Chance Meeting (42 page)
“Do you always create this kind of excitement, this kind of energy, just by walking into a shindig like this?” he murmured, curious.
Ty was silent for a moment, then lifted shadow darkened eyes to his. “Yes.” It was naked honesty in her voice, not vanity. “This is what I was born to do, Steve. What all my father’s careful grooming was intended for. People are attracted to the image of someone like me, not caring whether there’s anything of substance beneath it. It’s just the money,” Ty explained softly. “But I’ve learned how to use all this to some advantage. Like tonight, for instance, helping Southwind. That’s made this evening less difficult to bear than it might have been.” Her voice dropped, so he had to strain to hear it. “Without you, this would have been my world: an endless succession of people fawning over my father’s money. Take me away, Steve. Please.”
Wordlessly, his hand found hers, and he led her away from the glittering ballroom and softly flattering lights.
The drive back, nestled in the supple leather seats of the Jaguar, did much to buoy Ty’s spirits. They rode with the top down, the night air cold, the lights of the city all around them. Steve had been forced to release Ty’s hand in order to shift the gears and steer, but Ty needed to touch him the way she needed air to breathe. As Steve drove, her fingers traveled up and down the solid length of his thigh muscles. Neither spoke, the sexual hunger growing between them, its presence as palpable as the cold air on their skin.
Steve was proud of the fact that he kept his hands to himself through the endless lobby, up the interminably long elevator ride, and all the way to the door of their suite. But the effort took its toll. Afine trembling made it next to impossible to insert the electronic key into the scanner. Next to him, Ty whimpered softly as the lock resisted his efforts, an insistent red light blipping back at them.
“Steve . . .” There was desperation in her voice. He looked at her, taking in the flush of her features, the outof-focus gleam in her eyes, the moist, parted lips. Cursing fluently, he shoved the card down hard, almost breaking the door off its hinges when at last the small green light appeared. Desperation didn’t lessen, but it changed like quicksilver.
Steve’s hands moved over Ty deliberately, possessively, tugging the concealed zipper down her back by the tiniest of fractions, then pausing to touch, to kiss, to worship each area revealed for him alone. Where he was slow, Ty’s hands traveled like lightning, divesting him of his jacket, sending studs flying through the air, their landing muffled in the thick beige carpet. And when her hands at last smoothed over him, he burned for her.
Released, the tulle gown slipped down soundlessly, becoming a fabulous textured wall of cloth around her legs. Steve helped her cross the barrier, his heart pounding as he drank in the sight of her. A strapless bra and panties of black silk, thigh-high silk stockings, threeinch stiletto heels. He might never breathe normally again. A choked laugh escaped him. “Jesus, the gown was distracting enough. If I’d known what you had on
underneath
that sea of froth, I’d have been a drooling idiot. Thank you for saving me from certain embarrassment.”
“You’re welcome, I thought you might prefer to be surprised.”
“I could die a happy man from a surprise like this,” his tender but delightfully wicked smile causing Ty’s heart to trip.
Steve took a step backwards so he could see all of her, every wonderful, mind-blowing inch of her. A vision he would never forget. “Those shoes, were they designed by that guy, what’s-his-name, you were talking to me about?”
It took a moment to recall the conversation they’d shared that night by Fancy’s grave. It seemed eons ago.
“Yes, these are Manolo Blahniks,” she said, extending a leg encased in sheer silk. She pointed her foot so Steve could better examine the wildly patterned brocaded shoes perched atop impossibly high heels.
“Do you like them?”
“I think the man is definitely onto something: shoes as torture devices.” His eyes traveled up the length of her. “I know, they’re killing me.” Backing up, he lowered himself into a rust-colored velvet armchair, his eyes never leaving the vision before him.
“Walk this way,” he commanded softly, settling into the chair with studied casualness, as though his heart wasn’t about to bust through his rib cage. “Yeah, that’s right, nice and slow.”
A smile curved Ty’s lips as she did Steve’s bidding. The comportment teachers at her boarding school would be aghast, horrified, if they learned to what use Ty Stannard was putting her very best walk right now.
And to what effect,
she thought happily. With every step, molten heat pooled inside her, her body tightening around it, readying for the explosion about to rock her. Its source the fire blazing in Steve’s eyes.
She stopped. Her whole being fixed on him, on the heavy rise and fall of his naked chest, on the black waistband temptingly half unbuttoned. Her hands lifted, undoing the clasp between her breasts. The bra fell to the floor behind her. Her hands skimmed down to the edge of her high-cut panties.
“No.” His voice a dark rumble, harsh and wildly erotic. “Not yet. I need a closer look first. Come here. That’s right,” he encouraged approvingly as Ty did his bidding.
Their knees were brushing now. Steve reached out, molding his hands around the backs of Ty’s thighs, touching silk and warm flesh, supporting legs suddenly unsteady. Lazily his fingers toyed with tops of her stockings, following the elastic border around, back and forth. Above him, he heard her breath shudder. He splayed his fingers, exerting the slightest of pressure. “A little wider, love.”
The whispered heat of his words against the flat of her tummy set off exquisite shocks through her. Yet it was only the beginning. Hands, mouth, tongue joined, moved over Ty in a sensuous meandering, dipping into the hollows of her hips, her navel. Moving, always moving, until they reached hot flesh hidden by sweetly dampened silk. Once there, beginning again. With a keening cry, Ty’s head fell back, her eyes shut, submitting to Steve’s distinctive brand of torture.
“
E
xcuse me, but you’re Steve Sheppard, aren’t you?”
Steve turned his head in the direction of the voice, interrupting his thoughts of handing Macintosh to Enrique so he could steal outside and smoke a cigarette in peace. The woman astride the massive dark bay who’d ridden up beside had him changing his mind about how much he really needed that smoke. She must have just entered the exercise ring; otherwise, he’d have noticed her. At the very least her horse.
“Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes moving appreciatively over the woman’s mount, simultaneously checking her out, too. Pretty impressive package the two of them made. “And you are?”
“I’m Cassie Miller.”
“Miller, sounds familiar . . .”
“A name more common than Jones,” Cassie Miller replied with a quick smile. “I . . .”
“No, wait,” Steve interrupted, holding up a hand. “Give me a sec. My memory’s been real shaky recently,” he said ruefully. “But Miller, Miller . . . Cassie Miller . . .” He snapped his fingers, his face clearing. “Yeah, I remember you. You were the kid who stole the show at the Classic this summer. Unbelievable performance.”
Cassie Miller blushed becomingly. “Thanks. It came as quite a shock, winning an event that big. Orion was everything I hoped he’d be—and more—that day.”
“Sure was. You beat out me and Fancy, and I’d had my eye on that prize money for the whole month of August.”
“Um, actually, that’s why I approached you. We heard about Fancy Free’s death down at our farm in Virginia, and I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. He was a great horse. Always worth rooting for.”
Steve smiled, touched by the sincerity in her voice and the fact that she’d cared enough to approach him.
“Thanks. So, this is Orion. I didn’t see him up close that Sunday. Probably too busy sulking.” He gave a low whistle. “Nice-looking animal.” Not bothering to hide the envy in his voice.
“Yeah, he’s special. Born and bred at our place down near Charlottesville.”
“You interested in selling him?”
Cassie Miller laughed, shaking her head. “ ’Fraid not. He’s been sold and resold a couple of times too often to suit my husband and me. Now that we’ve got him back, he’ll remain with us.”
Steve wasn’t terribly surprised by her answer. One would have to be frigging nuts to let go of a horse like that. “Too bad,” he said easily. “I’m in the market, and your Orion is one of the best looking horses I’ve seen in a good long while. You’ve already gone out of your way to prove to me he’s talented, too.”
“You’re looking to buy, Steve?”
Steve nodded. “I’m heading down to Kentucky with my partner after the Grand Prix.”
“And that would be Ty Stannard,” Cassie Miller supplied with a huge grin. “That was some photograph of the two of you in today’s
Times.
Nice to know romance is alive and well at those parties. My husband, Caleb, was dead set against attending—said there’d be way too many society matrons squeezed into bright pink sequin nightmares for his taste—but that photo had him regretting his decision.”
Steve coughed into his fist. “Yeah, well, parties are what you make them,” he muttered, still embarrassed. Though why was a mystery; he’d had hours to get used to it. Despite Steve’s having practically orchestrated the moment captured by the
Times’
s photographer, it had nonetheless packed a mammoth wallop to find there, on page one of the sports section, Ty and him fused in a nuclear kiss. Must have been a really slow day for football, he’d thought dazedly, staring at the photograph.
“Christ, I’m sorry, Ty. Didn’t think we’d be quite as newsworthy as this.”
Ty had looked at the picture, then at Vicky Grodecki’s accompanying column and said calmly enough,
“Hmm, you certainly sent my father a message this time. It’s probably too much to assume he’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude at not losing any more sleep over my sexual leanings. You might consider asking Sam whether he still has a bulletproof vest.”
And when Steve arrived at the Garden, he discovered pretty damn quick that everyone else had been reading the morning paper, too. Bubba had gone so far as to cut the picture out, encircle it with a heart drawn in fat red marker, and tape it right above Steve’s saddle tree; he and Enrique hadn’t stopped laughing about it yet.
Cassie Miller didn’t appear to notice Steve’s discomfort. “If you and Ty Stannard are going to be down in Kentucky, perhaps you might stop at Five Oaks on your way back up to New York.” Her right hand slipped inside her navy fleece vest and withdrew a white rectangular card from the breast pocket of her button-down shirt. She handed it to Steve. “We’ve a number of young horses you might want to look over. Two-, three-, and four-year-olds, some from Orion’s sire. We’ve got Orion’s younger brother, Limelight, here at the Garden with us now.”
“You rode him in the Classic, too, didn’t you?”
“Came in third with him.” Cassie grimaced. “Time fault.”
“Don’t get cocky, kid.” Steve laughed, liking her attitude. “That was a mean sucker of a course.” He glanced down at the card in his hand and spoke reflectively. “Five Oaks, huh? And that’s near Charlottesville?”
“Just outside.”
“We might very well be calling on you, Cassie. You’re heading home directly?”
“Yes. The kids are missing school this week, so we’ve got to get back ASAP.”
“Well, it’d be interesting to see what else you’ve got tucked away at your farm. You put him to stud yet?” Steve asked, nodding toward the stallion Cassie Miller was riding.
“We’re waiting for the spring. We’ve picked a few of our brood mares we want him to cover. And we’re hoping to get a couple more for him before long. My husband, Caleb, and his partner, Hank Sawyer, are going on a buying trip themselves later this month.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted on any of Orion’s get.”
“I’ll do that,” Cassie promised, leaning over to pat the stallion’s sleek neck. “Well, I’ll be seeing you by the ingate later. Looks like there’ll be some good competition.”
“Sure will. Vanguard and Macintosh here are raring to go. We wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you, Miller.”
“Don’t worry, Sheppard,” Cassie Miller replied, adopting the same easy banter. “We work best under pressure. So long,” she said with a laugh, nudging her stallion into a smooth trot. A last glance at the business card before stuffing it into his pocket had Steve wondering whether he and Ty shouldn’t simply head straight for Virginia. He was suddenly itching to see exactly how fine those other horses at Five Oaks might be.
Damned if he didn’t like that woman, Steve thought as he watched Cassie Miller circle the exercise ring, guiding the big stallion effortlessly through and around the busy traffic of other riders and their mounts. Damned if he didn’t like her horse, too; the touch of envy he experienced in no way spoiled the simple pleasure derived from observing prime horseflesh and fine riding paired together. A pleasure that, even after so many years in the horse business, still had the power to send excited shivers racing along his skin. Steve’s only wish was to feel this way right up to the day he died.
