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 inferred her father was a vampire, and there 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.
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 lined 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 ate 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 forge 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.
When he hung up the phone, he walked over to where she was studying the painting and waited in silence for her comments.
"I—I think it's wonderful," Meredith lied.
"Really?" Matt replied. "What do you like about it?"
"Oh, everything. The colors... the excitement it conveys ... the imagery."
"Imagery," he repeated, his voice incredulous. "What specifically do you see when you look at it?"
"Well, I see what could be mountains—or gothic spires upside down—or..." Her voice trailed off in sublime discomfort. "What do
you
see when you look at it?" she asked with forced enthusiasm.
"I see a quarter of a million dollar investment," he replied dryly, "which is now worth a half million."
She was appalled, and it showed before she could hide it. "For
that?"
"For that," he replied, and she almost thought she saw a glint of answering humor in his eyes.
"I didn't mean that exactly the way it sounded," she said contritely, reminding herself of her plan:
Calm, tactful
... "I know very little about modern art, actually."
He dismissed the subject with an indifferent shrug. "Shall we go?"
When he went to get his coat from the closet, Meredith noticed the framed photograph on his desk of a very pretty young woman sitting on a fallen log with her knee drawn up near her chest, her hair tossing in the wind, her smile dazzling. Either she was a professional model, Meredith decided, or judging from that smile, she was in love with the photographer.
"Who took the picture?" she asked when Matt turned toward her.
"I did, why?"
"No reason." The young woman wasn't one of the famous starlets or socialites Matt had been photographed with. There was a fresh, unspoiled beauty to the girl in the picture. "I don't recognize her."
"She doesn't move in your circles," he said sardonically, shrugging into his suit jacket and coat. "She's just a girl who works as a research chemist in
Indiana
."