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“You’re asking the impossible!” John Morris stated as he eyed his client over the clear rims of his reading glasses.
“It’s a simple document,” Zane argued, rubbing the back of his neck and rotating his head to relieve the tension that had been building ever since he had met Tiffany Rhodes. He’d known she was beautiful; he’d seen enough pictures of her to understand that her exotic looks could be any man’s undoing. But he hadn’t counted on the light of intrigue and mystery in her intense gaze or the serene beauty in the curve of her neck....
“A deed of sale for a breeding farm? You’ve got to be joking.”
Zane’s eyes flashed like quicksilver. He pulled at the bothersome knot in his tie and focused his eyes on the attorney. “Just get me a paper that says that for a certain amount of money—and leave that blank—I will purchase all of the assets and the liabilities of Rhodes Breeding Farm.”
The lawyer let out a weary sigh. “You’re out of your mind, Zane. That is if you want anything legal—”
“I want it to be binding. No loopholes. It has to be so tight that if the buyer decides she wants out of the deal, she has no legal recourse. None whatsoever.” His square jaw tightened, and the thin lines near the corners of his eyes deepened with fresh resolve. Revenge was supposed to be sweet. So where was the satisfaction he had been savoring for nearly six years?
“You’re asking the impossible. We’re not talking about a used car, for God’s sake.”
“It can’t be that difficult.” Zane paced in the prestigious San Francisco lawyer’s office and ran impatient fingers through his raven-black hair in disgust. “What about a quitclaim deed?”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair and held on to his pen with both hands. “I assume that you want to do this right.”
“Of course.”
“No legal recourse—right?”
“I already told you that.”
“Then be patient. I’ll draw up all the legal documents and do a title search . . . take care of all the loose ends. That way, once you’ve agreed upon a price, you can wrap it up and itwillbe binding. You can’t have it both ways, not here anyway. You’re not just talking about real estate, you know. There is personal property, equipment, the horses. . . .”
“I get the picture.” Zane stared out the window and frowned. The trouble was he wanted to get away from Tiffany Rhodes. Do what he had to do and then make a clean break.
There was something about the woman that got under his skin, and he didn’t like the look of honesty in her slate-blue eyes. It bothered him. A lot. Whatever else he had expected of Ellery Rhodes’s widow, it hadn’t been integrity.
Zane shrugged as if to shake off the last twinges of guilt. “So how long will it take you?” he asked, hiding some of his impatience.
“Four weeks—maybe three, if we’re lucky. I’ll work out something temporary for the interim. Okay?”
“I guess it will have to be. Doesn’t seem that I have much of a choice.”
John drummed his fingers on the desk. “You’re sure that this woman wants to sell? I’ve read a little about her. She seems to be . . . the plucky type. Not the kind to sell out.”
“She just needs a little convincing.”
John scowled at the blank piece of paper in front of him. “That sounds ominous—right out of a bad B movie.”
Zane smiled despite his discomfiture. It was a rare smile, but genuine, and he flashed it on his friend in a moment of self-mockery. “I guess you’re right.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“And humble, too,” Zane muttered under his breath. “Come on, counselor, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“On one condition—”
Zane’s brows quirked expectantly.
“That you quit calling me counselor. I hear enough of that in the courtroom.”
“It’s a deal.”
John slipped his arms into his jacket and then straightened the cuffs before bending over his desk and pressing a button on the intercom. “Sherry, I’m going out for a few minutes with Mr. Sheridan. I’ll be back at—” he cocked his wrist and checked his watch “—three-thirty.”
John reached for the handle of the door before pausing and turning to face his friend. “There’s just one thing I’d like to know about this transaction you requested.”
