Chance Meeting by Laura Moore Page A

her father’s library could fail to recognize the artist, the painting, or the vast amount of money at her father’s disposal. Alight scent of beeswax lingered in the air, proof that the staff, before Ty or her father had even stirred from their beds, had performed the daily task of rubbing the mahogany desk, which had once belonged to J. P. Morgan, by the side of which her father now stood. He was as meticulously polished as the room. Although it was a Saturday in August and the temperature had soared to ninety-eight degrees, Tyler Stannard was dressed in a perfectly tailored Savile Row gray wool suit. His white shirt had been sewn in Paris by a shirtmaker near the Ritz who had her father’s measurements and details of shirts, pajamas, and bathrobes previously ordered, written down in a black leather notebook he kept with him at all times. Just in case Mr. Stannard should happen to call. The tie, a baroque swirl of navy, gray, and dark green, came from Milan.
    He was a handsome man. Patrician was the adjective the magazines and newspapers used to describe her father’s tall frame, his carefully pommaded hair, his piercing gray eyes. Right now those eyes were regarding her with impatience, because she’d taken too long in replying. Few people dared to keep Tyler Stannard waiting for anything.
    “But, Father, you don’t truly expect me to win the Medal class at the Garden. The finals are a whole different story from the regional classes. The best junior equitation riders from the entire country will be there. While it would be thrilling to win a ribbon, I’d be as pleased to have a good, clean round.”
    “You aren’t talking like a Stannard.” It was unnecessary to specify which Stannard she should emulate—he was the only other one alive. “I didn’t spend such a huge amount of money on that horse of yours to see you settle for second place. If you truly feel you aren’t up to the challenge, I suggest you call up Meghan and schedule some extra lessons. You can practice until you are,” was her father’s implacable reply. The look accompanying his words told Ty it was pointless to say any more on the subject.
    Indeed, Ty’s father was already turning his attention to the papers that Smythe had organized, lying next to the dark blue rectangle of his passport. His jet was leaving for Paris in an hour. There were a number of chateaux as well as a hotel on the Riviera that he was considering purchasing. He’d be gone two weeks. Ty watched as he gathered up the papers and slipped them into his leather briefcase.
    “Have good trip, Father.”
    The steel-gray head stilled momentarily, catching a foreign note in his daughter’s voice he’d never heard before. It triggered an immediate response. “By the way, Tyler, please remember the following while I’m away in Europe. If I should learn of your going off without Sam Brody for any reason whatsoever, I will make certain you never see that friend of yours, Lizzie Osborne, again. I’ve tolerated her presence far too long as it is. If her bad influence should impair your judgment again, I’ll see to it she’s no longer in your school or your riding club.”
    Pressing a finger on the intercom button that would summon Smythe, Tyler Stannard didn’t catch the defiant look that flashed across his daughter’s face. Before he could, Ty quickly dropped her eyes. She didn’t dare risk angering him, for her father wouldn’t think twice about using his influence to hurt Lizzie Osborne’s family in some way. If not socially, they were certainly financially inferior. Thus, as far as Tyler Stannard was concerned, that made the Osbornes vulnerable and easy prey. It didn’t matter to him that Lizzie was her best friend, her truest friend.
    It was better to retreat, to let him focus on his business, erasing the very memory of his daughter from his mind. With a quiet, if mocking, “Yes, Father,” Ty turned and left the library. Neither father nor daughter considered