Chance Meeting

by Laura Moore

  “What do you say, Ty? Yes?” Steve’s voice husky and low.

  Ty stilled as his question echoed inside her. What could she say but yes?

  She was in love with him. A basic, fundamental, and terrifying truth. A fact she’d been refusing to acknowledge, perhaps not even recognizing it. Since, in all probability, she had loved Steve from the moment she laid eyes on him.

  It was useless to pretend love had blossomed only yesterday, or the day before, or even at the meeting with the lawyers. Some bizarre, incomprehensible twist of fate decreed that at the impossibly tender age of fourteen, Ty Stannard would have a golden kernel planted deep in her heart by none other than Steve Sheppard. Unacknowledged, untended, her love for Steve had been growing inside her these past ten years, its roots now deep and strong.

  Helplessly, Ty looked across the table. Steve was waiting, balancing the wooden ladderback chair on two legs. His tanned fingers wrapped around an apple he was absently polishing against his sweater, the sweater’s hue making Steve’s eyes as brilliant and compelling as a sun-kissed ocean. He smiled. And her heart did a little flip. How could a moment be so casual on one level and yet so perilous?

  She opened her mouth to speak. But then the fearsome wonder of this discovery, the complexity of emotions it engendered, seemed so overwhelming that when her mouth parted, with the word yes right there on the tip of her tongue, only needing her voice give it life, Ty hesitated. In that split second, Ty saw the danger that lay before her: her yearning heart might reveal far too much in that simple yes. And all that Steve would learn from it. And reject.

  That moment’s hesitation cost her.

  In the game of “If only . . . ,” Ty supposed that if only she’d had the courage to say yes directly, braving whatever ever sudden insight flashed in those perceptive blue eyes, if only she’d said yes, then she and Steve would have already been out the door, heading toward the barn, neatly skirting the disastrous quicksand of discovery Ty had feared.

  But no. Into the kitchen walked Sam Brody, a vibrantly happy Emma perched high on his broad shoulders. Avolubly happy Emma, too. The toddler launched into giggles of pure ecstasy when Sam was forced to duck in order to avoid cracking Emma’s curly head against the lintel. At the sound, three pairs of eyes—two shocked, one resigned—swiveled and locked on Ty’s exbodyguard and her goddaughter. For several seconds, which to Ty stretched into hours, one could have heard a pin drop. Then, as had happened ten years ago on a swelteringly hot summer day, all hell broke loose. A quieter hell yet unmistakable nonetheless.

  A gifted director would have made good use of it, the sheer awfulness of the situation, zooming in on Steve and Lizzie’s expressions, capturing the emotions that raced over them, delighting the audience. Lizzie standing, stunned and dismayed to find her baby girl getting a taste of the high life on the shoulders of a dangerous-looking, roughhewn man.

  Sam staring back at her, his lips a straight line. Aman who’d always excelled at masking his own emotions, whose golden eyes missed very little. Not Lizzie’s shock, as it segued into fear, anger, then something else, as Lizzie finally recognized exactly who it was supporting her child. Sam Brody, looking nothing like Lizzie’s memories of him. So solid, yet leaner too, his powerful muscles well defined beneath the light knit shirt he wore, a mountain on which her daughter Emma presided as queen.

  How in God’s name could he be so young? was the errant and wholly unwelcome thought that crossed Lizzie’s mind. She scowled in irritation. And, for perhaps the first time in her life, found that the use of her tongue had deserted her. Her feet, too, oddly frozen.

  The same, however, could not be said for Steve.

  Click, click, click. The tumblers slid into place, the lock on that ten-year-old memory finally releasing. Now that last, tantalizing piece of the puzzle stared back at him, the picture complete. Oh, yes, Steve was remembering everything. And feeling a hundred times a fool for not having recognized Ty Stannard before. A fool these three people just loved to ridicule. For the second time in the space of twenty minutes, Steve gripped Ty’s elbow. Now, however, it was more like a steel manacle closing around a prisoner.

  “Excuse us, won’t you?” Steve snarled, raking both Sam and Lizzie with a contemptuous glance before dragging an unwilling Ty out the front door.

  She tried digging the heels of her paddock boots into the ground, but Steve was walking too fast for her to find purchase. “Where are we going?” she demanded, jerking her arm in the slim hope that it might free her from his hold.

  He ignored her efforts as he would a dust mote. “Somewhere far enough away so that I can throttle you in peace.” He didn’t want those “good friends” of hers running to her rescue. Steve’s stride ate up the ground, taking them past the barn, past the pasture where Fancy Free’s grave was located, to the far outdoor ring. He came to an abrupt halt near a jump, a rustic wooden gate, painted white with two tall yew bushes planted on either side. “Okay, this is good enough,” he said, jerking her around to face him. They stared at each other, eyes clashing. Steve took a step back, and Ty’s chin lifted in defiance as his gaze raked up and down her body.

  He let out a mirthless laugh. “All grown up now, are we?” His Kentucky drawl cut like a whip. “You must’ve been having yourself a real good laugh, what with my being too dumb to recognize you.” With lips curled in an insolent smile, his eyes took in her breasts, the gentle curve of her hips, and he laughed again. The sound had Ty flinching. “ ’Course, you have changed a great deal. My compliments, Junior.”

  He sketched a mocking salute.

  The temper Ty had been valiantly holding in check these past days erupted. She stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides. “Listen, you overgrown creep. So you didn’t remember me. So what? Was I supposed to go running up and ask for your autograph again? Bat my eyelashes and remind you of how we met long ago?” Her voice took on a simpering note. “Oh, Mr. Sheppard, I’ve always been such a fan of yours. Do you remember Lake Placid, 1989, when I . . .”

  “Cut the bullshit, Junior. You know exactly what I’m really talking about. I’d begun to think you were different. But no. When you get right down to it, you’re the same as those other spoiled, wealthy women after all. You get off playing games with people.”

  “That’s not true! I’ve done everything I can to help you out of a stinking mess!”

  “Oh, you’ve done more than that. Don’t tell me you need your memory refreshed? No worry, mine’s back in working order. Let’s see. This makes the second time that you’ve intentionally misled me. I don’t work real well with partners who are liars. I should know, having had one before.”

  “Oh, that’s rich, Steve, coming from you. Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t like in a partner. I don’t like partners who are overbearing, stubborn, manipulative clods. Since coming to Southwind, you’ve been doing your utmost to see how far you could push me. Hoping I’d break and give up. I’ve been working my butt off to help you save this farm.”

  “Lying your butt off, you mean.”

  God, how she wanted to sock him. “Bull. You know damn well you’d never have agreed to make a deal with me if you hadn’t believed I was my father. Want to know why, Sheppard? I’ll tell you. Because you’re prejudiced. Not every rich woman is like Allegra Palmer and her friends. And so what if I didn’t tell you that I was some girl you met ten years ago? Big deal. You call that dishonesty? I call it survival.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “You want honesty, Steve? Why don’t you show some for a change? Answer me this: How would you have treated me if you’d known I’d offered to save your sorry self because one day, long ago, when I was a gawky, infatuated fourteen-year-old, you were kind to me for about fifteen minutes. The first person who’d ever been kind without expecting something in return.” Her gray eyes sliced through him.

  “Go ahead, Steve, tell me honestly . . .”

  His eyes narrowed.

  A cynical smile lift
ed her lips. “As I thought. Don’t bother, Steve, I know exactly what you’d have done. You’d have milked a teenage crush for all it was worth. Because basically, the man you were ten years ago has vanished,” Ty accused, knowing she’d struck her mark at his slight recoil. “You’d have turned on that devastating Southern charm, a sure bet it would make me so moonstruck I’d gladly sign over my half of the partnership.” The memory of his heated kisses invaded, rekindling her outrage. “You were starting down that path, anyway—” Ty broke off abruptly, biting her lip, wishing it were her tongue. Perhaps he wouldn’t catch what she’d been referring to.

  Steve moved with startling speed. One hand again imprisoning Ty’s wrist, the other cupping her chin. Forcing her to look at him. Self-righteous anger coursed through his veins, camouflaging another emotion, one he didn’t want to acknowledge right then. But then he looked at her, really looked at her, at the haunted expression in those lovely gray eyes. And was lost. The hand gripping her wrist gentled. His other opened, the workroughened pads of his fingers tracing the ridge of her jaw, down the slender column of her neck.

  She trembled. In agonizingly slow motion, Steve’s fingers slipped around the delicate silver chain encircling Ty’s neck and lifted it, drawing the necklace between them. His breath suspended, the metal dragged gently between his fingers, inch by inch. And then, there it was, cradled in his broad palm. Steve’s thumb brushed the raised image of the galloping horse. The medallion was still warm from where it had rested in the fragrant valley between Ty’s breasts. It was difficult to reconcile the memory of that plain, awkward girl with the lovely, sophisticated woman standing before him now.

  “How about this for honesty, Ty?” he said quietly. “I didn’t have to remember who you were to know that I wanted you. I wanted you from the moment I saw you at the lawyers’ meeting. And every aching hour since then.” The lightest of tugs had her body swaying closer, temptingly closer. His lips descended, hovering, his breath fanning lips that trembled uncontrollably. “I didn’t have to recognize that adorably shy teenager,” he continued huskily, “to know I was falling hard for the maddeningly beautiful and intelligent woman she’s become.”

  Desperate, feverishly hungry lips met, crushing, devouring. Hands clutched, molding, bruising in their need to feel, to have. On and on, it seemed as if they might never stop. And when Steve finally, reluctantly drew his lips away from hers, they remained standing, foreheads touching, lungs heaving from lack of air. Giddy from it, from happiness.

  The smile Steve gave Ty erased years from his face as he pressed curved lips against her smooth brow. His hands found hers, lacing their fingers together, bringing their entwined hands to his lips. “You’re so lovely,” the words interspersed between teasing nibbles, her knuckles apparently delectable.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Ty teased, smiling with joy. As though unable to resist the temptation of her smile, Steve plundered them anew, awe and fierce arousal flooding him when her lips parted eagerly beneath him, welcoming him.

  “Where are we going?” Ty asked breathlessly, when at last Steve lifted his head. He was tugging her hand, pulling her along, that happy, boyish grin lighting his face.

  “We’re going for that ride. Come on, I want to show you one of my favorite spots.”

  23

  L izzie was still scowling.

  “Mommy, Mommy, look at me!” Emma chirped, her palms plastered against Sam’s jaw, her legs scissoring his neck. “I’m on Sam!”

  “So I noticed, sweetie,” Lizzie replied dryly, her face clearing as she gazed up at her daughter. “Maybe you want to get down now?”

  “No, no! Sam’s my new pony, Mommy.” The words rushed together as one. “Look how I’m riding!”

  Emma cried, bouncing up and down to prove it.

  The scowl was back in place as Lizzie glared at Sam.

  “Hello, Lizzie, long time no see.”

  “Hello, Sam.” She didn’t bother to hide the irritation lacing her voice. A thick brown eyebrow cocked questioningly. “What’s with the hostility, Lizzie? Thought you’d be happier to see an old friend.”

  That was precisely the problem—in a nutshell. Sam Brody was at least fifteen years younger than Lizzie’s memory would have led her to expect. How could he stand there, so virile, so confident . . . so young?

  Ignoring his question, Lizzie said, “I’d appreciate it if you released my daughter.”

  “Emma seems pretty happy where she is. You’ve got a great kid, Lizzie.”

  “I know. Her only fault is that she’s too trusting.”

  “Too trusting? Oh, I get it. She hasn’t recognized me as the big, bad wolf I really am.”

  “That’s right. Come on down now, Emma.”

  Emma started to protest, but Sam smoothly cut in. “Hey, Emma, how many somersaults will it take before you’re on the ground again?” A gleeful “one” had her twirling above Sam’s head, bright red Keds skimming his golden brown hair; “two” was on level with his forehead; and so it went, until they reached

  “five,” and Emma was once more standing on her own two feet. Emma beamed; her mother glared. Sam gave them both an amused smile and went to pour himself a cup of coffee.

  “I think you’ve had enough excitement for one morning, young lady,” Lizzie informed her daughter.

  “Quiet time beckons.”

  “Ty’s room is to your right, first door on the left.”

  “Thanks. Come on, Emma, say bye-bye to Sam.”

  “Emma can say good-bye later. I’m not planning on heading back to the city until after I talk more with Ty. From the look in his eye, I’d say Steve Sheppard has a full hour’s worth of yelling to get out of his system.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Lizzie replied, only too happy to contradict Sam. “This whole identity issue is just a minor setback. You probably didn’t catch the way he looks at her. Sheppard’s more than half in love with Ty,” Lizzie finished confidently. She affected a big yawn. “Well, I’m feeling rather tired myself. More than likely, I’ll fall asleep next to Emma.”

  Sam shook his head gravely. “Shame on you, Lizzie. You never used to run chicken. What’s the matter?

  Afraid I’ll bite?”

  “Of course not,” Lizzie snarled, flashing her own white teeth. Unfortunately, however, no comeback sprang to mind sufficiently cutting to put Sam Brody in his place. She’d walk on rusty nails rather than admit that seeing him again after all these years was even remotely disturbing, unnerving. It was nothing more than surprise that had her heart beating so. Surprise that Sam looked so very different. Her memory must have short-circuited, leaving her disoriented, rattled. Which in turn explained her body’s bizarre reaction. No way was this anything close to attraction. Especially as Lizzie hadn’t experienced even a smidgen of arousal for a man in more than two years. It was merely an elevated state of agitation—brought on by believing Emma asleep upstairs, only to find her riding Sam’s really strong shoulders—Sam, who had no business being here. That would leave any woman, any mother rattled. Yes, that was it.

  Satisfied with her explanation, Lizzie lifted Emma into her arms and swept out of the room without a backward glance, hoping Sam Brody would get the message loud and clear. She couldn’t care less about his comings or goings.

  It was only when she got to the stairs that her steps slowed, her shoulders slumped. But what if lust had indeed had the perversity to strike her? Unexpected, unwanted. Hitting her while she’d stood gaping at Sam, the way lightning might split a lonely tree, setting it ablaze.

  It would be horrendously unfair. She now considered herself thoroughly immune to men. Meaningless flirtations were one thing, perfectly acceptable, something society expected. But Lizzie never went beyond flirting anymore. The men who foolhardily tried to pursue her found themselves running up against a formidable wall, topped with broken glass and barbed wire.

  Not that Sam Brody would be remotely interested enough to discover that wall for himself, let alone scale i
t. But if he were so inclined, then he’d suffer the same fate as the others. Reaching the top step, Lizzie paused for a moment on the landing and glanced down, as if able to see right into the kitchen below. She vowed that Sam Brody would never suspect he had the power to make her burn. Lizzie Osborne had scampered through her youth, a fuzzy marmalade kitten, insatiably curious, naively reckless, utterly irresistible. As Sam sat thinking of the woman upstairs, he realized that the little kitten had grown claws. He wondered how much of that adorable fuzzball still existed. The adult Lizzie reminded Sam far more of a feral cat, ready and willing to maul, especially if someone she loved was threatened. But then, just as Sam had been adjusting to this new, updated version of Lizzie, she’d changed before his eyes.

  A hell of a transformation, to go from lynx to porcupine in the blink of an eye. Good thing she’d been nervous, otherwise that random barrage of quills she’d shot might have found their mark. For some reason, Sam clearly threatened her. He’d spent too many years as a cop and then as a bodyguard not to be able to recognize fear when he saw it.

  Why should she fear him? Certainly it wasn’t because of his former profession. When he’d been working as Ty’s bodyguard, Lizzie had never been fazed by his presence or unnerved that his duties included the potential for violence. In any case, his former profession was moot. Sam’s life was different now, no longer that of a man ready for violence and death up close.

  So, if Lizzie didn’t fear Sam because he’d been a New York City cop, that meant he must threaten her as a man. Sam’s head dropped as he let out a string of vicious curses, the words extra shocking in the quiet, light-filled kitchen. At that moment, Sam would have given anything to find Lizzie’s ex and treat him to a going over he’d never forget.

  Fucking bastard to have hurt Lizzie, to have dimmed that special spark in her eyes.

  “Whew, that was some seriously bad-ass cursing. You’d make a sailor blush,” Lizzie said, sauntering casually back into the kitchen as if she’d fully intended to return the whole time. Emma had fallen asleep mere seconds after Lizzie had laid her down in the middle of Ty’s double bed. Watching her daughter’s face as she slept, Lizzie had consciously dawdled, hoping if she tarried long enough, fate would remove Sam Brody from the scene. Eventually, however, Lizzie forced herself back downstairs, determined to prove herself aloof to any base sexual attraction. If Sam was surprised at her reappearance, he didn’t show it. “Welcome back, Lizzie. It was getting lonely down here. Sheppard must still be venting steam.”