Chance Meeting

by Laura Moore

  Lips pursed, she rolled her eyes, pretending to be insulted. “Yes, I can handle a stick shift.” If they’d had more time, she’d have saucily suggested taking him back inside where she could prove it. But that would have to wait for New York. “I promise I won’t grind the Jaguar’s gears even once.”

  Steve’s expression was skeptical; she could see it even in the darkness of this cold November morning.

  “Really, Steve,” Ty insisted, “I have driven some nice cars before.”

  And Ty was looking forward to getting behind the wheel of something a little more muscular than the Volkswagen. The Jaguar was beautiful, she could see why Steve fussed over it. Ty hadn’t even been aware that Steve owned any vehicle other than his beat-up truck, until he’d backed the Jag out with a full-throttled roar from the garage the day before. A gold XKE convertible, its license plate sporting

  “FF1.”

  “Palm Beach Grand Prix. The Jaguar Classic,” Steve had offered in explanation as she’d stood, openly admiring its sleek lines. “Fancy Free blew away the competition. We also won a Volvo that year, but I sold it. That was the Year of the Car for us.”

  Understanding that ninety percent of what made the car so important to Steve was its tie to Fancy Free had her rising on her toes and placing a trail of light kisses along his stubbled jaw. “Steve, I promise I’ll take excellent care of it.”

  His hands stroked, drawing her closer. “All right.” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he added,

  “Because, you know, Bubba can drive . . .”

  “No.” Ty shook her head, her ponytail brushing his knuckles. “Bubba should ride in the van. He’s much more use to you there than I could ever be. I’ll drive behind. Carefully.”

  “Okay,” Steve agreed reluctantly. “Now, when we get to the Garden, you peel off and take the car to the hotel’s garage. Bubba, Enrique, and I will deal with Gordo and Mac. You remember which side-street entrance to use at the Garden to reach the stalls? You’ve got your visitor’s pass?”

  Ty nodded. “In my purse.” Steve wasn’t leaving a single detail to chance. She stifled a yawn, feeling her eyes grow heavy. It was barely quarter to four in the morning, and his hands were doing such wonderful things to the back of her neck. If she’d been a cat, she’d have arched her back and purred her contentment.

  But Steve was still talking. “After we’ve rendezvoused at the Garden, you and I can go back to the hotel. Gotta make sure you get some rest. Big night tonight.” Warm breath fanned her face, his mouth descending, his arms enfolding her, and he was tasting her as though they had all the time in the world, as though the van’s engine wasn’t running and the horses weren’t bandaged, waiting to be loaded, equipment checked . . . everything ready for the four A. M. scheduled departure. God, he felt wonderful, she thought, kissing him back. So right, hard and warm against her. His hands had slipped inside her coat, bringing their bodies into achingly perfect alignment. She heard a low growl of hunger when Ty tugged on his lower lip, biting down gently. A week and a half had passed, days filled with work—riding, telephoning, organizing what seemed like a myriad of different details—followed by nights cocooned in the strength of his arms, a place where she was made to feel beautiful, cherished, desired.

  Just a week and a half, and Ty had an even greater respect for Steve’s abilities. He was smart, funny, charming, imaginative, and tireless.

  “Yo, lovebirds, you two mind unlocking lips for a moment so we can load these horses? Or maybe you don’t want to go the Big Bad Apple and win glory and prize money?” Bubba was standing framed in the light of the barn’s open doors. From the sound of his voice, Ty guessed he was smiling. He’d been giving them grief whenever the opportunity presented itself, and, as Steve and Ty seemed unable to refrain from touching each other, Bubba’s opportunities were many and varied. Bubba was making the most of it, enjoying himself immensely.

  “Just coming, Bubba. Want to make sure Ty knows the routine.”

  Ty and Steve ignored his loud snort.

  “Hey, Bubba,” Ty called, hoping to distract him. “Mind if I borrow your cap? I want to drive with the top down.”

  Both Bubba and Steve replied identically: “No way!”

  “I’m not letting you borrow this,” Bubba returned indignantly. “What’s to stop it from flying off in the middle of the LIE?” The custom-designed baseball caps for Southwind were a source of great pride for Bubba. Using the computer he’d purchased for the family, his daughter, Serena, had leaped at Ty’s request to create a logo for the farm. After playing around with different ideas, Serena had come up with four designs she considered worthy. The vote had been unanimously in favor of two silver horses racing against a navy blue field, “Southwind” embroidered in flowing cursive underneath. Ty had placed a rush order with a company that could deliver everything—baseball hats, rain gear, warmup jackets—in a week’s time. Bubba, Enrique, and Carlos had matching jackets and caps. Nothing like team identity, Ty thought with a smile.

  “Jesus, Ty, you don’t really think you’re going to drive my car with the top down on the Long Island Expressway?” Steve, too, sounded genuinely appalled. “Those commuters are half asleep, Ty. They catch a glimpse of you, there’ll be a ten-car pile-up, guaranteed.”

  She punched his shoulder lightly. “Cut it out. It’ll be lovely, all that wind blowing, the sun rising behind me.”

  “Yeah, lovely. Another time, Ty. We can ride with the top down all the way to Kentucky if you want. Trust me on this, I know what I’m talking about, and I don’t want to be worried about what accidents you and that flashy car of mine are causing.”

  “Please, Steve.” Ty smiled up at him and let her body melt against his.

  “Aw, Christ,” His hands gripped her, pressing urgently. “You’re playing dirty, kid.”

  What a wonderful thing to be able to do, to tease and tempt.

  How thrilling to discover she could distract him with just a smile, a whispered plea. And to know it was okay—that he could do the same to her. The knowledge of shared power, the wondrous intimacy of it, filled her with dizzy euphoria.

  He cupped her bottom, his erection evident in spite of the layers of clothing separating them. “I should have waked you up even earlier. Maybe we should go upstairs, make sure you’ve brought everything you need.”

  Asoft moan tumbled from her lips. It was no use pretending she wasn’t aroused; he knew her too well. Knew that all he’d have to do was take her by the hand, lead her through the cold, predawn darkness and up to his room, and she’d be his.

  “What time is it, anyway?” Steve asked, his mouth open against her throat.

  “Quarter of four,” she breathed, wishing it were hours earlier.

  “Shit! We’ve got to get on the road.” He kissed her hard. “To be continued at the hotel, babe. Promise me you’ll drive carefully. And no eye contact with sexdeprived executives.”

  Macintosh and Vanguard, both veterans of the show circuit, boarded the van with total aplomb, utterly relaxed, their ears pricked forward. Their hooves thudded against the thick black rubber-padded ramp, as Steve and Bubba led them up into the van’s interior, then backed them into the wooden partitions. They stood calmly, their sleek bodies covered in plaid Baker blankets, legs wrapped with thick bandages. Steve and Bubba snapped ties to either side of their halters, the leather obscured by the fuzzy fleece to keep the horses’ fine coats from rubbing. They were ready for the trip to begin. The mini convoy rolled out the driveway and through the still-sleeping town of Bridgehampton a hair past four A.M. Steve was determined to avoid New York congestion, unwilling to have the horses endure the stop-and-go of snarled streets and traffic lights. As one might assume, trailer trucks were a disaster when navigating through the canyonlike streets of New York City. Horse vans were no different. By timing their arrival in the city for six-thirty at the latest, Steve was hoping to beat the added insanity of the peak rush hour.

  Ty had diligently tailed Southwind’s dark
blue horse van from the minute they pulled out onto Horsemarket Lane. The drive had been uneventful, no lust-struck executives careening into the median. When they reached Times Square, however, Ty was suddenly immensely grateful that they were only bringing two horses to the National. The large, boxy shape of the four-horse van was quite big enough (they were using extra space provided by the four-horse van to store hay and feed, as well as all the equipment for the horses). Ty would have had palpitations following Steve’s larger, eight-horse van, watching him negotiate turns, terrified that disaster might strike, in the form of a speeding taxi skidding out of control, broadsiding the van, or a car cutting in front of Steve and forcing him to slam on the brakes. Craning her neck to see around the horse van so she could check the passing street numbers, Ty breathed a sigh of relief when Madison Square Garden finally appeared on her right. Out the driver’s-side window, Steve gave a jaunty wave of reassurance, his signal that she could head back uptown.

  Ty checked her watch. Six forty-five. Excellent time. Now to drop the car off at the Plaza, where Ty had reserved a suite. Of course, the hotel wouldn’t have their suite ready this early in the morning, but that was okay. Ty would be able to leave the luggage and ask the concierge to have their bags unpacked, so Ty’s evening gown and Steve’s dinner jacket wouldn’t be hopelessly wrinkled. The patron and exhibitor party for the National, a function Steve rarely bothered to attend, was this evening. But this year was exceptional; Ty and Steve’s presence essential. It would be their first public event as partners, a perfect opportunity to woo prospective owners and clients, and their best hope to turn the tide of ugly gossip and rumors surrounding Steve and Southwind. In addition, Vicky Grodecki would be there. Vicky had driven out to Southwind the previous week to conduct her interview. When they’d finished, Vicky had mentioned that the Times would be doing a big feature on the National Horse Show—its history, and its role in the coming millennium as the city’s premier horse show. Having dropped that useful tidbit, Vicky had casually suggested that they might consider attending the patron and exhibitor party, especially since Vicky’s interview with Steve and Ty would already be out, guaranteeing that their names would be on the lips of every horse person in the region. Vicky would be able to do a follow-up on Steve and Ty, have the photographer snap a few pictures of them. It could only help Southwind.

  Steve had won Vicky over completely, Ty thought with a smile. He’d been an interviewer’s dream: patient, articulate, funny, and heartbreakingly candid. The Steve Sheppard of that afternoon made excellent copy, and the Times reporter couldn’t help but appreciate it. When Vicky arrived, Steve and Ty walked her around Southwind, the photographer accompanying them.

  Later, back in the farmhouse, Steve had answered Vicky’s questions about Fancy Free’s death, about ending his partnership with Jason Belmar, and beginning a new one with Ty Stannard. “We’re starting from fresh, Vicky,” Steve had explained. “Ty and I will be making a buying trip next month, looking for some young prospects. We’ve already had a few people express interest in having us buy horses for them. I’m really excited about that. Every day that I walk into the barn, I miss Fancy. He was one of the best. But it’s time to move on and open ourselves to new possibilities. I’ve always loved working with young horses, so this is a great chance to start with a fresh crop of youngsters. Vanguard and Macintosh, two of my more experienced horses, are coming along well. My mare, Cantata, is showing real potential. All of us are eager to start the winter season.”

  “Ty mentioned that you’ll be offering a clinic here at Southwind. When will that be?” Vicky Grodecki asked, pen poised to catch Steve’s answer.

  “That’s right, we’ve scheduled it for mid-December, before the Florida season begins. The clinic is intended for riders interested in showing in amateur owner and jumper classes. I’ll be concentrating a lot on flat work and gymnastic exercises. It should be fun. The facilities here at Southwind are perfect for this sort of small, intensive clinic. We’ll be videotaping each session so the riders can review my comments, not be forced to remember everything I’ve said—it’s hard to take notes when you’re on horseback,”

  Steve finished, smiling, with a pointed glance at Vicky’s notebook filled with hurried scrawl.

  “And how can people register for your clinic?”

  “We’ve posted a Web site that gives all the relevant information. The clinic will be limited to fifteen, so I can really focus on the individual horse and rider.”

  “And is it true Southwind will be open to owners who want to show their own mounts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Stannard? How do you see your role at Southwind?” Vicky asked, changing tack abruptly. “While you’ve been involved in equine charities, this partnership with Steve represents a new venue for you, doesn’t it? Quite a departure from real estate development.”

  Before Ty could formulate a response, Steve interjected smoothly, “Not really, Vicky. While the heart and soul of Southwind may be centered around horses and driving cross country from show to show in a horse van, it’s a business nonetheless.” Flashing a smile and private wink at Ty, he added, “Since Ty and I go way back, I was absolutely delighted when she approached me with the idea of forming a partnership.”

  “Yes,” Ty agreed calmly enough, though her cheeks burned at Steve’s casual stretching of the truth.

  “You see, my business experience frees Steve to concentrate on what he does best. In addition, we’ve got a terrific stable manager and staff working with us.”

  “So you see yourself as the financial and business end of this venture?”

  “Certainly. Everyone has their area of expertise here.”

  “And Ty, after a hiatus of several years, has also begun riding again,” Steve added. “I’m hoping that by next spring, she’ll be leading my amateur riders. As a matter of fact, Ty is exactly the kind of amateur rider we hope to attract to Southwind. Riders who are serious about learning and improving and who enjoy the added challenge of showing, too.”

  Ty had tried not to look too startled by this surprising bit of information Steve tossed out so casually. She compete again? But when Vicky Grodecki apparently took the idea at face value, Ty didn’t attempt to disabuse her.

  It was only later, after Vicky had exhausted all her topics for Steve’s interview and left with photographer in tow, that Ty confronted Steve, asking him what in the world he’d been thinking of when he’d made that particular comment.

  They were riding in the large field closest to the ocean. Using its ample size to best advantage, Steve had installed some of the bigger, more technically demanding jumps that riders encountered in Grand Prix courses. Southwind’s course boasted such elements as a water jump, a bank jump, a wall, and a wide brush jump. Interspersed among these obstacles, all essentially immovable, were other fences, gaudy sunrise panels, triple bars, wide and high. Jumps that often caused horses to hesitate. Steve had been working with Cantata over a number of the fences while Ty exercised Macintosh on the flat. Unlike Mac and Gordo, the mare wouldn’t be competing until they went south to Florida for the winter season. Keeping her comfortable with these trickier obstacles was essential for the young horse. As Steve and Ty cooled down Cantata and Macintosh, letting the steaming horses meander in a relaxed, loose walk, Ty found herself thinking back to Steve’s interview with Vicky Grodecki. “I can’t believe Vicky fell for some of the malarkey you fed her!”

  Steve pulled the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling as he spoke. “What do you mean? Nearly everything I said, if not the gospel truth, was close enough.”

  “What about that hogwash about my showing?” Ty persisted, shaking her head, “What made you think of that?”

  “Come on, Ty, you know as well as I that when people read these articles, they want a story that’s going to grab them. We gave them a good one. Ahint of romance, a man redeemed, a woman following her passion. Anyway, who’s to say your competing again is malarkey?” Steve replied. Perhaps she w
as unaware of how totally at ease she was on his horses. “In the space of one short week, you’re already a hundred percent improved. That’s damned impressive, considering how good you were the first day you rode Macintosh and Cantata. You’re a terrific rider. Moreover, you’re a natural-born competitor; not in the sense that you want to go out and beat the pants off the guy next to you, but you’re a perfectionist. And competing in a show would allow all that hard work and training to crystalize into one perfect round. Wouldn’t you like to see how far you can take your riding?”

  It amazed her that he’d figured out that particular facet of her personality in such a short time, understanding that for someone like her, competition wouldn’t be against others but against herself. “I do occasionally wonder if I could be as good a rider as I was. Or if I could possibly even improve beyond that level,” she admitted. “But I hadn’t really considered it seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, watching you, Steve, can be somewhat daunting. And I guess I didn’t think my skills were sharp enough after such a long break.”

  “More than sharp enough. Not that I’m suggesting you turn pro. You’d have to be nuts to want to do that, you can take my word for it. But, to tell you the truth, I had another reason for telling Vicky Grodecki you’re planning to show again. I thought we might send a message loud and clear to Daddy dearest.”

  Ty looked at Steve, startled. “And why would we want to do that? As far as I’m concerned, the less contact, the less I have to think about my father, the better.”

  “Yeah, but while you’re working your butt off to get a business running again, your father’s out there, lurking in the shadows, looking for a way to sabotage your efforts any way he can.”