by Laura Moore
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?
13
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 adjac
ent 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.
“You came.”
It irked her that she didn’t rate high enough on Steve’s list to warrant a hello, hi, or any other form of civilized greeting. Well, two could play that game.
“Of course. You did specify the end of the week, didn’t you?”
Steve ignored the sarcasm underlying her tone. “Bring your stuff on into the house. I’ll be over after I put Gordo away.”
So much for any offer of help, but then, what had she expected, the red carpet treatment she’d been shown all her life? She certainly wasn’t going to get that from this man, she thought with a flash of wry amusement.
Moreover, it was abundantly clear that Steve wasn’t going to spare her another word, another glance. Gathering his reins loosely, Steve now centered his brilliant gaze was on a distant spot between the gelding’s ears, over the top of Ty’s head. The bay’s ears swiveled, listening. Then, as Ty looked on, at first bewildered, then with growing awe, the gelding executed a pictureperfect turn on the haunches. The movement completed, Ty was treated to the view of Steve’s broad back, the bay’s gleaming hindquarters, and its long, silky black tail swishing back and forth as it confidently carried its rider in the direction of the brown weathered barn.
A heartfelt sigh escaped her lips as she stood, humbled by what she’d just witnessed. She remembered the weeks, the months she’d spent practicing that same basic dressage maneuver, the turn on the haunches, with her horse, Charisma. Of course, she reflected, most riders relied on their reins to hold the horse in check as the pressure from their legs asked it to move only its forelegs in a sideways arc, all the while the horse’s hindquarters remaining essentially in place, merely pivoting in a tiny circle until the turn was complete.
But Steve Sheppard wasn’t like most riders. She hadn’t seen a leg move or a hand squeeze as Steve communicated silently, invisibly, with his horse. And, boy, she’d been watching with eagle-eyed attention the second she realized just what it was he was doing. A magician’s touch. As Ty recalled, he’d always been an especially gifted athlete. Well, she could rest easy. He was still a phenomenal rider.
In the past, Steve had often pulled off the big, heartstopping movements during competition that left spectators trembling with excitement and awe. But that was only a fraction of what made Steve such a great rider. It was the subtle things, like the turn on the haunches he’d performed just now, with such uncanny ease, with a naturalness that distinguished his achievements on a horse from those of so many other riders.
Hours, months, years of hard training, combined with a talent blessed by the heavens, enabled him to move in total harmony with his horses. When Steve rode, one couldn’t help marveling, How did he do that? Other athletes in other disciplines inspired similar awe in their fans: Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretsky, Joe Montana. Watching them was a privilege one never forgot. Still, it would have been nice if he’d helped carry in her luggage.
Nothing about the neat exterior of the brownshingled, saltbox house with its French blue trim and matching wooden door, its mullioned windows and cheerful wooden flower boxes, could have prepared her for the condition of its interior. Stepping through the front door, Ty barely saved herself from falling over a small mountain of muddy paddock boots, field boots, Wellingtons, mismatched sneakers, boot hooks and jacks, and heaven knows what else. Still tottering, she managed to shove aside a dozen or so mismatched articles and deposit the two suitcases she’d brought with her in the small space she’d cleared.
Telling herself that it was the two-hour drive on the Long Island Expressway that had parched her throat rather than the sight of Steve Sheppard looking down at her, so cool and so distant, had Ty wandering toward the back of the house, bypassing the darkly shadowed living room on her right. One look at the kitchen, however, was all she needed to realize that getting a glass of water in this house would be no mean feat. The stench alone—of rotting garbage laced with the sweeter stink of spoiled milk— was enough to send anyone with half a nostril running. Dishes cluttered the counter like leaning towers of Pisa, needing only a slight shift in the air to topple over. The sink was overflowing, too, with more plates and glasses stacked up to the level of the faucet. It would be impossible to turn on the water without knocking glasses and china over. Ty doubted, too, from the number of filthy glasses littering the counter space, that there was a clean one to be found in any of the wooden cabinets. Perhaps a bottle of mineral water or a can of soda was hiding in the refrigerator. Trying not to inhale too deeply, Ty walked over and braved a look inside. A wedge of cheddar cheese sporting an impressively thick layer of green mold around its edges. A half-empty package of English muffins that looked as though it had been purchased years ago, the inside of the plastic wrapping moist with condensation. Nearby stood a quart of milk, the triangular spout left open, and four bottles of beer. They looked fine. Ty shook her head and turned on her heel.
He hated to admit it, but she was cooler than ice trickling down the back of your throat on a hot summer’s day. Untacking Gordo quickly, Steve had let the gelding out in the upper pasture so that he could roll to his heart’s content in his favorite mud spot; he planned to make Ty Stannard groom him later. After that, Steve had hurried over to the house, filled with a devilish curiosity to see her reaction. Another woman would have taken one look at the
pit his house had become and either fainted dead away from shock or else pitched a hissy fit loud enough to be heard all the way to Portugal, then hightailed it from Southwind, never to return.
That’s actually what he’d been hoping for. But not her. She’d even made it up the stairs, where he’d found her in Jason’s room.
Standing immobile, perhaps petrified with shock.
Only those disturbing gray eyes of hers moving from object to object, cataloging the destruction all around her: the chair smashed in so many bits it could be used for kindling this winter, the coffee table flipped over on its side, magazines and books strewn across the floor, their pages torn and crushed, their spines broken. Not too far away from the wall against which Steve had hurled it was the bright yellow Discman, lying broken in half. Halfway across the room was the CD Jase had been rocking to as he cut his cocaine into five regimental lines, the mirror balanced between his knees. The CD had ricocheted out of the Discman upon impact. Broken candles were all over the place, pools of melted wax stuck to the wide oak planks.
She must have sensed his presence, for she took an involuntary step into the room, distancing herself. The sound of broken glass scraping the floor filled the silence.
“Careful where you step,” he said unnecessarily as she froze. “That’s seven years’ bad luck.”
“I doubt that the mirror can get much more broken than it already is.” Her voice was strained, raw, the only reaction to the unnerving sight of the destroyed room she wasn’t able to hide. “And I thought the kitchen was a nightmare.” The joke fell flat, as broken as the rest of the room. “Are you going to tell me what happened here, or shall I leave it to my imagination?”
Steve shrugged. “This was Jase’s room; the bed’s through those French doors. It’s in a bit better shape.”
