Chance Meeting (35 page)

Alarm bells were clanging loudly inside her head as her anger hit the danger zone. Where did Sam get off, thinking he had the right to give her the third-degree treatment? Who did he think he was, her older brother? Well, he could think again. He wanted to pry into her private life? She’d give him an earful.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Sam,” Lizzie reassured, saccharine sweet. “There are plenty of guys to choose from in Bedford if I’m ever inclined. But you know, since I found Bob,”—her breasts rose and fell in a happy sigh—“He’s really spoiled me for anyone else.”

The words left him reeling, a swift punch in the gut. This guy Bob must have made the moves on Lizzie awfully quick. She’d only been divorced, what, a year and a half? “Bob, huh? He lives near you?”

“Mmm, yes. As a matter of fact, Bob lives with me. I can’t bear being too far away.”

Jesus, Ty hadn’t mentioned anything about Lizzie shacking up with anyone. Was it her stable manager, perhaps the instructor? The pain in his gut grew, Sam recognizing it for what it was: jealousy eating him alive. “Tell me more about this guy. Sounds like a real catch.” The words were out, in spite of himself, and it took all of Sam’s control to keep his voice casually indifferent. Control that nearly snapped when he realized she was laughing.

These many months, Sam had purposely kept his distance, wanting to give Lizzie time to heal, to get over the pain of Michael Strickland. She seemed fine now, though. Tears were falling from the corners of her eyes, her body rocking helplessly on the wooden chair, while he sat immobilized, consumed with frustrated jealousy, ’cause some SOB had once again beaten him out of the chance to woo Lizzie Osborne.

Minutes elapsed before Lizzie even attempted to rein in her mirth. “I’m sorry, please forgive me, Sam,”

she gasped, shoulders shaking, the back of her hand wiping tears from her cheeks. “I have a little confession. But to you, Sam, seeing how we go way back, I’m sure I can tell the truth.” As though imparting a state secret, Lizzie leaned forward across the table, her face charmingly open, earnest, her spiked lashes framing wide blue eyes. An alluring, husky note enriched her voice. “You see, I, uh, paid for Bob . . .” If possible, her eyes widened some more. Shimmering with moisture, they floated before him. Pressing fingers against trembling lips, Lizzie waited for Sam’s reaction. Her words clanged inside Sam’s head. Lizzie buying a man? What had she gotten mixed up in?

He swallowed. Hard. Wanting to be sure his voice came out carefully neutral. “You bought a man, Lizzie? Are we talking solicitation here?”

“Oh, no!” Lizzie shook her head, the action doing little-to relieve Sam’s sense of unease. “I guess I’m having trouble explaining. Bob stands for B . . . O . . . B. . . .” Lizzie articulated the letters slowly. “My batteryoperated boyfriend. But, considering what he does for me”—Lizzie let a dreamy look come over her face, her lids growing heavy, half-closed shutters on a hot summer’s day—“I simply had to give him a name. It’s so much more . . . intimate.”

God, she was having a blast, Lizzie thought. A few more minutes, and the high and mighty Sam Brody would really be cut down to size. As though her neck muscles had grown weak from remembered pleasure, she let her head fall back, taking the opportunity to sneak a quick peek at Sam’s face. The man had a face carved from granite, and his eyes were trained on her. With a hundred percent intensity. Good. Time to crank up the heat. A breathy sigh tumbled from her lips. “Oh, he’s just wonderful, Sam. Big. Powerful. So deeply satisfying. But can you guess what the very best part about him is, besides the fact that he can go on, and on, and on? It’s that when I’m done, all I have to do is give a little click, and he goes back in his drawer.” At the snap of her fingers, Lizzie’s eyes flew open, cold and hard.

Seconds ticked while Lizzie and Sam stared silently at each other, neither giving an inch, the tension between them growing, crackling. “So you see, Sam,” Lizzie observed with a smile that no one would ever mistake for friendly, “Bob does an excellent job of providing me with the only interesting thing I’ve ever found in a man. Until they make men equipped with an on/off switch, he’s perfect.”

Damn it all to hell, seethed Lizzie. How could Sam sit there, that cool smile playing over his face, as though she’d just shared a really good off-color joke? By all rights, he should be totally cowed, his masculine vanity trampled, lying on the ground next to his crushed ego. She’d reeled him in expertly, her timing and delivery flawless. Any other man would be fire-engine red with outraged bluster, all the while looking for a corner where he could slink off to lick his wounds. Most of the men she’d encountered wouldn’t hesitate to reduce a woman to a mere sex object, but they were damned uncomfortable when the tables were turned.

Above all, Sam Brody should not be looking pleased as punch. And relaxed. It was insulting. Why wasn’t he running upstairs to dive into a cold shower? That had been a truly hot performance she’d just given. She wished he’d cut that out, too, this thing he did, rubbing his thumb and index finger along the line of his stubbled jaw. Lizzie tried not to notice how broad the pads of his fingers were, tried not to imagine how it would feel to run her own fingers against that chiseled face. Jumpin’ Jehosaphat, Lizzie was one fine woman. He’d have kissed her right there and then, till they were both lying across the kitchen table, if he weren’t dead certain she’d try to pop him but good. A hell of a show she’d put on. A rare treat. Might have worked on somebody who didn’t understand Lizzie’s character quite as well as Sam.

No matter how cold her eyes could grow, how lethally her words could slice, Lizzie was a sensualist through and through. A woman to be touched, tasted, and teased all over, and for whom being able to reciprocate in kind for her lover would only heighten her own pleasure. A woman like Lizzie cried out for candles, whispered words, and rose petals crushed against her skin. In short, fantasies and top-of-the-line vibrators just weren’t gonna do it for her. Sam was more than willing to put his theory to the test.

Lizzie’s fingers were drumming impatiently on the tabletop, her mulish expression indicating she considered the show was over already. Nope, not by a long shot. Now it was his turn.

“Tell you what, Lizzie,” Sam began, the beginnings of a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “Why don’t the three of us get together, you, me, and this ‘Bob’. Try us both on for size, so you can make an informed choice.”

What a pig,
Lizzie fumed. She
knew
it. As soon as Sam hadn’t assumed that pathetically wounded, simultaneously hostile look she’d been aiming for, she’d guessed this would be the tack he’d take: Me macho lover, you one lucky gal.

As though considering Sam’s words, she hesitated, her fingers tracing patterns against the table. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she replied with a sad but resolute shake of her head. “It’s kind of you to offer, but you’re far too good and old a friend. I couldn’t bear the responsibility of knowing how you’d feel afterward.”

She raised a slim hand, stopping him before he could speak. Delicately, she cleared her throat. “You’re aware, naturally, of the medical reports documenting this kind of thing.”

“And what kind of thing would this be, Lizzie? What reports exactly?” Sam rocked back in his chair, ready for the second act, knowing he was going to enjoy himself immensely. Her brow furrowed. “Oh, you must have seen them. There’ve been so many of them recently. Clinical studies, I mean. Showing the psychological devastation that occurs when men have their sexual prowess put to the test and are found . . . lacking. Apparently, when one’s inadequacies, one’s intimate
failures,
heretofore suppressed, buried deep, deep in the psyche, are suddenly exposed, it completely destroys one’s self-confidence. There are cases where the ability to perform is permanently impaired.”

He leaned forward, a warm, indulgent smile on his face. Long and tapered, his index finger traced the back of her hand, skimming over veins, circling knuckles. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

Lizzie fought the urge to snatch her hand away, and resolutely ignored the fact that her insides were melting. “Oh, Sam, I couldn’t,” she breathed, praying he would read the unevenness of her voice as heartfelt concern. “Because, you see . . . with, oh, how can I put it gently? I really don’t want to add to your worries. With
older
men—men
your
age? Well, suffice it to say, Sam, that not even a truckload of Viagra would help.”

24

L
ife was strange. Ty’s world had been transformed with the swiftness of a scenery change in a Broadway play. All it had taken was Steve’s whispered confession followed by a storm of passionate kisses to release this keen, piercing joy inside her, chasing away doubts and fears. The impromptu ride they’d shared was wonderful. Ty on Macintosh, Steve astride Gordo, side by side they’d ridden over Southwind’s pastures, then Steve had led her to where seagrass-covered dunes overlooked the Atlantic. As the horses stood with nostrils flared and lifted to the sea breeze, Steve and Ty absorbed the beauty of the scene before them. Wild and empty, the beach on this crisp autumn morning was deserted, a private paradise.

Carefully, they’d picked their way down the narrow path to the broad band of sand bordering the ocean. Abreast of each other once more, they’d trotted, then cantered, Macintosh’s gait even more like a rocking horse’s with the deep sand as footing, making it easy for Ty to follow the powerful horse’s rhythm. Her first time ever riding on a beach, it had been nothing less than magical. The feel of the sea-dampened wind whistling past her face. The endless horizon, where morning clouds gave way, revealing a sky of bright brilliant blue, its color weightlessly suspended over the deeper gray of the Atlantic. The accompanying roar of waves rushing to meet sand.

That’s what Ty’s world was like right now. A dazzling spectrum of colors and boundless opportunities. An enormous, engulfing symphony. This new world created solely because she loved and was loved in return.

Which is why she was momentarily taken aback when she reentered the house, feeling so changed, a different person from the one she’d been an hour ago, only to discover Sam and Lizzie still in the kitchen. It was as though here, inside the walls of this house, time had stopped. Well, no, Ty amended, at least one thing was different. Sam was laughing his head off, great deep bellows of laughter, and Lizzie was looking uncharacteristically put out. Wait, that was too mild a description. Spitting mad.

“Hi, what’s up?” She couldn’t help the smile stretching from ear to ear. She was too happy. Lizzie didn’t appear to notice. She was already bounding up from her chair, casting a withering glance Sam’s way. “Nothing at all. I think I hear Emma, though. I’ll let you and Sam talk. I know he needs to leave really soon.”

“What’s the matter with Lizzie?” Ty asked, perplexed, watching her friend tear out of the kitchen.

“Nothing at all,” Sam mimicked Lizzie’s reply. Whatever he’d found so amusing continued to hold him in its grip. Recovering finally, “How’d Sheppard take the news? From the blush on your cheeks, I’d guess not too badly.”

“He was very . . . understanding.”

“I bet.” Sam replied dryly. “Good luck, kiddo. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”

“Thanks, Sam. But I really think we’re going to make it.” She blushed. “Um, I mean, get Southwind back in the black, find some good horses for Steve.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, Ty. But, much as I hate to burst that bubble of happiness you’re floating on, I suggest you run through the statements I brought with me. They’re copies of everything you gave to Crane, Adderson and White, lists of assets and all the financial transactions prior to bailing Sheppard out. I’m willing to bet Emma’s weight in gold your father has these on his desk right now. Maybe you’d like to review them, crunch the numbers, tell me what you think.”

As Sam went and fetched his briefcase from the entry hall, Ty’s eyes closed wearily. No, she did not want to think about this right now. But when a pile of papers was pushed wordlessly in front of her, her eyes opened, bleak resignation in them.

When Steve came into the kitchen a few minutes later, Ty was sitting at the table, so thoroughly absorbed in her study that she didn’t even notice him. Sam merely glanced up, then nodded silently, pointedly at Ty. Easing quietly into the chair next to her, Steve eyed the papers before her, curious. Like an oversized game of tarot, they were lined up in a row, Ty reading one, replacing it, sometimes switching its order. Christ, what she’d told him was true, every word. Steve studying one itemized page, then another. She’d sold all that stuff to raise extra cash: the apartment, the cars, expensive antiques. Another page showed proceeds spent already, paying off mortgage bills and bank loans, taxes. He’d need a calculator to tally it all up.

Ty’s voice drew Steve’s attention away from the papers. “He’ll do everything he can to put a lock on the trust fund. Perhaps he’ll succeed this time, arguing that I’m developing a pattern of irresponsible and reckless behavior. If he can convince the trust’s overseer that there’s misuse of the funds, we’ll last six months. A year if we bring in enough horses. It’s the obvious choice.” Her voice was emotionless, the words sufficient to cast a pall.