Chance Meeting

by Laura Moore

  “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

  sum would have to be colossal. Then that would be the end of the game. Let’s see, it was October now; he’d wait until December to make his move. Tyler would be back in her rightful place at Stannard Limited in time for the new millennium.

  Stannard stood up and walked to the glass wall facing east, into the morning sun. In his mind’s eye, he could see all the way to the tip of Long Island. Yes, he reflected, satisfied with the plan, Steve Sheppard was undoubtedly the weak link. It would take a substantial sum, even for a man of his wealth. But it would be money well spent.

  17

  T he remainder of the night passed much as its beginning had, with too little sleep and far too much anguished tossing and pillow punching. With the first feeble chirping of birds, though, Ty opened her gritty eyes, resolved to continue her effort to win Steve Sheppard’s confidence. Unfortunately, this renewed determination did nothing to erase the violet circles shadowing her eyes. Before even throwing off the covers to roll out of bed, the first thing Ty did was grab her cell phone and make two calls. First, she left a message on Lizzie’s machine, asking her to fax or e-mail the client list they’d composed for Cobble Creek and add to it any other wealthy horse people Lizzie knew of. Anyone who competed or who liked to spend money lavishly and conspicuously. Before saying good-bye to Lizzie’s machine, she also remembered to ask for Vicky Grodecki’s number at the Times and her private number, too. Next, she called Sam’s office, knowing they’d connect her to him immediately.

  “Sam, it’s Ty.”

  “At last. I was getting ready to call out the National Guard.”

  “Things have been a little busy around here.”

  “Sheppard running you around in circles? Figures.”

  “I never kidded myself that this was going to be easy, Sam. And,” she added dryly, “I’m sure if I had, you’d have taken the time to open my eyes.”

  She heard Sam Brody’s deep chuckle on the other end.

  “Any word on the big bad wolf?” Ty asked, coming to the point of her call.

  “Yeah, unfortunately. I was planning on calling you today about it. I asked a friend of mine, a private detective I’ve known since way back when I was on the force, to put a tail on Douglas Crane. Guess who he had lunch with the d
ay before yesterday at the Four Seasons, and you get to go to the head of the class.”

  “Sam, I’ve never been anywhere else,” Ty replied gently, smiling as Sam’s laugh came over the line once more.

  “Sorry, Ty, I forgot: a mind like a steel trap. It’s only that soft heart of yours that gets you into trouble. Why don’t you just forget this entire . . .”

  “Sam . . .” Ty interrupted warningly.

  “Right, okay. Save Sheppard’s sorry hide if you want. Where were we?”

  “I believe we were discussing Douglas Crane’s lunch partner.”

  “Well, after your lawyer—you might want to think about hiring a new one, by the way—left the Four Seasons, he went back to his office at Crane, Adderson and White and stayed there until ten P.M.”

  “That’s not terribly exciting, Sam. Sounds just like what any dedicated lawyer would do.”

  “Not terribly exciting at all,” Sam agreed equably. “Not unless you start considering why a senior partner would be staying that late at night, working on something that could probably be handled by a junior associate. Or whether whatever Douglas Crane was up to had anything to do with the two hand deliveries to Stannard Limited from Crane, Adderson and White that afternoon and yesterday morning.”

  Ty was silent for a few seconds, her eyes shut. Damn. “You’ve got a point there.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “Please,” Ty answered with a sigh, dragging her free hand through her sleep-tangled hair. Her head had begun to pound. They beat to the sound of Douglas Crane’s voice asking whether she doubted his trustworthiness. Idiot.

  “Get going. Don’t wait for your father to come out with the heavy guns. With or without Sheppard’s help, you’ve got to start drumming up clients.”

  “Actually, Sam, you’ll be pleased to know I figured that out all by myself at about four o’clock this morning. I just left a message with Lizzie.”

  “The dynamic duo.” Sam groaned, recalling the countless escapades the two girls had dreamt up. “

  Sheppard’s not going to stand a chance if Lizzie gets into the act, too. How’s she doing, by the way?”

  “Great. Happier than I’ve seen her in years. Cobble Creek is getting more and more riders, and Emma is the sweetest kid you’ve ever seen. She looks exactly like Lizzie. Of course, Lizzie’s as beautiful as ever. She was cutting quite a swath through the men at the benefit we attended the other night . . . Sam?” Ty broke off, alarmed. “You okay?”

  “Fine, fine . . . swallowed my coffee the wrong way.” He coughed again, loudly. “Listen, Ty, I’ve got to go, but I’m going to pull up your financial files, check them over. They’ll give us a clearer picture of what your father is planning. I’ll get back to you as fast as I can.”

  “Thanks, Sam, I appreciate it.”

  “Any time, kiddo, any time.”

  Ty replayed the conversation she’d had with Sam as she showered, drowning out her howls of frustration under a torrent of hot water. By the time she was rummaging through her closet for some dark clothing, stuff that could withstand serious abuse, she’d vented most of her anger at her lawyer’s perfidy. After all, it had been a calculated risk using Douglas Crane, and who could argue that another lawyer would have been able to withstand the enormous pressure her father could exert any better than Crane? The important thing was that she and Steve had a contract, signed and witnessed. Now it was a matter of getting Southwind up and running.

  Choosing a pair of dark brown jeans and a dark gray cardigan that she buttoned over a white cotton camisole, Ty brushed her hair back, twisting it into a bun at the nape of her neck, quickly averting her gaze from the reflected image of a grim, too thin, pale face, eyes smudged by dark violet shadows. Nothing like a couple of days in the country to put a rosy glow in your cheeks, she thought sourly. And how was it that she had been cursed with a face that showed every sign of stress and magnified it one hundred percent, she wondered, jabbing hairpins into the back of her skull with masochistic viciousness. She caught Steve at the breakfast table, secretly pleased to find he looked almost as haggard as she. When he didn’t deign to look up from his newspaper, Ty’s temples began to pound anew. This, she truly did not need. Here we go again, round six, she thought cynically.

  “I need to borrow your truck.”

  Her voice was level, but the flash of silver in her eyes warned him she was half expecting him to refuse. And if he did, what would she do?

  The tension in her body was unmistakable. When combined with that dangerous glint in her eye, it was fairly obvious she would just as soon wring his neck, grab the keys from him, and burn rubber down the length of the driveway. Oh, yes, Ty Stannard’s temper was definitely doing a serious burn. He figured she was still pissed from last night. He pretended to read on, ignoring her, knowing he was fanning the flames. Did she even realize how much passion was there, waiting to explode? It turned him on like hell. If Steve thought he could trust his own reactions, he’d have pushed her over the edge, just for the pleasure of watching all those emotions inside her erupt. But he couldn’t. Ty Stannard was driving him as nuts as he was her. But, Steve conceded, probably not in quite the same way. He seriously doubted his partner had spent the night trying, unsuccessfully, to block out erotic images of the two of them naked, entwined, their bodies moving against each other, slick with desire. The muscles of Steve’s jaw clenched as he felt the rest of him harden in response to the image he’d conjured. Shit, not again. He had to get her out of here before she caught on to the fact that he was sitting at the kitchen table with a hard-on bigger than the Montauk lighthouse. So give her the keys to the bloody truck, already! Wordlessly, he let go of the newspaper with one hand to dig out the keys from his front jeans pocket, then hesitated. Christ, his hand wasn’t going to fit. Those intense gray eyes stared, waiting.

  He shifted underneath the table, bringing his hips farther beneath the overhang, out of sight. Awkwardly, he pried the keys loose and tossed them across the table. And found himself asking, “What’s the matter?

  Your bug break down?”

  “I need something with an open cargo space. I’ll be back later,” Ty replied, her voice clipped, wrapping her fingers around the bunch of keys. When Steve Sheppard started telling her his plans, then she’d start sharing her own, reveling in the childishness of her attitude.

  “Better be. I need you to clean out the van and make a checklist of all the supplies we need to replace. New York’s coming up, in case you’d forgotten.”

  In case she’d forgotten! She had to grind her teeth to keep from shouting at him. She’d have to be a total idiot not to be acutely aware of how big a show this was for him. The National Horse Show, held at Madison Square Garden, was the grand finale in the Northeast, before the horse show circuit moved south and the Florida season commenced. For decades, New York area horse people had flocked to the weeklong show, and, instead of bickering, she and Steve should be planning how they were going to attract new clients for Southwind. Ty wasn’t certain Steve was aware of how numerous the rumors circulating were. Or how damaging. He needed more than a good ride to convince owners to entrust him with their expensive horses.

  For reasons she refused to examine too closely, Ty was determined to help Steve. Ty even thought she had some pretty good ideas that she was eager to set in motion, but he was making it so damned difficult. The temptation to give in to her mounting frustration was almost irresistible: to jump up and down, scream the roof off, her mouth frothing rabidly, until at last Steve shut his own clever, snide one and listened to her.

  Doubtless giving him the shock of his life.

  The mental image had her grinning, cheering her up enough that she gave his keys a jaunty toss in the air. Without sparing another word for her irascible partner, she headed outside. Breakfast and restorative coffee could come later, much later. Because this had to be done first. The tantalizing glimmer of an idea had come last night as she lay in bed, Steve still out there in the dark night, a
lone with his harrowing memories. That unsettling knowledge had been the source, for one thing was now perfectly obvious to Ty. Before Steve could get back on track with his business, he had to get over the loss of his beloved horse.

  A daunting task, helping someone mired in grief. But Ty refused to be stymied. That’s why she was going to carry out any project that stood half a chance of succeeding. If this failed, well, then Steve would doubtless continue being his stubborn and bull-headed self. Eventually, given enough time, he’d realize that she, too, was as hardheaded and persistent as they came. The trouble was, since speaking with Sam, Ty didn’t know whether they had that much time to spare.

  When Steve worked with horses, he was able to block out the rest of the world including all the worries and doubts that currently hung over him like an ominous black cloud. Of course, the irony was that these days, he had only three horses to work with. The amount of time he was able to banish his troubles was far too brief. There was Vanguard, known around the barn as Gordo, who was his top horse right now. Keeping Gordo company in the spacious, modern, and depressingly empty barn were Macintosh, a big happy tank of a horse whose hooves were practically the size of dinner plates, and a young mare called Cantata, bright and quick but green as grass.

  Steve’s mare, Cantata, was still in Preliminary Jumper classes, learning the ropes. So far, she’d handled herself well. She was a nice mover and possessed a good and willing heart but was nowhere near ready to face the tougher courses and higher fences of the Open Jumper division. Steve wasn’t even bothering to bring her to the Garden for the National Horse Show; she wasn’t up to that level of competition, and he wasn’t going to risk frying his mare’s brains because he didn’t have a full stable. So that left Gordo and Macintosh, both horses who’d give it their all, but Steve wasn’t feeling too optimistic about their chances. Winning the Grand Prix, the Puissance class, or the Speed class with either one of them would be about as easy as walking on water. Nevertheless, he was going to do his damnedest. With Fancy Free’s death, Steve had not only lost a horse he loved, he’d lost the finest equine partner he’d ever had. Finding a replacement for Fancy any time soon, or having someone step forward and offer him a mount of Fancy’s caliber, were both fantastic dreams that couldn’t be expected to materialize.