by Laura Moore
“No thank you, Ms. Grenelli.” Ty smiled briefly at the secretary.
“Please hold my calls, Carol.”
“Yes, Mr. Crane.” The door shut quietly behind her.
“Come and sit down.” Douglas Crane gestured to a pair of ornately carved, claw-footed chairs facing his desk, waiting until Ty was seated in one before claiming the second. “You’re looking as lovely as ever, Ty,” Crane observed with avuncular benevolence.
Ty smiled automatically in acknowledgment. His comment, though more elaborate, was as meaningless as the automatic “Have a nice day” one heard at least thirty times a week. Luckily, the routine pleasantries Ty exchanged with her lawyer would last only about three minutes before Douglas Crane zeroed in on the issue at hand.
“Thank you, Douglas. You’re looking well yourself.” Nothing less than the truth. For though his hairline had begun an inexorable retreat back along the top of his freckled head, and the bags beneath his shrewd hazel eyes were a bit more pronounced than they’d been the last time Ty had seen him, Douglas Crane had changed remarkably little over the years. In his late fifties, Crane prided himself on the fact that he was as fit as many of his younger associates. Very much like her father in that respect, Ty reflected, immensely grateful not to have to pursue that thought further, as she heard Douglas Crane clear his throat importantly.
“Since our conversation last night, Ty, I’ve given the matter you spoke of some thought. Let me be blunt.” He continued as if his request had been granted. “You mentioned the possibility of retaining a different law firm to handle this arrangement between you and Mr. Sheppard.”
“Yes,” Ty replied evenly. “That is something I’m considering.”
“Well, of course that is your option, Ty.” Douglas Crane nodded easily, the bracketing lines around his smile wavering only slightly. “But, being the lawyer who has provided counsel to you for several years now, I must tell you I think it would be a mistake. I have complete confidence that Crane, Adderson and White is more than able to provide everything you need. For instance, Ty, you spoke of the need to proceed in a timely manner?”
“Yes, I’d like to approach Steve Sheppard as soon as possible.”
“That being the case, I can arrange to have a preliminary contract drawn up for you by the day after tomorrow. If it meets with your approval, our office will contact Mr. Sheppard and his legal counsel and schedule a meeting between you for the beginning of next week.”
“Next week?” That would be quick indeed. Ty imagined the small army of associates that would be involved to pull together a deal this size so quickly.
“Next week,” Douglas Crane affirmed. “Were you to approach another firm, however, it very well might take that long just for the paperwork and documents to be gathered together. As Crane, Adderson and White has handled your financial affairs, many of those preliminary—and time-consuming—obstacles will be avoided.” He shifted back in his chair with a carefully pleased expression on his face, as though imagining the ghostly presence of partners past and present cheering him on. Douglas Crane hadn’t followed in the footsteps of his grandfather, the founding partner of Crane, Adderson and White, for nothing.
Still, Ty had hesitated. “Please don’t think I’m unappreciative of the work Crane, Adderson and White has done on my behalf, Douglas. But in addition to the issue of timeliness, I need to count on your firm’s complete discretion. You and my father have many dealings. This meeting, the contract . . .”
“. . . Are matters of the utmost delicacy and will be kept strictly confidential,” Douglas Crane interrupted smoothly, reaching out to pat Ty’s slim hand resting on the arm of her chair. “I understand completely. I’ll see to it that none of the partners who do work for your father have any involvement in this matter. As for me, Ty, don’t you think you can trust me?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled. What else was there to say?
“Good. Excellent. Now, why don’t we go over the specifics of what you need? I’ll just buzz Carol to bring up the associate who’ll be working under me.”
And that had been that. Up to this moment, Crane, Adderson and White had performed its services with its signature brand of excellence. Its attorneys had gotten a contract whipped into shape, then sent a letter off to both Steve Sheppard and his lawyer. And now here they all were—all except one key figure. Apparently, Crane, Adderson and White’s legal magic only dazzled some. Still standing at her post by the bank of windows, Ty could hear the impatient murmur of the lawyers, hers and his, mixed in with the slapping sound of papers being shuffled, reshuffled, and replaced once more upon the long black-and-chrome table that dominated the law firm’s austere conference room. Presiding in the middle of the table was Douglas Crane, flanked by a young partner and an associate. On
the opposite side of the table from Crane, a few seats down, were two somber men she didn’t know wearing dark blue suits. These, she’d learned, were the bank’s lawyers. Directly facing Crane and all alone was a man in dark beige. She’d noticed him looking increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by. His identity was only too obvious: Steve Sheppard’s lawyer. She presumed he had an office in Southampton, perhaps Riverhead, that he was accustomed to closing simple vacation house sales and pushing building permits through the zoning board. It was probably the first time he had seen the inside of a law firm like this one. Ty felt a pang of sympathy for him.
They’d been waiting for nearly half an hour now. There was a rustle of movement behind her, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Douglas Crane approach. He coughed discreetly and pointed to his watch.
“It’s all right, Douglas. Since Mr. Sheppard hasn’t called to inform us he isn’t coming, we’ll simply continue to wait.” The tightening of his lips was the only sign of Crane’s displeasure before he obediently withdrew to his seat.
The only other person waiting as silently as she was Sam Brody, here at his own request, sitting slightly apart from the lawyers, no doubt watching her as she stood with her back to them all. A soft but penetrating knock was followed by the low, cultured voice of Douglas Crane’s private secretary. “Excuse me, Mr. Crane, Mr. Sheppard has arrived.”
“Thank you, Carol. Please show him in.”
The sounds behind her altered abruptly, a note of purpose in the chorus of creaking leather as the men shifted in their seats. Now that their period of enforced idleness was at an end, she imagined the lawyers sitting up straighter, adjusting their ties and their shirt cuffs. She knew when she turned around that the expressions of boredom would have vanished, to be replaced with a ponderous solemnity, the equivalent of a poker face that lawyers practiced to perfection.
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?”
