Chance Meeting (14 page)

The swish of the door gliding over the beige wall-towall carpet signaled his entrance. Ty remained at the window, staring blindly. So many emotions assailed her at the prospect of meeting Steve Sheppard again, face to face. But two principal ones battled for dominance: anxiety and curiosity. What if Steve Sheppard rejected her offer of help? What if his personality had changed so much in these past ten years that she came to regret the impulse to offer her help? Was she being a total idiot even to try?

And she was curious, too. Curious to discover whether the memory she kept of him remained true. Was he still a man who possessed the power of a golden god, a being who could effortlessly make her heart race and her soul yearn?

Did he even remember her?

11

O
ver the thinning gray and brown heads of the men, Steve saw the woman. Perhaps his eyes were drawn to her because she was the only person besides him who was standing. Perhaps it was because her back was to him, everyone else in the conference room had their eyes trained on him right now, carefully assessing. But there was something else about her, too. For long seconds, he ignored the others, focusing only on her strangely isolated presence.

Set against the rectangular expanse of the windowpane, she was the centerpiece of a haunting picture. Behind her, overcast sky met the grayish blue, angular lines of the skyscrapers across Park Avenue. Framed by glass, metal, and hazy muted colors, the woman stood, her straight, brown hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, the end of it reaching the small of her back. She was dressed in shades of lavender, a pale knit skirt and a matching top with short sleeves. Her bare arms were pressed up against the windowpane. They were slender and elegant. He couldn’t see her face, for her head was bent, staring down at the busy street far below. But somehow Steve just knew. She was going to be beautiful. Really beautiful.

The opportunity to look his fill while her back was turned couldn’t be passed up. Not by him. He’d always possessed twenty-twenty vision when it came to appreciating beauty. Silky, ivory-hued stockings caressed unbelievably long legs. Dancer’s legs, slim, tightly muscled, and endless. Legs that could make a man forget his name. Her bottom, temptingly rounded, was outlined by the soft knit fabric that tapered at her narrow waist. He thought he would give his soul—he had nothing else to offer these days—for a look at her breasts. If she hadn’t succumbed to plastic surgery, they’d be like the rest of her, as delicate as a flower just opening and as breathtaking. At the nape of her neck, where her ponytail didn’t obscure it, he noticed a thin silver chain, and on her upraised wrist, a gold watch. From his vantage point, she looked like a million bucks.

Okay, so that meant she was either Stannard’s wife or his mistress, momentarily bored with shopping, deciding it would be more fun to sit in on the meeting and watch her man gobble up the little guy. Whoever, whatever she was, she was way out of his league. Especially these days, Steve concluded bitterly.

There was the muffled sound of chairs being pushed back, and his lawyer, Jeff Wallace, came over to him. “Steve, glad you could join us,” Jeff offered by way of greeting, his voice tinged with a hint of reproach. “Let me introduce you to Douglas Crane. Mr. Crane represents Tyler Stannard.”

Steve reluctantly suspended his study of the woman standing by the window and grasped the older man’s outstretched hand, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. He knew Tyler Stannard’s lawyer was taking in his gaunt face, the three-day beard he hadn’t bothered to scrape off, his tieless shirt, his tweed jacket reeking of cigarette smoke and booze, the whites of his eyes so bloodshot from alcohol and lack of sleep that his irises, usually an electric blue, appeared almost purple. He held his own gaze steady, his sardonic expression clearly telling the lawyer he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of him or his appearance. Steve’s expression elicited a nervous cough from Jeff Wallace, who then patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Well, Mr. Sheppard, let’s get started,” said Douglas Crane. “Perhaps you’d like to take the seat next to Mr. Wallace, so that he can answer any questions you have about the contract our firm has drawn up.”

Steve only shrugged his shoulders and followed Jeff to his place.

As he dropped his rangy body into the chair, a glance at the window told him the woman had moved. Quickly he scanned the room, locating her at the far end of the table, next to a man Steve guessed to be a few years older than himself.

Damn, she was looking down again, her features shielded. All he could see was the top of her finely combed dark hair and the tip of her nose. Not much to go on. She seemed to be reading whatever it was the lawyers were going to use to take his home away from him.

The man next to her, however, was staring right back at Steve, cataloging every detail of his disreputable appearance. Funny, Steve had assumed Tyler Stannard would be a much older man. And he hadn’t imagined Stannard would resemble a pro athlete either, but who else could the guy be? All the other stuffed shirts were accounted for. The man’s face, too, seemed familiar somehow. Steve was sure he’d seen him before . . . hell, probably in a photograph accompanying an article detailing Stannard’s latest real estate deal.

It was clearly a lawyers’ show. Douglas Crane was holding forth, leading the small group step by step through the contract. Steve was surprised at how much information they’d obtained on him. It was all there, in black and white; everyone in the room knew down to the last penny just how much money he’d lost through his stupidity. His stomach churned, rage and despair a bitter acid eating away at his insides. He tuned the lawyers’ voices out, dividing his attention instead between the gray-skyed window and the dark brown head bowed so assiduously over the many-paged legalese.

The word
partnership
came at him like a cold slap in the face, brutally forcing him to listen to the quietly modulated words. Jesus Christ, partnership? What was going on here?

Abruptly Steve raised his hand, clearing his throat. “Whoa,” he commanded, causing everyone in the room to raise their heads. Douglas Crane turned to him, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Back up a minute. I need you to repeat what you just said about a partnership. I seem to have missed the beginning of that part.”

“Certainly, Mr. Sheppard. It’s right here on page sixteen, section four, paragraph three. Mr. Wallace, could you show Mr. Sheppard the relevant passage in his copy?”

A loud, discordant buzzing began in Steve’s ears as he read the paragraph Jeff pointed to. The noise only increased as his eyes moved up and down the page, as the intricacies of the deal became clearer and clearer. If his understanding was correct, Tyler Stannard had no intention of buying him out. Instead, Stannard was proposing to enter into a partnership in which he would reinfuse Steve’s business with enough money to put him back in operation. In return, Tyler Stannard would have a fifty percent stake in Southwind, as well as in any future profits.

What was going on? Steve asked himself one more time. What would Tyler Stannard want with a partnership in a private riding stable? The man was strictly a land baron, buying, selling, developing. A nifty routine that had made him as rich as Midas. But that was beside the point in any case. There was no way Steve was going to agree to a partnership again. The last one had cost him more than he could bear.

Steve’s eyes cut to the man seated at the end of the table. Steve could tell the woman at Tyler Stannard’s side was watching him now, but he was no longer even remotely interested in what she looked like.

“Sorry, Mr. Stannard. I don’t know what your game is, but no deal. I don’t do partnerships anymore.”

His hands gripped the arms of his chair to push it away. With a quick nod to Jeff, Steve made to leave, missing the subtle exchange of glances that passed between the woman and Douglas Crane.

“Just a moment, Mr. Sheppard,” Douglas Crane spoke up. “I’m afraid there’s been some confusion. The person in question who is offering a partnership is not Mr. Tyler Stannard but rather his daughter, Miss Tyler Stannard. I doubt very much,” he added officiously, “that Stannard Limited would ever consider offering you such a generous proposal.”

His daughter?
Steve’s head swiveled, his eyes pinning the woman seated at the end of the table, at last getting a clear view.

She
was
beautiful, goddamn it.

As beautiful as the rest of her heart-stopping body. The realization only added fuel to the anger deep inside him. Large gray eyes stared back at him from a perfect oval face. High cheekbones and delicately arched brows framed the extraordinary eyes returning his stare calmly, unwaveringly, revealing nothing. Seconds ticked as the two held each other’s gaze. If it hadn’t been for the slight blush stealing inexorably over her cheeks, he’d never have believed it.

“Tyler Stannard, I presume,” he ground out, furious. He didn’t like tricks, nor did he enjoy the sensation of being the butt of a joke everyone else was in on. Miss Tyler Stannard had played him for a fool. And he’d had it up to here with rich socialites who got off jerking people around. Propelled by anger, Steve surged out of the chair. Three long strides took him to where she sat at the end of the table. “Get the lawyers out of here, now,” he demanded, his lean, six-foot frame towering over her. Silence, as Tyler Stannard stared up at his angry face, then merely nodded, regal as a queen. The effect had the lawyers, Jeff Wallace, too, standing and wordlessly filing out of the conference room.

“Him, too,” Steve growled at the man he’d mistakenly, idiotically assumed was Tyler Stannard.

“No,” Tyler Stannard countered. Her chin lifted defiantly as Steve glared down at her. “Sam Brody is my

. . . security consultant. He has my utter confidence. Whatever it is you need to say to me, Mr. Sheppard, you can say in front of him.” She spoke in a low voice, her accent screaming that here was the best schooling money could buy. In response, Steve’s Kentucky twang became thicker, the vowels drawn out, a glaring contrast to the precise rhythm of Tyler Stannard’s speech.

“I don’t know what the hell kind of game you’re playing,
Miss
Stannard. Nor do I take kindly to being duped. You want to discuss anything further with me, then he goes. Now.” His head jerked in Sam Brody’s direction.

Time seemed suspended as Steve and Ty engaged in a silent battle of wills. Finally, Ty looked away.

“It’s all right, Sam.”

Slowly, the man called Sam rose to his full height. Reaching it, he topped Steve by at least three inches and probably outweighed Steve’s lean equestrian build by thirty pounds. Something about the expression on his face, a menacing look that promised retribution, triggered in Steve an elusive memory. Where was it he’d seen this guy before? Irritated that he couldn’t place him, Steve was forced to settle for an answering scowl of his own.

They were alone in the large, deserted conference room, the tension in the air between them palpable. Ty ignored it. “So, Mr. Sheppard, just what is it about my proposal that infuriates you so? Douglas Crane was quite right when he said that my father’s company would never offer you a deal like this. Stannard Limited’s tactics are a bit different. They’ll simply buy your property as soon as the bank forecloses. You won’t receive a cent from them or anyone else. The bank is scheduled to foreclose in ten days’ time, isn’t it?”

She didn’t need to look at Steve to know she was right. Ty had all but memorized the documents Sam had obtained for her and could recite in detail the ins and outs of the mess Steve Sheppard had landed in. Persuading him to accept her help, however, would be an entirely different matter. From the moment he’d entered the conference room, he’d reminded her of a wounded lion, ready to attack anyone who came too close.

“Yeah, that’s right. But it will be a cold day in hell before I accept another partner. No way will I let anyone screw me to the wall in the name of partnership, in the name of friendship. My horse died as a result of my gullibility. And if I were ever stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, I certainly wouldn’t do business with some rich debutante who probably knows as much about how to run a horse farm as I know how to do petit point.”

“I see.” Ty paused for several heartbeats before continuing in a casual tone as if they were discussing the weather. “So you’re a male chauvinist pig as well as a drunk. By the way, the stench of whiskey is quite overwhelming, though perhaps not to you—I gather you’re used to it. Well, Mr. Sheppard, perhaps I’m not as deficient as you assume. For instance, useless, pampered female though I am, I could have told you in ten seconds flat that your bookkeeper was fudging the accounts. How long did it take before
you
caught on?”

Christ.
How had she gotten hold of that information? Then Steve remembered good old Sam, her

“security consultant.” He’d probably tapped into the insurance company’s records, which had seized all the computer files detailing the finances at Southwind for its investigation. It was hoping to dig up evidence to prove he’d killed Fancy Free so he could then cash in on his horse’s insurance policy. The thought made him sick.

And there sat Tyler Stannard, looking so cool and poised. His fingers itched to shake her, wanting to take his misery out on someone. She seemed the perfect candidate. Maybe if he gave her a taste of the whole sordid story, she’d lose some of that smooth composure. In a fluid movement, he pulled out the chair next to her, dropped down into it, and lifted long legs to prop his booted feet casually on the shiny black surface of the table.

Douglas Crane would have turned apoplectic to see him thus. Ty watched as he fished out a pack of cigarettes from his tweed jacket. An eyebrow shot up, silently questioning. Ty shook her head. She didn’t bother to mention that she very much doubted her lawyers permitted smoking anywhere in the offices of Crane, Adderson and White. Steve Sheppard wouldn’t care. She waited as he methodically lit the cigarette and drew a deep lungful of smoke before expelling it slowly. Only then did Sheppard address her question.