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“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 was 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.
