Chance Meeting

by Laura Moore

  Holly had been lying in it, sleeping, dead to the world after a couple hours spent in Jase’s arms. The violence of the storm that night hadn’t roused her, but the sound of Steve beating the living daylights out of Jase sure had. Poor Holly had cowered in the bed, too terrified to call the cops until the very end, when silence finally descended. Convinced that Jase was dead, Holly managed to overcome her frozen panic long enough for her trembling fingers to punch out 911. Steve supposed he should be glad she had. His horse’s death on his conscience was quite enough.

  “I found Jase here, making his way through half a gram of coke, his Discman cranked to the max, while outside raged one of the worst electrical storms in decades. Instead of checking on how the horses were doing, he was blowing nose candy.”

  Ty surveyed the destruction around her, a stark, silent testimony to the violence that had occurred. Although she dreaded asking, she forced the question out. “What really happened that night?”

  Steve’s eyes became remote as a shadow crossed his face. Shards of glass crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he walked across the room and came to a standstill before the window. The clean, strong lines of his face were in profile to her, his voice low and rough. “It was Jase’s night for barn duty. We had a rotation going: Jase; Bubba, my stable manager; and me. It was Jase’s turn that night. Bubba was down south, visiting his son, and I, well, I was out . . . on a date, of all things.” His tone full of self-contempt. “Hadn’t been with a woman in months, what with the summer show season and all. When the storm came up, I was in a bar somewhere near Smithtown, sweet-talking a woman named Cynthia into taking me home to her condo. Hoping I might get laid. We only got as far as the parking lot. The rain was coming down in sheets, the sky white with lightning that just kept on and on. I left Cynthia standing in the mud beside her Chevy, knowing in my gut something had happened.” His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, as if to block a too vivid memory. “I couldn’t get through on my cell phone. Later I found out the electricity had been knocked out on the East End. The phone lines must have been overloaded with people calling. I drove like a maniac through the storm. And when I finally made it back home and opened the car door, I could already hear my horse’s screams. They were louder than the thunder and lightning crashing over me.” He glanced at her, his face etched in harsh lines. “I’ve lived around horses all my life, and never have I heard a sound like that before. I made my way to him in the dark. Fancy must have been rearing in fright from the storm. His stall had a haynet in it . . . he was kind of finicky that way,”

  Ty’s heart tripped at the fleeting smile of infinite sadness that crossed his face. “He thought eating off the floor beneath his dignity. When I found Fancy, he’d foundered and was lying there on the straw, his coat lathered with sweat, still screaming. His right foreleg was sticking out at a fortyfive-degree angle from his shoulder, his hoof twisted around backward in that goddamn fucking haynet.”

  Steve broke off. Then, drawing a deep, ragged breath, he turned and demanded roughly, “Can you understand the kind of agony Fancy was in? To be lying there with his leg broken that badly, in that many places?” Anguished eyes locked with Ty’s.

  Ty only nodded, horrified, all too easily picturing the unnatural angle of the horse’s broken limb, the mindless struggle of a pain-crazed animal.

  At the expression on Ty’s face, some of the unbeartension inside Steve eased. Since the night Fancy died, he’d done little but torture himself with memories. He wasn’t looking for sympathy, but knowing that Fancy Free’s death affected her so strongly, too, made him feel less intensely alone. He took a carefully measured breath and continued, his voice somewhat less strained. “The second I saw him there, I knew what I had to do. I ran and grabbed the rifle from the storeroom’s cabinet and put a bullet through the best horse I’ve ever known. I couldn’t let him suffer another minute longer; who knows how long he’d already been like that? I don’t care what the bloody insurance company says, waiting for a vet would only have prolonged Fancy’s agony. And the end, well, it would have been the same.”

  Abruptly, Steve felt destroyed himself, unable to think of it anymore, the pain of remembering intolerable. He was unaccountably furious, too, for having dropped his guard long enough to allow Ty Stannard to slip past and take a good, long glimpse inside the wasteland of his soul. And what a wasteland it was: horrible, burning, acidic. Most of all, private.

  She didn’t have the right to trespass on his pain, he thought, all his anger now channeled at his new partner. He didn’t need or want her around, prodding festering wounds with her presence, her questions. Best to focus on his righteous resentment, nurse it until it was strong enough to banish any other conflicting emotions—such as that sweet relief from loneliness he’d experienced when he’d seen Ty’s expression—and while he was doing that, he’d work on getting her to abandon this harebrained partnership idea.

  “By the way, Junior, welcome to Southwind. This, of course, is your room.” Although she could probably bunk on the sofa in his office, he wasn’t going to let her take the easy route. No, sir. He watched her eyes dart around the shambles of her new room, their panicked path as eloquent as her shocked silence. It had been a really nice setup before, a sitting room and bedroom joined. Wasn’t too cozy now, though. Definitely a point scored in his favor, Steve calculated with satisfaction. “You’ll find a dustpan hanging in the pantry closet. Might come in handy. Before I forget, you’ve got kitchen duty tonight.” There, that was better. He was clearly on the offensive now. As offensive as could be. Important to keep going. “By the way, that gelding I was riding? He needs to be brushed off later. You do know how to groom a horse, don’t you?” She’d be gone in a few hours, Steve thought. His voice must have travelled light-years to reach her. At last, she gave a distracted nod. “Yes, I know how to groom a horse.”

  “Good. Gordo’s stall door has ‘Vanguard,’ his show name, on it. Watch your back when you’re hooking him up to the cross ties,” he warned with a nasty grin. “He bites. If the phone happens to ring while I’m gone, let the machine pick up. These days, it’s either some journalist wanting to do an article about my fall from glory or someone I owe money to.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.” To get down on his knees and beg Bubba, his former stable manager, to quit the job he’d found at a rival stable and come back to work at Southwind.

  But there was no need to share that with his new partner.

  An unanticipated expense but well worth every penny. Ty capped the pen she’d used to write out two hefty checks and waved a weary good-bye to the group of ladies stacking mops, buckets, dusters into the back of a rusted-out navy-blue station wagon. Last to go in an enormous vacuum cleaner, almost as big as the station wagon’s trunk. That was some machine, a vacuum cleaner to end all vacuum cleaners. A large cylindrical shape, faintly reminiscent of R2D2 in Star Wars, it required four of the ladies to hoist it off the ground. Effective barely described it. Remembering the racket the thing had made, Ty thought it more than capable of sucking up all the sand in the Sahara.

  The other check she’d written was already in the beefy hands of a man who’d introduced himself as Red Mundy. Red was the owner of a debris-hauling company Ty had found in the yellow pages, and he had agreed to come directly out to Southwind for an “ emergency” removal. He, his son, Stan, and another man named Mack Wyzowski had worked for a solid hour, moving and carrying. Combined, the three men probably weighed close to six hundred pounds, and each time they crossed a threshold, they had to be careful to duck. They’d done a lot of ducking, for Ty had asked them to remove every single item from Jason Belmar’s room— even the bed. Amattress company was scheduled to deliver a new one by nine that evening. Nothing would remain to remind Steve, or her, of that gruesome night his horse had died. Having just surveyed the now empty, spotless room, Ty considered the healthy tip she’d added to both checks wholly justified.

  The rest of the house was imma
culate, too, with the glaring exception of Steve’s room, its door shut firmly. It hadn’t taken Steve more than a few minutes to figure out what Ty was up to, watching her whip through the yellow pages, then begin telephoning and making arrangements. He’d informed her in no uncertain terms that his bedroom was off limits. “No one sets foot in my room without my permission,”

  he’d snarled, before driving off in a battered pickup to God knows where or for how long. Steve’s adamant refusal to have anyone enter his room had come as a surprise, for she assumed it was probably much like the rest of the house: a pigsty. Well, if he preferred to live in squalor, that was his business. She should be grateful he hadn’t objected to the cleaning crew and Red Mundy’s debris haulers. Part of her had been prepared for battle, half convinced he’d insist that Ty deal with the mess herself, in the hopes that would be enough to make her run back to New York. Fortunately, he hadn’t, for while she was willing to work, there was no way she was going to pretend she was Hercules. Setting this house to right was a challenge as daunting as cleaning out the Augean stables. Even with the additional hired help, Ty spent hours, first supervising Red and his brawny team and then working alongside the cleaning crew, sorting junk into discard piles, cleaning out the refrigerator, searching for clean linens (by some miracle, there were some), making a list of everything she needed to buy at the store. By the time the hired help had left, Ty felt as if three weeks’ worth of housework had been crammed into four hours. But at least the house was livable now. Walking wearily over to the barn, she told herself that at least this job would be enjoyable. She’d missed being around horses. Not that she’d ever admitted it. After her father had sold Charisma, Ty had

  withdrawn completely from riding. Some perverse part of her decided that if she couldn’t have the horse she’d loved so, she’d give up the sport entirely. A kind of twisted selfpunishment that continued for years as Ty denied herself, ruthlessly suppressing the remembered pleasure, the deeply profound happiness she’d always felt around these majestic animals. Not even Lizzie’s persistent efforts to get her back in the saddle had succeeded. Now that Ty was here at Southwind, however, she realized that opportunity was staring her in the face.

  Vanguard would be her first reintroduction. Then Ty remembered Steve’s parting caution about the horse’s tendency to chomp. Oh, joy.

  14

  T he heavy clouds had darkened considerably when Ty returned from the market she’d passed earlier that morning on her way to Steve’s farm; night was falling. The hatchback of her VW bug and the backseat were crammed with grocery bags. Ty felt almost faint with hunger. Thinking back, she realized that the last meal she’d eaten was breakfast, back in the city. Upon arriving at Southwind, she’d been working virtually nonstop. Besides, anything she might have found in Steve’s kitchen bore too close a resemblance to a high-school science experiment to be considered edible. Arms full of brown paper bags, she fumbled with the front door latch, shoving the door open with her shoulder, then kicking it shut so that it closed behind her with a solid thud. A glance into the living room offered a view of Steve stretched out comfortably on the sofa, a long-necked bottle of beer resting on his stomach, his head turned in the direction of the TV, seemingly absorbed in the evening news. He spared her a brief glance before returning his attention to the news program. Ty glared at him, her inspection taking in the dampness of his dark blond hair, the toes of his red socks, propped on the arm of the sofa’s faded but impeccably vacuumed upholstery.

  At the sight of him lounging there, the grocery bags suddenly gained ten pounds. Her arms ached, and she felt utterly grimy. She hadn’t even had the chance to shower off the dried mud that had been caked on Steve’s horse which, as she’d brushed and groomed the bay gelding until he shone once more, had resettled over her in a fine, even coat. Ty remembered the involuntary gasp of horror that had escaped her when she’d led Vanguard out of his stall and gotten her first good look at him. Not even women paying hundreds of dollars at luxury spas were ever caked with that much mud!

  Her butt was sore, too, from where Vanguard had tried some rudimentary, unanesthetized plastic surgery.

  Feeling thoroughly ill used, hungry, and sore, Ty raised her voice loud enough to be heard over the tinny acoustics of the TV and enunciated through gritted teeth, “There are plenty more bags out there. I could use some help.” She glared at Steve’s red socks, waiting. When only silence greeted her comment, she let out an aggravated “Humph!” and stomped into the kitchen, trying to recall why she was coexisting with a neanderthal.

  She was only slightly mollified when she returned and found Steve standing by the front door, bent over, in the midst of shoving his feet into a pair of dusty workboots. Ty’s steps slowed to a snail’s pace then ground to a halt as she treated herself to the doubly entrancing sight of jeans stretched over tight male buttocks and long, straining thigh muscle.

  How was it possible for a man to look this good standing hunched over, balanced on one leg, shoving his feet into a pair of shitkickers? Ty wondered dazedly, feeling a warm, tingling sensation unfurl inside her. When he straightened, Ty was still glued to the spot like a sex-starved ninny, salivating over his body. Horrified that he might catch her standing there with a besotted expression on her face, Ty quickly brushed past him. Out of self-preservation, she adopted the attitude of her classmates at the Swiss boarding school she’d gone to: nose stuck high in the air as if passing something particularly foul. The pose lasted only as long as it took to escape into the deepening dusk. Was he doing it on purpose? She’d bet money on it. Tit for tat, she supposed he’d call it. It was unsettling— she’d rather die than admit exciting, too—feeling the weight of his eyes on her as they walked toward the car, her leading the way. Was he looking at her the way she’d been ogling him just seconds before? The idea made her acutely self-conscious, tempting her to stiffen up and check the sway of her hips as she walked toward the car. Cool reason, however, prevailed, and she realized there was no need. It was sheer vanity to suppose he’d care what she did, how she walked. Perhaps if she’d been anyone else than Ty Stannard, he might be interested in her as a woman. As it was, he’d made it more than obvious that he wanted her around Southwind about as much as she wanted a case of head lice.

  For a stuck-up, billionaire heiress, she definitely had a great ass. He’d flicked on the outdoor floodlights. There was just enough light to enjoy the show. She’d ditched the coat she had on earlier, now all she was wearing was a clingy black turtleneck tucked into blue jeans. Both fit her like a glove, emphasizing her narrow waist and long legs. As she walked, her buttocks had just the right amount of lift and fall to keep his eyes riveted. It was easy to imagine wrapping his hands around each cheek, feeling their firm weight against his palms, and drawing her close, real close.

  He hoped her car wasn’t parked too near, a mile or so down the road would suit him fine. When Steve caught sight of it, however, all thoughts of his partner’s tempting butt vanished. Laughter burst forth.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! News flash for you, Junior: Bugs aren’t driven by people in your income bracket.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “It’s a great car. Plus, it gets twenty-four miles to the gallon.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. All those cute little Toyota Corollas and Honda Civics you see on the roads, they’re actually being driven by ultra-chic millionaires tickled pink by the gas mileage they get.”

  “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped defensively. “But that doesn’t mean . . .”

  “Come on, you can tell me, we’re partners, right?” Between sniggers, his voice oozed sympathy. “Pop withheld your allowance this month so you couldn’t buy a new Porsche, didn’t he? No wonder you’re pissed at him!”

  When he laughed again, her fingers itched, wanting nothing more than to wrap themselves around his throat. “I suppose it’s never occurred to you that when you’re the only one laughing, it’s a good bet the joke’s utterly p
athetic.” The sarcasm in her tone hiding how much his low opinion stung. Sure, she owned beautiful and expensive things, but she’d never been foolish enough to suppose those things mattered, that they defined her worth as a person. And she could easily do without them. After all, they weren’t the key to happiness. If Ty had been shallow enough to believe that, she’d never have been able to stand up to her father and walk away from him and her inheritance without a backward glance. But Steve Sheppard didn’t know that, and worse, he certainly didn’t see that. When he looked at her, all he saw was dollar signs. It was no doubt easier to assume that Ty was nauseatingly materialistic, something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Well, if he wanted an image that reflected his narrow preconceptions, she could give him one in spades, damn him.

  “I didn’t realize cars interested you. A shame, I did have a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Of course, it was just for the city.” Her lofty tone implied that no one in his right mind would be caught dead in anything else. “Lovely car, as was my Lotus.”

  “So? You trying to blend in with the natives here? Should have bought a truck, Junior, an American truck, preferably with a hundred thousand miles on its odometer.”

  “I have no interest in pretending to be something I’m not,” Ty retorted scathingly. “No, I sold both those cars last week.”

  “Let me guess.” His teeth flashed in the darkness. “The garage payments were getting too steep.”

  The words were there, on the tip of her tongue, ready to reply that she didn’t really need a chauffeur-driven Rolls out here—even though this was the Hamptons— and that the Lotus was only fun when you could put the pedal to the metal and make it fly, but she held them back, abandoning the disgustingly wealthy routine. She’d forgotten how quickly it grew tiresome. “ Actually,” she replied coolly, “I thought we might need the money.”