by Laura Moore
“He’ll have found a pretty darn effective way if he manages to block my trust fund,” Ty remarked flatly. Steve grunted in disgust. “The overseer said it would take months to settle if it went to court, right?
Something tells me, though, that your father would much prefer to go in for the quick kill.”
“How charmingly put.” Ty replied with a strained smile. “But accurate, nevertheless. Go on. I can see you’ve been thinking about this.”
“Probably because I’ve developed a real dislike for your father recently. Which is strange. I’m normally a pretty easygoing kind of guy,” Steve drawled, making Ty laugh. His hand reached out, stroking the soft skin along her cheek. God, he loved touching her. Indulged himself whenever opportunity presented itself for a stolen touch, a brush of skin, a quick, heated kiss. Steve wished that they weren’t riding right now, that he could pull her into his arms and kiss away the hurt caused by her father. “Do you remember when you told me the story of how your father sold your mare, deciding that your days on horseback were finished? Well, I’m betting it’ll piss him off royally when he learns you’re riding again, even thinking of entering competitions. Suppose we succeed in angering him enough? He’s going to see red, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Actually, my father’s more the type to see iceberg white,” Ty corrected. “But yes, he has very specific ideas of what his twenty-five-year-old daughter should and should not be doing.”
“And showing would definitely be on his no-no list,” Steve said with a grin. “Smart, rich, successful heiresses should be doing more serious, more important things than climbing into a saddle and taking a horse over a bunch of brightly painted fences. Have I got it right?”
“To a tee,” she said, smiling at Steve’s all too accurate analysis. “The only thing that worries me is not whether my father will react but how.”
“Ty, Sweetheart, it’s a given that he’s going to attack. If we piss him off really badly, he may act prematurely. You must be sick and tired of these behind-the-scenes skirmishes, and I sure as hell hate the look that fills your eyes every time you relearn what an SOB he is. Let’s get him out in the open and have our final battle.”
“And as an avid student of history, you’re assuming that my father is Napolean reincarnated.”
“Maybe a little taller, if it’s true you and he look alike,” Steve conceded. “But yeah, let’s get him out of your life. He can go develop a luxury retreat on Elba.”
Recalling their conversation, Ty feared Steve was being overly optimistic about their chances against her father should it come to an open confrontation. Her father possessed such a ruthless, maniacally blinkered view of life, it enabled him to crush opponents with terrifying ease. But as she turned the Jaguar east on Fiftyninth Street, doing her utmost to avoid potholes, Ty resolutely pushed the gnawing worry to the back of her mind. She had several hours until she was to meet Steve at the Garden. Enough time for a complete overhaul at her favorite salon. She knew Steve was going to dazzle the crowd at the Garden. Well, that meant that tonight, at the party, it would be her turn.
“Bubba, where in hell is the cell phone?”
“Front pocket of your jacket. No, that’s your cigarettes, try the other one. There you go. Who you calling, your broker?” Bubba was leaning casually against the row of makeshift stalls set up in the lower level of Madison Square Garden. All around, horses were being groomed, saddled, watered, fed. Acontrolled kind of pandemonium reigned. Steve was oblivious to the noise, the bustle around him, the constant activity such an integral part of life on the road, something he took for granted.
“No, I’m trying to reach Ty,” Steve distractedly informed him. He was staring at the phone, a frown marring his face. “I want to tell her not to bother to come down, that I’ll meet her back at the hotel. She’d offered to lend a hand warming up Mac, but some of the horses I’ve seen are totally wacko. Explain to me, Bubba, how it is I always forget how bloody small the warmup area is here. I’ve been in garages that are bigger.”
“I believe that memory lapse of yours has something to do with the fact that you won your very first Grand Prix here. And ‘cause you’ve got a sentimental streak a mile wide.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want Ty blaming herself if she can’t get out of the way of some crazed one-ton, fourlegged bomber. No place to maneuver, let alone ride.”
Bubba watched his employer glaring fiercely at the cell phone in his hand, as though it were some evil token. “You know her number, Shepp?”
“Yeah,” Steve nodded absently. “But damn it all, I’ve forgotten the code to unlock this thing.”
Bubba held out his hand with a long-suffering sigh. “Here, give it over. You and Ty are perfect for each other, you know that? Both of you cell phone challenged.” Expertly, he punched in numbers, then asked Steve for Ty’s. Now it was Steve’s turn to assume a pained expression as he was forced to wait while Bubba chatted with Ty for several minutes, describing in typical, colorful detail everything from how the unloading had gone to what the other horses stabled next to Mac and Gordo looked like. Finally, Steve tapped Bubba’s heavily muscled shoulder and with an exasperated whisper of “Do you mind?” relieved his stable manager of the phone.
“Ty? Hey, babe. How’s everything?”
Bubba observed Steve listen, ask questions, and murmur a few responses of his own, a smile playing over his face. He was no longer surprised by the expression Steve wore whenever Ty was near. It amused him, though, that Shepp’s face got that dreamy look on his face just by hearing Ty’s voice over a staticky connection.
Steve was a goner, all right. Deeply and irresistibly in love. It seemed, too, that Bubba’s first impression of Ty had been right on the mark. She wasn’t some superficial socialite looking for easy amusement. Ty was in just as deep as Steve. Bubba, Carlos, and Enrique already had a friendly wager going about the precise date when wedding bells would begin ringing. Of course, they hadn’t breathed a word of that to the boss man. Even with Bubba’s constant ribbing, Steve and Ty were doing their best to be discreet—and failing miserably. Bubba remembered how the two of them had been passionately embracing earlier that morning. It had made him want to find Gloria, fast. Thinking of his wife, Bubba nudged Steve. “She called Carlos yet, made sure everything’s fine at Southwind?”
Steve nodded, giving him the thumbs-up sign. Carlos was staying at Southwind, taking care of the place and Cantata until Bubba and Enrique got back with Mac and Gordo. Then, while Shepp and Ty were down in Kentucky, visiting his folks and scouting for horses, Bubba, Gloria, and Serena were going to stay at the farm. His son, Will, would be joining them, exercising the horses while Shepp was gone. It’d be great having Will back for a visit, no matter how short. Maybe he could persuade Will, now that he was a mature college man and no longer necessarily viewed his younger sister as a whiny crybaby, to take Serena out to the movies so Bubba and Glo could have a little time to themselves . . . Steve clicked off the phone, looking pleased. “ Everything’s fine. She called Carlos. Cantata’s out in the pasture; he’s going to longe her this afternoon. The new jumps we ordered for the indoor ring should be delivered tomorrow. He’s going to set them up over the weekend.”
“Ty mind about the change of plans?”
“No, she’s got stuff she wants to do in the city. Said she wanted to go visit Sam Brody—remember the guy I introduced you to the other day, Ty’s ex-bodyguard?
“Big guy who wants you to buy a horse for him?”
“That’s the one. Well, apparently something’s up between him and Ty’s best friend, Lizzie. She’s been trying to get the story out of them all week.”
Bubba shook his head. “Female curiosity.”
“Don’t let Ty hear you say that,” Steve advised with a grin. “She’s not big on stereotypes. To tell you the truth, I’m a little curious myself. They’d be one interesting couple if they actually got together. Lizzie Osborne seems like a woman who’d give Brody a run for his money.”
“Speaking of couples, you going to go out and get that lovely partner of yours a token of your esteem? A trinket, a negligee, something that will show her how much you care?”
Steve looked horrified at the suggestion. “Christ! You think I ought to? Ty seems so self-sufficient, you know? Like she doesn’t need anything. What could I possibly get her?”
“Haven’t a clue, Shepp,” Bubba replied cheerfully, not in the least dismayed by Steve’s chagrin. “But I do know that women set a pretty big store by whether a man goes to the trouble of showing in a real materialistic way that he’s been thinking about her. Myself, I’d go for something beautiful, ‘cause it suits her.”
“Thanks a bunch, Bubba. And here I thought I only had building up a new clientele and winning a Grand Prix to worry about.”
“Anytime, Shepp, anytime.”
27
I t was almost six when Steve arrived at the Plaza. He’d had to spot Enrique and Bubba for an hour while they went off in search of an early dinner; a flip of the coin decreed it would be Chinese. For the duration of the horse show, Bubba and Enrique were sleeping on fold-out cots in the spare stall Steve had reserved adjacent to Gordo’s. In case of an emergency, it was essential someone be on the premises. By keeping each other company, not only was boredom alleviated, but it also meant that either Bubba or Enrique could take a quick break or make a run to the local deli for a sorely needed bag of chips or soda.
Steve felt distinctly out of place dressed in filthy blue jeans and equally dusty paddock boots when he crossed the mirrored and columned lobby of the Plaza. If anyone else was wearing blue jeans around here, they were the kind of jeans one’s personal maid diligently pressed and starched, hanging them neatly in a closet, and that were purchased for three to four times what Steve paid for his Levi’s. Boots worn in a place this swank would be handstitched alligator, ostrich, or rattlesnake, with nary a scuff mark on them. Steve was half expecting the man behind the reception desk to call security and have him discreetly escorted off the premises. Thus, it came as a huge shock to have the man address him before Steve even opened his mouth.
“Mr. Sheppard, good evening. We’ve been expecting you. May I be the first to welcome you to the Plaza and to wish you the best of luck this week.”
“Good evening, and thank you,” Steve replied, if possible even more startled. Man, there must be hundreds of people passing through here every hour, and this guy recognized him? It boggled his mind. Leading him to wonder, too, what else this man knew about him—his shirt size, for instance, or how he liked his eggs cooked. “I was wondering if you could tell me my room number. I forgot to ask Miss Stannard.”
“Suite 1600.” The man was already turning toward the dark-wooden cubbyholes at his back and extracting a slim white envelope. “Inside you’ll find your electronic key, Mr. Sheppard. The elevators are just to your right. Your bags were seen to earlier, might there be anything else we can get for you?
Champagne, perhaps?”
Yup, the guy probably did know his shirt size, what kind of toothpaste Steve used, too. He couldn’t wait to tell Bubba about this. “A bottle of champagne would be great. Could you send it up as soon as possible, please?”
“Of course, Mr. Sheppard, I’ll see to it right away.”
He followed the sound of running water through the open bathroom door. She was in her element, surrounded by marble tiles of a light cream streaked with veins of darker brown. Thick, white, fluffy towels were piled high on the shelf above her. Suspended from polished steel hooks, two matching white terrycloth bathrobes were reflected in the opposite mirror. The bathroom was like the rest of the suite: a testimony to understated opulence, each detail heightening one’s sense of comfort and luxury. Ty’s body was hidden by mountains of bubbles, only her creamy shoulders and the graceful line of her neck visible. That, added to the wide smile of pleasure she gave him as he walked into the bathroom, made his heart kick in, its tempo running amok.
“Hi. This is some place you got us, partner,” Steve said. Perched diagonally on the rim of the tub, Steve reached out his hand, skimmed it lightly over her damp skin with casual possessiveness, letting it dip beneath bubbly water to graze her breasts, resurfacing slowly once more.
“So you like it?” Her voice catchy, as inviting as the rest of her.
“Well, it ain’t Motel Six, but I guess I’ll survive.” If the bubbles would thin out, then he might see the rest of her, naked and wet.
“It’s a bit much, I know, but the location is convenient, and there’s something about this place . . .” Ty bit her lip, only partially stifling the moan of pleasure as Steve’s fingers again dipped beneath the water, drawing lazy circles around her nipples.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch what you were saying.” Steve grinned, his hand moving even more boldly. “Mind repeating that?”
She gave him a look that promised retribution. “I was saying that something about staying at the Plaza makes me feel like Eloise. Tempted to do really naughty things.” Then, with a sphinxlike smile, Ty lifted her leg, bringing her pointed foot up so that it nestled in Steve’s lap. It took all his skill, balance, and formidable control not to tumble into the tub right then and there. The witch, he thought happily. Where had she learned this kind of magic? The wet heat of her foot pressing against his erection, driving all rational thought from his mind.
“When’s the party?” he managed to ask as his hands tugged at the buttons on his shirt, his jacket already in a heap by the tub.
“Seven. But the best people are always late,” Ty added happily, her toes curling into him, testing.
“Thank goodness for that.” His torso was bare now, and he lifted her foot, dragging it up the hard blocks of his stomach, past the smooth contours of his chest, and up to his ravenous mouth. “So, this place makes you feel naughty?” Steve asked between prolonged nibbles and tastings of her damp pink toes.
“That’s certainly a four-star recommendation in my book.” This time Ty’s moan filled the steam-clouded bathroom. With the greatest reluctance he lowered Ty’s foot so he could unfasten his jeans, shedding them and his boots with truly impressive speed. As he stepped into the tub, she rose to meet him, meringue-shaped masses of bubbles clinging to her.
Urgently, Steve pulled Ty to him, needing her so much. “Time to get naughty.”
If tardiness went hand-in-hand with that enviable aura of exclusivity and chic, nobody rivaled Ty and Steve at the patron and exhibitor party for the National Horse Show that evening. They couldn’t have timed it better, actually. More than an hour late—from romping in the bathtub, sharing deliciously chilled champagne, and Ty needing time to repair her makeup and hair— their arrival was marked with the kind of excitement that was usually accompanied by a drum roll building to a dramatic crescendo. Cocktails were still being served; events such as that evening’s often dragged on interminably, and the people clustered in small groups were growing bored, their cocktail chitchat all used up, their eyes scanning the room restlessly, looking for a new source of interest, something to perk up their flagging attention. Then, suddenly, there was one.
Ty Stannard had arrived, looking so beautiful that people simply stared, arrested. She was dressed in a shimmering midnight-blue tulle-over-silk evening gown, the weightless tulle floating ethereally about her tall, slender body. Her shoulders were bare, skin flatteringly revealed. The color of creamy ivory, smooth and glowing with health, it called out to be touched. Her hair, artlessly styled into a high, twisted chignon, accentuated the delicate lines of her face, the clear gray of her eyes shone with energy and happiness. Standing beside her, Steve Sheppard looked as natural-in his severely cut dinner jacket as he did in the breeches, blue jeans, or worn leather chaps that most who knew Steve saw him habitually wearing. He possessed the kind of athletic build and classically structured face that made him look good in anything he wore, but this evening the women in the enormous ballroom who got close enough to him and Ty let out an involuntary sigh, w
ishing they could look like Ty Stannard. And wishing, too, that they could have a man like Steve Sheppard at their side. Especially once they recognized the special smile hovering on both Ty and Steve’s faces.
Steve and Ty paused on the threshold of the ballroom’s entrance, Steve having just handed Ty’s fulllength velvet cape to the coatroom attendant. “Now I understand why you sent me downstairs to ask for the Jaguar,” Steve was whispering out of the corner of his mouth, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
“It’s gonna be real hard to think about anything but getting you out of that frothy number.”
“This is not frothy,” Ty whispered back, her smile lifting a notch. “This is evening business attire. Formal, not frothy. Remember, we’ve got work to do tonight.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Business before pleasure. But the way you look right now, it’s impossible to resist contemplating how I’d like to mix the two. Or we could ditch this right now. Just say the word, Ty.” His knuckles brushed the almost transparent tulle.
“The word is work,” Ty said firmly, pressing her lips together. She loved his banter, how he made her feel desirable with such effortlessness. “Time to get to it, Steve. We’ve got everyone’s attention. You remember the people you’re going to concentrate on?”
“Yes, ma’am. And if I have any questions, I’ll come pick that awesome brain of yours,” Steve drawled, a bit peeved by Ty’s ability to focus on the decidedly less than thrilling task of spending the remainder of the evening talking up Southwind, when all he wanted to do was head straight back to the Plaza and have that thoroughly likable gentleman behind the reception desk send up another bottle of champagne to their suite. The pleasures to be found at the Plaza were definitely growing on him. It hadn’t been too terrible, Steve was forced to acknowledge two hours later. Luck had been on their side tonight. The first sign had been the major flub up in the kitchen that had delayed the dinner. While harried waiters carried out additional trays piled with canap?s and hors d’oeuvres to appease the hungry crowd, setting them down on the long, rectangular banquet tables at the far end of the ballroom, Steve and Ty used the extra time to mingle with potential clients and patrons for Southwind. Working separately, they went about their business. They chatted, horse talk cleverly mixed with nuggets of tantalizing information about Southwind— its facilities, the clinic Steve was holding, Steve’s winter show schedule, what stables he was planning on visiting for his buying trip, hinting that Europe, too, might be included later next spring. Ty and Steve had coached each other carefully. In the beginning, Steve was frankly astonished by the powerful aura Ty’s name carried. He hadn’t really believed Ty when she’d insisted it would make a difference if people knew she was backing him financially.
