For the third time in an hour, Matt’s intercom buzzed on his desk, interrupting a loud and heated debate among his executives. Angry at the continued interruptions, he glanced apologetically at the men and reached for the intercom button as he explained, “Miss Stern’s sister is ill, and she’s on the Coast. Go on with your conversation,” he added as he pressed the button and snapped at the secretary who was filling in for Miss Stern, “I told you to hold my calls!”
“Yes, sir, I—I know”—Joanna Simons’s voice came over the speaker phone—“but Miss Bancroft said it’s extremely important, and she insisted I interrupt you.”
“Take a message,” Matt snapped. He started to release the button, then he stopped. “Who did you say was calling?”
“Meredith Bancroft,” the secretary emphasized meaningfully, her tone telling him that she, too, had read of his confrontation with Meredith in Sally Mansfield’s column. So, obviously, had the men seated in a semicircle around his desk, for the announcement of Meredith’s name caused a pulse beat of stunned silence followed instantly by an explosion of nervous, heightened conversation meant to cover the previous silence.
“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” Matt said curtly. “Tell her to call me back in fifteen minutes.” He put the phone down, knowing that courtesy dictated that he should have volunteered to call Meredith back. He didn’t really give a damn; they had nothing left to say to each other. Forcing himself to concentrate on business, he looked at Tom Anderson, and continued the conversation that Meredith’s call had interrupted. “There won’t be any zoning problem in Southville. We have a contact on the zoning commission who’s assured us that the county and the city of Southville are both eager to have us build the factory there. We’ll have approval from them on Wednesday, when they meet to vote. . . .”
Ten minutes later he ushered the men out of his office, closed the door, and sat down behind his desk again. When Meredith hadn’t called after thirty minutes, he leaned back in his leather chair and glowered at the silent telephone, his hostility growing with every passing moment. How like Meredith, he thought, to call him for the first time in more than a decade, then insist that his secretary interrupt him in the middle of a meeting, and when he didn’t take the call, to then make him sit and wait. She had always behaved as if she were royalty. She had been born with an inflated sense of her own worth and brought up to believe that she was better than everyone else. . . .
Drumming her fingernails on her desk, Meredith leaned back in her chair, angrily watching the clock, deliberately waiting forty-five minutes before calling him again. How like that arrogant, swaggering braggart to make her call him back! she thought wrathfully. Obviously he hadn’t acquired any manners along with his wealth, or he’d know that since she had courteously taken the first step in contacting him, it was his duty to take the next step. Of course, good manners would never mean anything to Matthew Farrell. Beneath his newly acquired veneer of urbanity, he was still nothing but a crude, ambitious—Meredith abruptly checked her bitter thoughts; bitterness would only make what lay ahead of her more difficult. Besides, she reminded herself yet again, it was unfair to blame Matt for everything that had happened years before. She had willingly participated in their lovemaking the night they met, and she had disregarded her responsibility to protect herself against pregnancy. When she got pregnant, Matt had decently volunteered to marry her. Later, she had convinced herself that he loved her, but he had never said so. He had never actually deceived her, and it was stupid and childish to blame him for not having lived up to her naive expectations. It was as foolish and pointless as the way she’d spoken to him at the opera. Feeling far more calm and reasonable now, Meredith put aside her hurt pride and promised herself to maintain her philosophical composure. The hands on the clock lurched into position at 10:45, and she reached for the telephone.
Matt jumped at the buzz of his intercom. “Miss Bancroft is on the line,” Joanna said.
He picked up the phone. “Meredith?” he said, his voice clipped, impatient, “this is an unexpected surprise.”
Distractedly, Meredith noted that he had not said an “unexpected pleasure,” as was customary, and that his voice was deeper and more resonant than she remembered.
“Meredith!” His irritation vibrated across the distance separating them and snapped her out of her nervous preoccupation. “If you’ve called me to breathe in my ear, I’m flattered but a little confused. What do you expect me to do now?”
“I see you’re still as conceited and ill-mannered as—”
“Ah—you’ve called me to criticize my manners,” Matt concluded.
Meredith sternly reminded herself that her goal was to soothe him, not antagonize him. Carefully reining in her temper, she said with sincerity, “Actually, I’m calling because I’d like to—to bury the hatchet.”
“In what part of my body?”
It was close enough to the truth to wrench a helpless laugh from her, and when Matt heard it, he suddenly remembered how enchanted he’d once been by her infectious laugh and sense of humor. His jaw tightened and his tone hardened. “What do you want, Meredith?”
“I want, that is, I need to talk to you—in person.”
“Last week you turned your back on me in front of five hundred people,” he reminded her icily. “Why this sudden change of heart?”
“Something has happened, and we have to discuss it in a mature, calm fashion,” she said, desperately trying to avoid being specific until she could deal with him face-to-face. “It’s about, well, us—”
“There is no us,” he said implacably, “and it’s obvious from what happened at the opera that calm maturity is beyond your capability.”
An angry retort sprang to Meredith’s lips, but she stifled it. She didn’t want a battle, she wanted a treaty. She was a businesswoman and she had learned to deal successfully with stubborn men—Matt was bent on being difficult; therefore, she needed to maneuver him into a more reasonable frame of mind. Arguing with him would not accomplish that. “I had no idea Sally Mansfield was nearby when I behaved that way to you,” she explained tactfully. “I apologize for what I said, and particularly for saying it in front of her.”
“I’m impressed,” he said in a mocking tone. “You’ve obviously studied diplomacy.”
Meredith grimaced at the phone, but she kept her voice soft. “Matt, I’m trying to call a truce, can’t you cooperate with me just a little?”
The sound of her saying his name jolted him, and he hesitated a full five seconds, then he said abruptly, “I’m leaving for New York in an hour. I won’t be back until late Monday night.”
Meredith smiled with triumph. “Thursday is Thanksgiving Day. Could we do it before then, say on Tuesday, or are you impossibly busy that day?”
Matt glanced down at his desk calendar which was covered with meetings and appointments scheduled for Thanksgiving week. He was impossibly busy. “Tuesday will be fine. Why don’t you come to my office at eleven forty-five?”
“Perfect,” Meredith instantly agreed, more relieved than disappointed by her five-day reprieve.
“By the way,” he said, “does your father know we’re meeting?”
His acid tone told her that his dislike for her father had not diminished. “He knows.”
“Then I’m surprised he hasn’t had you locked and chained to prevent it. He must be getting soft.”
“He’s not soft, but he’s older now and he’s been very ill.” Trying to lessen Matt’s inevitable animosity when he discovered her father inadvertently hired a sham lawyer and that they were still legally married, she added, “He could die at any time.”
“When he does,” Matt countered sarcastically, “I hope to God someone has the presence of mind to drive a wooden stake through his heart.”
Meredith muffled a horrified giggle at his quip and politely said good-bye. But when she hung up, the laughter faded from her face and she leaned back in her chair. Matt had implied her father was a vampire, and t
here was a time when she felt as if he had indeed been draining her life from her. At the very least, he had stolen much of the joy from her youth.
26
By Tuesday, as she stood before the mirror in the private bathroom that adjoined her office, Meredith had managed to convince herself that she could definitely have a polite, impersonal meeting with Matt, as well as persuade him to agree to an uncomplicated, quick divorce.
She touched up her lipstick, brushed her shoulder-length hair into an artful windblown style, then she stepped back to study the effect of the softly draped black wool jersey dress with its high collar, sarong skirt, and long, full sleeves. A wide, shiny gold choker at her neck gleamed brightly against the stark black dress, and at her wrist was a matching bracelet. Pride and good sense demanded that she look her best; Matt dated movie stars and sexy, glamorous models, and she knew she could deal with him better if she felt confident rather than dowdy. Satisfied, she shoved her cosmetics into her purse, picked up her coat and gloves, and decided to take a taxi to his office so that she wouldn’t have to fight traffic or look for a parking space in the rain.
In the taxi she gazed out the window, watching the pedestrians dashing across Michigan Avenue, holding umbrellas and newspapers over their heads. Rain pounded like tiny hammers on the roof of the cab, and she snuggled deeper into the luxurious folds of the fur coat her father had given her on her twenty-fifth birthday. For five days and nights she’d planned her strategy, rehearsed what she would say and how she would say it. Calm, tactful, businesslike—that was how she would act. She would not descend to criticizing him for his past actions. For one thing, he had no conscience; for another, she was adamantly unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how terribly his betrayal had hurt her. No recriminations, she reminded herself—calm, businesslike, and tactful. By behaving that way, she’d set the tone and, hopefully, an example for him to follow. And she wouldn’t just burst out with the information about their problem—she’d ease into it.
Her hands were beginning to shake, and she shoved them into the deep pockets of her coat, her fingers curling into fists of nervous tension. Rivers of rain poured down the cab’s windshield, blurring the traffic signal ahead, turning it into colorful flashes of green, yellow, and red, flashes that reminded her of the fireworks exploding on that Fourth of July evening that had altered the entire course of her life.
The cab driver’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Here we are, miss.”
Meredith fumbled in her purse, paid him, and dashed through the downpour into the soaring glass and steel building that housed Matt’s newest business acquisition.
When she stepped off the elevator on the sixtieth floor, she found herself in a spacious silver-carpeted private reception area. She walked over to the receptionist, a chic brunette who was seated at a round desk, watching Meredith approach with ill-concealed fascination. “Mr. Farrell is expecting you, Miss Bancroft,” she said, obviously recognizing Meredith from her pictures. “He’s in a meeting at the moment, but it should be over in a few minutes. Please have a seat.”
Annoyed because Matt intended to make her wait like a peasant trying to get an audience with a king, Meredith pointedly looked at the clock on the wall. She was ten minutes early.
Her anger left as abruptly as it had come, and she sat in a leather and chrome chair. As she picked up a magazine and opened it, a man hurried out of the corner office, leaving the door ajar. Over the top of the magazine Meredith discovered she had a clear view of the man who was her husband, and she studied him with reluctant fascination.
Matt was seated behind his desk, his dark brows knitted in a thoughtful frown as he leaned back in his chair, listening to the men who were talking to him. Despite his relaxed pose, his jaw was stamped with authority, his chin set with confidence, and even in his shirt-sleeves he seemed to exude an aura of dynamic power that Meredith found slightly surprising and strangely disturbing. The other night, at the opera, she’d been too unstrung to look at him well, let alone study him. But now, as she had the time and opportunity, she noted that his features were much the same as she’d remembered them from eleven years ago . . . and yet subtly different. At thirty-seven, he had lost the brashness of youth, and in its place his face had acquired a hard-bitten strength that made him look even more attractive—and more uncompromising. His hair was darker than she had recalled, his eyes lighter, but there was the same blatant sensuality in that chiseled mouth. One of the men said something funny, and the glamour of Matt’s sudden white smile made her heart contract. Firmly ignoring that unexplainable reaction, she concentrated on the discussion that was under way in his office. Apparently Matt was planning to merge two divisions of Intercorp into one, and the purpose of the meeting taking place was to discuss the smoothest way to handle it.
With mounting professional interest, Meredith noted that Matt’s method of conducting a meeting with his executives was very different from her father’s. Her father called a meeting to give orders, and he was outraged if anyone dared to contradict him. Matt, on the other hand, obviously preferred a lively give-and-take, a free expression of differing opinions and conflicting suggestions. He listened, quietly weighing the merit of each idea, each objection as it was expressed. Instead of bullying his staff into humiliated submission, as her father did, Matt was utilizing the talent of each man, benefiting from each man’s particular expertise. To Meredith, Matt’s way seemed far more sensible and far more productive.
She sat, openly eavesdropping now, while a tiny seed of admiration took root and began to grow. She lifted her arm to lay the magazine aside, and as if the movement caught his attention, Matt suddenly turned his head and looked directly at her.
Meredith froze, the magazine still in her hand as those penetrating gray eyes locked onto hers. Abruptly he pulled his gaze away and looked at the men seated around his desk. “It’s later than I thought,” he said. “We’ll resume this discussion after lunch.”
Within moments the men were filing out, and Meredith’s throat went dry as Matt came stalking toward her. Calm, tactful, businesslike, she reminded herself in a nervous chant as she forced her gaze upward, past the smoothly tailored gray trousers that hugged his long, muscled legs and hips, and looked into his shuttered eyes. No recriminations . . . Ease into the problem, don’t blurt it out.
Matt watched her stand up, and when he spoke his voice was as completely impersonal as his feelings toward her. “It’s been a long time,” he said, deliberately choosing to forget their brief, unpleasant meeting at the opera. She’d apologized for that on the phone; she’d proved her desire for a truce by coming here, and he was willing to meet her halfway. After all, he’d gotten over her years ago, and it was foolish to nurse a grudge over something—and someone—who no longer mattered one damn bit to him.
Encouraged by his apparent lack of animosity, Meredith extended her black-gloved hand and struggled to keep her own nervousness from showing in her voice. “Hello, Matt,” she managed to say with a composure she didn’t at all feel.
His handclasp was brief, businesslike. “Come into my office for a moment; I have to make a phone call before we leave.”
“Leave?” she said as she walked beside him into a spacious silver-carpeted office with a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. “What do you mean, leave?”
Matt picked up the telephone on his desk. “Some new artwork has arrived for my office, and they’re going to be hanging the paintings in a few minutes. Besides, I thought we could talk better over lunch.”
“Lunch?” Meredith repeated, thinking madly for a way to avoid it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already eaten, because I won’t believe you,” he said, punching out a number on the telephone. “You used to think it was uncivilized to eat lunch before two in the afternoon.”
Meredith remembered saying something like that to him during the days she spent at the farm. What a smug little idiot she had been at eighteen, she thought. These days, she normally at
e lunch at her desk—when and if she had time to eat at all. Actually, lunch in a restaurant wasn’t a bad idea, she realized, because he wouldn’t be able to curse or shout or make a scene when she told him her news. Rather than stand there while he waited for the person he was calling to come to the phone, Meredith wandered over to inspect his collection of modern art. At the far end of the room, she noted and identified the only piece she liked—a large Calder mobile. On the wall beside it was a huge painting with blobs of yellow, blue, and maroon on it, and she stood back, trying to see what anyone found to like in such stuff. To her, the painting looked like fish eyes swimming in grape jelly. Beside it was another painting which appeared to depict a New York alley . . . she tipped her head to one side, studying it intently. Not an alley—a monastery, perhaps—or possibly upside-down mountains with a village and a stream running in a slash diagonally across the entire canvas, and trash cans . . .
Standing behind his desk, Matt watched her while he waited for his call to go through. With the detached interest of a connoisseur, he studied the woman standing in his office. Wrapped in a mink coat, with a gold choker glittering at her throat, she looked elegant, expensive, and pampered—an impression that was at striking variance with the madonnalike purity of her profile as she gazed up at the painting, her hair sparkling like minted gold beneath the spotlights overhead. At nearly thirty, Meredith still projected that same convincing aura of artless sophistication and unconscious sex appeal. No doubt that had been a major part of her allure for him, he thought sardonically—her heart-stopping beauty combined with a superficial but convincing air of regal aloofness and a touch of nonexistent sweetness and goodness. Even now, a decade older and wiser, he would still find her exquisitely appealing if he didn’t already know how heartless and selfish she really was.