leather cushions, sipping vintage Dom Perignon from fluted glasses. Those who expressed appropriate interest would be flown to the chosen site in one of Stannard Limited’s jets.

This morning, however, Tyler Stannard wasn’t remotely interested in the view from his fortieth-floor windows or in any other aspect of his penthouse office. His eyes were trained on the papers spread before him, covering the sleekly modern desk carved from Brazilian wood which he’d commissioned from that country’s top designer.

In an effort to make amends for his blunder of the past week, Douglas Crane had performed his task with admirable efficiency. Stannard’s eyes skimmed the row of numbers from his daughter’s financial reports, registering the funds she’d raised by selling her apartment. Evidence of yet another bold move. Wise to sell now rather than wait until a later date when she needed the money. With the real estate market as volatile as it was and the viability of so many internet companies in doubt, it was better to rake in the profits than be stuck in a market gone bust.

She’d also anticipated that he’d block her trust or at least attempt to. In his brief, Douglas Crane had outlined that tactic as having limited potential for success but an option which Tyler Stannard could eventually pursue. Ty’s trust had been established by her grandparents, for the benefit of her mother. After her death, Ty became the sole beneficiary. The trust was managed by a bank in Delaware, one of a handful of financial institutions accustomed to serving very rich families that had remained independent. The bank officer looking after the trust was an elderly gentleman from the old school. In Crane’s opinion, it was unlikely Stannard would convince him that Ty’s recent actions were in any way inconsistent with the provisions of the trust.

He’d try anyway. He pressed the intercom button. “Smythe, please call Bill Whiting at First Delaware. Set up an appointment for this week, next at the latest. I’ll go to Wilmington if that’s what he wants.”

“Yes, Mr. Stannard,” came the immediate, expected reply.

Stannard returned to the documents before him once more. He’d been studying them almost continuously since yesterday afternoon when they’d been delivered, wanting to distill his own impressions of the situation before reading Douglas Crane’s memorandum, which he’d done earlier this morning. Unfortunately, his conclusions and Crane’s were, for all intents and purposes, identical: his daughter had taken every precaution. The contract between her and Sheppard, while unorthodox, was squeaky clean. No lawyer was going to be able to convince a judge otherwise. Her finances were in order; she had enough disposable income to cover immediate expenditures if she wasn’t too extravagant. And if Steve Sheppard’s business picked up, bringing in paying clients, she might not have to rely on her trust fund for quite some time—a second argument against using the trust fund as the primary focus of attack. If a weak link in this scenario existed, it had nothing to do with his daughter. But Steve Sheppard might well prove more vulnerable. Douglas Crane had faithfully described Sheppard’s initial reaction to Ty’s proposal. Clearly, Sheppard was bitterly opposed to the idea of entering into a new partnership and arrogant enough to demand the conditions inserted into the contract in the hopes of regaining full control of his business.

Stannard assumed his daughter wouldn’t walk away from the partnership, however hard Sheppard pushed her. She hated failure as much as her father. So that left the option of offering Sheppard the money required to buy his daughter out. Yes, that would work. But, as both he and Douglas Crane had concluded, it was going to have to be a waiting game, with Stannard circling high overhead, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop down. First, Ty had to spend enough of her own money setting Southwind to rights that she’d be unable to match the amount her father offered Sheppard. It was a given that the