by Lisa Jackson
“Ms. Rhodes?” he asked with the slightest of accents.
Tiffany found herself staring into the most seductive gray eyes she had ever seen. He wasn’t what she had expected. His tanned face was angular, his features strong. Raven-black hair and fierce eyebrows contrasted with the bold, steel-colored eyes staring into hers. There was a presence about him that spoke of authority and hinted at arrogance.
“Yes...won’t you please come in?” she replied, finally finding her voice. “We can talk in the den....” Her words trailed off as she remembered the photographer. Where was he? Hadn’t Crawford mentioned that a photographer would be with him this morning?
It was then she noticed the stiff white collar and the expensively woven tweed business suit. A burgundy silk tie was knotted at the stranger’s throat and gold cuff links flashed in the early-morning sunlight. The broad shoulders beneath his jacket were square and tense and there was no evidence of a notepad, camera or tape recorder. Stereotyping aside, this man was no reporter.
“Pardon me,” she whispered, realizing her mistake. “I was expecting someone—”
“Else,” he supplied with a tight, slightly off-center smile that seemed out of place on his harsh, angular face. He wasn’t conventionally handsome; the boldness of his features took away any boyish charm that might have lingered from his youth. But there was something about him, something positively male and sensual that was as magnetic as it was dangerous. Tiffany recognized it in the glint of his eyes and the brackets near the corners of his mouth. She suspected that beneath the conservative business suit, there was an extremely single-minded and ruthless man.
He extended his hand and when Tiffany accepted it, she noticed that his fingers were callused—a direct contradiction of the image he was attempting to portray.
“Zane Sheridan,” he announced. Again the accent.
She hesitated only slightly. His name and his face were vaguely familiar, and though he looked as if he expected her to recognize him, she couldn’t remember where she’d met him...or heard of him. “Please come in, Mr. Sheridan—”
“Zane.”
“Zane,” she repeated, slightly uncomfortable with the familiarity of first names. For a reason she couldn’t put her finger on, Tiffany thought she should be wary of this man. There was something about him that hinted at antagonism.
She led him into the den, knowing instinctively that this was not a social call.
“Can I get you something—coffee, perhaps, or tea?” Tiffany asked as she took her usual chair behind the desk and Zane settled into one of the side chairs. Placing her elbows on the polished wood surface, she clasped her hands together and smiled pleasantly, just as if he hadn’t disrupted her morning.
“Nothing. Thank you.” His gray eyes moved away from her face to wander about the room. They observed all the opulent surroundings: the thick pile of the carpet, the expensive leather chairs, the subdued brass reading lamps and the etchings of Thoroughbreds adorning the cherry-wood walls.
“What exactly can I do for you?” Tiffany asked, feeling as if he were searching for something.
When his eyes returned to hers, he smiled cynically. “I was an acquaintance of your husband.”
Zane’s expression was meant to be without emotion as he stared at the elegant but worried face of Ellery Rhodes’s widow. Her reaction was just what he had expected—surprise and then, once she had digested his statement, disbelief. Her fingers anxiously toyed with the single gold chain encircling her throat.
“You knew Ellery?”
“We’d met a few times. In Europe.”
Maybe that was why his face and name were so familiar, but Tiffany doubted it. A cautious instinct told her he was lying through his beautiful, straight white teeth.
She was instantly wary as she leveled her cool blue gaze at him. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “but if we’ve met, I’ve forgotten.”
Zane pulled at the knot of his tie and slumped more deeply and comfortably into his chair. “I met Ellery Rhodes before he was married to you.”
“Oh.” Her smile was meant to be indulgent. “And you’re here because...?” she prompted. Zane Sheridan unnerved her, and Tiffany knew instinctively that the sooner he stated his business and was gone, the better.
“I’m interested in buying your farm.”
Her dark brows arched in elegant surprise. “You’re kidding!”
“Dead serious.” The glint of silver determination in his eyes emphasized his words and convinced her that he wasn’t playing games.
“But it’s not for sale.”
“I’ve heard that everything has a price.”
“Well in this case, Mr. Sheridan, you heard wrong. The farm isn’t on the market. However, if you’re interested in a yearling, I have two colts that—”
“Afraid not. It’s all or nothing with me,” was the clipped, succinct reply. Apparently Zane Sheridan wasn’t a man to mince words.
“Then I guess it’s nothing,” Tiffany replied, slightly galled at his self-assured attitude. Who the hell did he think he was, waltzing into her house uninvited, and offering to buy her home—Ellery’s farm?
Just because he had been a friend of Ellery’s—no, he hadn’t said friend, just acquaintance.
It didn’t matter. It still didn’t give him the right to come barging in as if he owned the place. And there was more to it. Tiffany sensed that he was here for another reason, a reason he hadn’t admitted. Maybe it was the strain in the angle of his jaw, or the furrows lining his forehead. But whatever the reason, Tiffany knew that Zane Sheridan was hiding something.
Tiffany stood, as if by so doing she could end the conversation.
“Let me know if you change your mind.” He rose and looked past her to the framed portrait of Devil’s Gambit; the painting was mounted proudly above the gray stone fireplace.
Just so that Mr. Sheridan understood the finality of her position on the farm, she offered an explanation to which he really wasn’t entitled. “If I change my mind about selling the place, I’ll give Ellery’s brother Dustin first option. He already owns part of the farm and I think that Rhodes Breeding Farm should stay in the family.”
Zane frowned thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. “If the family wants it—”
“Of course.”
Shrugging his broad shoulders as if he had no interest whatsoever in the Rhodes family’s business, he continued to gaze at the portrait over the mantel.
“A shame about Devil’s Gambit,” he said at length.
“Yes,” Tiffany whispered, repeating his words stiffly. “A shame.” The same accident that had claimed the proud horse’s life had also killed Ellery. Mr. Sheridan didn’t offer any condolences concerning her husband, the man he’d said he had known.
The conversation was stilted and uncomfortable, and Tiffany felt as if Zane Sheridan were deliberately baiting her. But why? And who needed it? The past few weeks had been chaotic enough. The last thing Tiffany wanted was a mysterious man complicating things with his enigmatic presence and cryptic statements.
As she walked around the desk, shortening the distance between the stranger and herself, she asked, “Do you own any horses, Mr. Sheridan?” His dark brows quirked at the formal use of his surname.
“A few. In Ireland.”
That explained the faint accent. “So you want to buy the farm and make your mark on American racing?”
“Something like that.” For the first time, his smile seemed sincere, and there was a spark of honesty in his clear, gray eyes.
Tiffany supposed that Zane Sheridan was the singularly most attractive man she had met in a long while. Tall and whip-lean, with broad shoulders and thick, jet black hair, he stood with pride and authority as he returned her gaze. His skin was dark and smooth, and where once there might have been a dimple, there were now brackets of strain around his mouth. He had lived a hard life, Tiffany guessed, but the expensive tweed jacket suggested that the worst years had passed.
It wou
ld be a mistake to cross a man such as this, she decided. Zane Sheridan looked as if he were capable of ruthless retribution. This was evidenced in the tense line of his square jaw, the restless movement of his fingers against his thumb and the hard glint of determination in those steel-gray eyes. Zane was a man to reckon with and not one to deceive.
The doorbell rang, and Tiffany was grateful for the intrusion.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, taking three quick steps before pausing to turn in his direction.
“We’re not through here.”
“Pardon me?” Tiffany was taken aback. She expected him to show some civility and leave before Rod Crawford’s interview. Instinctively Tiffany knew that having Zane in the same room with the reporter would be dangerous.
“I want to talk to you—seriously—about the farm.”
“There’s no reason, Mr....Zane. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m not about to sell.”
“Indulge me,” he suggested. He strode across the short distance separating them and touched her lightly on the arm. “Hear what I have to say, listen to what my offer is before you say no.”
The doorbell chimed again, more impatiently this time.
“I really do have an appointment,” she said, looking anxiously through the foyer to the front door. The grip on her arm tightened slightly.
“And I think you should listen to what I have to say.”
“Why?”
He hesitated slightly, as if he weren’t sure he could trust her and the skin tightened over his cheekbones. His rugged features displayed a new emotion. Anger and vengeful self-righteousness were displayed in the thrust of his jaw. All traces of his earlier civility had disappeared. Tiffany’s heart began to pound with dread.
“Why are you here?” she asked again, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“I came to you because there is something I think that you should know.”
“And that is?” Her heart was pounding frantically now, and she barely heard the doorbell chime for the third time.
“I’m not so sure that Devil’s Gambit’s death was an accident,” he stated, gauging her reaction, watching for even the slightest trace of emotion on her elegant features. “In fact, I think there’s a damned good chance that your horse is still alive.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE COLOR DRAINED from Tiffany’s face. “You...you think that Devil’s Gambit might be alive?” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re not serious....”
But she could tell by Zane’s expression that he was dead serious.
“Dear God,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She wanted to dismiss what he was saying as idle conjecture, but he just didn’t seem the type of man who would fabricate anything so bizarre. “I don’t know if I can deal with this right now....” Devil’s Gambit alive? But how? She’d been to the site of the accident, witnessed the gruesome truth for herself. Both the horse and the driver of the truck had been killed. Only Dustin had survived.
It was difficult to speak or to think rationally. Tiffany forced herself to look into Zane’s brooding gaze and managed to clear her throat. “Look, I really do have an interview that I can’t get out of. Please wait.... I...I want to talk to you. Alone.” She extracted her arm from his grasp and made her way to the door. Her mind was running in crazy circles. What did he mean? Devil’s Gambit couldn’t possibly be alive. And Ellery—what about Ellery? Dear Lord, if what Zane was suggesting was true, there might be a chance that Ellery was still alive. But how? Don’t think like this, she told herself. What this man is suggesting can’t possibly be true.
Her knees were weak, and she leaned against the door for several seconds, trying to recover her lost equilibrium before the bell chimed for the fourth time. “Get hold of yourself,” she murmured, but she was unable to disguise the clouds of despair in her eyes. Why now? Why did Zane Sheridan pick this time when everything at the breeding farm was in turmoil to enter her life with rash statements about the past? Forcing her worried thoughts to a dark corner of her mind, she straightened and braced herself for the interview.
With a jerk, she tugged on the brass handle and the door swung inward. Despite the storm of emotions raging within her, she forced what she hoped would appear a sincere and pleasant smile. Only the slightest trembling of her full lips hinted at her ravaged emotions.
“Mr. Crawford?” Tiffany asked the agitated young man slouching against a white pillar supporting the roof. “Please accept my apologies for the delay. My housekeeper isn’t in yet and I had an unexpected visitor this morning.” Her voice was surprisingly calm, her gaze direct, and she disguised the trembling in her fingers by hiding her hands in the deep pockets of her wool skirt.
The bearded, blond man eyed her skeptically, motioned to someone in the car and then handed her a card that stated that he was Rod Crawford of the Santa Rosa Clarion.
A petite, dark-haired woman climbed out of the car and slung a camera over one shoulder. Tiffany stepped away from the door to let the two people enter her home. In the distance she heard the familiar rumble of Louise’s old Buick. The noise was reassuring. Once the housekeeper took charge of the kitchen, some of the disorder of the morning would abate. Except that Zane Sheridan was in the den, seemingly convinced that Devil’s Gambit and, therefore, Ellery were still alive.
“Could I offer you a cup of coffee...or tea?” Tiffany asked with a weak smile.
“Coffee—black,” Crawford stated curtly, withdrawing a notepad from his back pocket.
Tiffany trained her eyes on the photographer. “Anything,” the pleasant-featured woman replied. She flashed Tiffany a friendly grin as she extended her small hand. “Jeanette Wilkes.” Jeanette’s interested eyes swept the opulent interior of the house and she noted the sweeping staircase, gleaming oak banister, elegant crystal chandelier and glossy imported floor tiles. “I was hoping to get a couple of pictures of the farm.”
“Wonderful,” Tiffany said with a smile that disguised her inner turmoil. “Please, have a seat in the living room.” She opened the double doors of the formal room and silently invited them inside.
“You have a beautiful home,” Jeanette stated as she looked at the period pieces and the Italian marble of the fireplace with a practiced eye. Everything about the house was first class—no outward sign of money problems.
“Thank you.”
“Is this where you work?” Crawford asked skeptically.
“No...”
“If you don’t mind, Jeanette would like to get some shots of the inside of the farm as well as the outbuildings. You know, give people a chance to see whatever it is you do when you’re working. Don’t you have an office or something?” He eyed the formal living room’s expensive formal furniture with obvious distaste.
“Of course.” The last thing Tiffany could afford was any bad press, so she had to accommodate the nosy reporter. She decided she would have to find a way to get rid of Zane Sheridan. His story was too farfetched to be believed; and yet there was something forceful and determined about him that made her think the Irishman wasn’t bluffing.
Zane was still in the den and Tiffany wanted to keep Rod Crawford, with his probing questions, away from the visitor with the Irish accent. If the two men with their different perspectives on what was happening at Rhodes Breeding Farm got together, the results would be certain disaster. Tiffany shuddered when she envisioned the news concerning Moon Shadow’s foals and a rumor that Devil’s Gambit was still alive being splashed across the front page of the Santa Rosa Clarion. The minute the combined reports hit the front page, she would have reporters calling her day and night.
Tiffany’s mind was spinning miles a minute. What Zane had suggested was preposterous, and yet the surety of his gaze had convinced her that he wasn’t playing games. But Devil’s Gambit, alive? And Ellery? Her heart was beating so rapidly she could barely concentrate. She needed to talk to Zane Sheridan, that much was certain, just to find out if he were a master gambler, bluffing convincingly, or
if he really did mean what he was saying and had the facts to back him up. But she had to speak to him alone, without the watchful eyes and ears of the press observing her.
Holding her back stiffly, she led Rod and Jeanette back through the foyer to the den, which was directly opposite the living room. Zane was standing by the fireplace, his eyes trained on the painting of the horse over the mantel. He had discarded his jacket and tossed it over the back of one chair, and the tight knot of his tie had been loosened. He looked as if he intended to stay. That was something she couldn’t allow, and yet she was afraid to let him go. There were so many questions whirling in her mind. Who was he? What did he want? How did he know Ellery? Why did he want her to believe that Devil’s Gambit might still be alive after four long years?
Without hesitation, Tiffany walked toward him. He turned to face her and his eyes were as cool and distant as the stormy, gray Pacific Ocean. If he had been lying a few moments before, he showed no trace of deceit. Yet his story couldn’t possibly be true; either it was a total fabrication or he just didn’t know what he was talking about.
The steadiness of his glare suggested just the opposite. Tiffany knew intuitively that Zane Sheridan rarely made mistakes. Cold dread took hold of her heart.
“Mr. Sheridan, would it be too much trouble to ask you to wait to finish our discussion?” she asked with an unsteady smile. What if he wouldn’t leave and caused a scene in front of the reporter from the Santa Rosa Clarion? His story was just wild and sensational enough to capture Rod Crawford’s attention.
Zane’s eyes flickered to the other two people and quickly sized them up as reporters. Obviously something was going on, and the widow Rhodes didn’t want him to know about it. His thick brows drew together in speculation.
“How long?”
“I’m not sure.... Mr. Crawford?”
“Call me Rod.”
Tiffany made a hasty introduction, while the bearded man came to her side and shook Zane’s outstretched hand. The image of the reporter’s hand linked with Zane’s made her uneasy.
