He had unwittingly tossed her the opening she needed, and Meredith seized it. Trying to inject a note of humor into the dire moment, she said with a nervous, choked laugh, "Then start trying to lure me over."
His eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Unable to maintain her wavering smile, Meredith leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table, and drew a long, steadying breath. "I—I have something to tell you, Matt. Try not to get upset."
With a disinterested shrug, he lifted his wineglass toward his mouth. "We have no feelings for each other, Meredith. Therefore, nothing you could tell me could upset me—"
"We're still married," she announced.
His brows jerked together. "Nothing except that!"
"Our divorce wasn't legal,"
she
plunged on, inwardly shrinking from his ominous gaze. "The—the lawyer who handled the divorce wasn't a real lawyer, he was a fraud, and he's being investigated right now. No judge ever signed our divorce decree—no judge even saw it"
With alarming deliberation he put his glass down and leaned forward, his low voice hissing with anger. "Either you're lying or else you don't have enough sense to dress yourself! Eleven years ago, you invited me to sleep with you without giving a thought to protecting yourself from pregnancy. When you
got
pregnant you came running to me and dumped the problem in my lap. Now you're telling me you didn't have the brains to hire a real lawyer to get you a divorce, and we're still married. How in the hell can you run an entire division of a department store and still be that stupid?"
Each contemptuous word he spoke cracked against her pride like a whip, but his reaction was no worse than what she'd expected, and she accepted the tongue-lashing as her due. Fury and shock temporarily robbed him of further speech, and she said in a low, soothing voice, "Matt, I can understand how you feel...."
Matt wanted to believe she was lying about the whole mess, that this was some sort of crazy attempt to get money from him, but his every instinct told him she was telling him the truth.
"If our positions were reversed," she continued, trying to speak in a calm, rational voice, "I would feel just as you do—"
"When did you find this out?" he interrupted tightly.
"The night before I called you to arrange this meeting."
"Assuming you're telling me the truth—that we're still married—just exactly what do you want from me?"
"A divorce. A nice, quiet, uncomplicated,
immediate
divorce."
"No alimony?" he jeered, watching the angry flush steal up her cheeks. "No property settlement, nothing like that?"
"No!"
"Good, because you sure as hell aren't going to get any!"
Angry at his deliberate and rude reminder that his wealth was now far greater than hers, Meredith looked at him with well-bred disdain. "Money was all you ever thought about, all that mattered to you. I never wanted to marry you, and I don't want your money! I'd rather starve than have anyone know we were ever married!"
The maitre d' chose that untimely moment to appear at their table to inquire if their meal had been satisfactory or if they wanted anything else.
"Yes," Matt said bluntly. "I'll have a double shot of scotch on the rocks, and my
wife,"
he emphasized, taking petty, malicious satisfaction out of doing exactly what she'd just said she never wanted to do, "will have another martini."
Meredith, who never, ever had engaged in a public scene, glowered at her old friend and said, "I'll give you a thousand dollars to poison his drink!"
Bowing slightly, John smiled and said with grave courtesy, "Certainly, Mrs. Farrell," then he turned to a furious Matt, and added drolly, "Arsenic or do you prefer something more exotic, Mr. Farrell?"
"Don't you dare ever to call me by that name again!" Meredith warned John. "It is
not
my name."
The humor and affection vanished from John's face, and he bowed again. "My sincerest apologies for having taken undue liberties, Miss Bancroft. Your drink will be delivered with my compliments."
Meredith felt like a complete witch for taking her anger out on him. Morosely, she glanced at John's stiff, retreating back and then at Matt. She waited a moment longer for their tempers to cool, then she drew a long, calming breath. "Matt, it's counterproductive for us to sling insults at one another. Can't we please try to treat each other at least with courtesy? If we could, it would make it much easier for us to deal with all this."
She was right, he knew, and after a moment's hesitation he said shortly, "I suppose we can try. How do you think things ought to be handled?"
"Quietly!" she said, smiling at him in relief. "And
quickly.
The need for secrecy and haste is far greater than you probably realize."
Matt nodded, his thoughts finally becoming more organized. "Your
fiance
," he assumed. "According to the papers, you want to marry him in February."
"Well, yes, there is that," she agreed. "Parker already knows what's happened. He's the one who discovered that the man my father hired isn't a lawyer, and that our divorce doesn't exist. But there's something else— something vitally important to me that I could lose if this comes out."
"What's that?"
"I need a discreet—preferably secret—divorce so that there won't be any gossip or publicity about us. You see, my father is going to take a leave of absence because of his health, and I desperately want the chance to fill in for him as
interim president. I need that chance to prove to the board of directors that when he retires permanently, I'm capable of handling the presidency of the corporation. The board is hesitant to appoint me interim president—as I told you, they're very conservative and they already have doubts about me because I'm relatively young for the position, and because I'm a woman. I already have those two strikes against me, and the press hasn't helped by portraying me as a frivolous social butterfly, which is what they like to do. If the press gets hold of our situation, they'll turn it into a carnival. I've announced my engagement to a very upright, important banker and you're supposed to be marrying a half-dozen starlets, but here we are—still married to each other. Potential bigamy doesn't get people appointed to the presidency of Bancroft's. I promise you, if this comes out, it will put an end to my chances."
"I don't doubt you believe that," Matt said, "but I don't think it would be as damaging to your chances as you think it would."
"Don't you?" she said bitterly. "Think how you reacted when I told you the lawyer was a fraud. You instantly leapt to the conclusion that I am an inept imbecile incapable of managing my own life, let alone anything else, like a department store chain. That is exactly how the board will react, because they're not one bit fonder of me than you are."
"Couldn't your father simply make it clear he wants them to appoint you?"
"Yes, but according to the bylaws of the corporation, the board of directors has to unanimously agree on the election of a president. Even if my father did control them, I'm not certain he'd intercede in my behalf."
Matt was spared the need to reply to that because a waiter was bringing their drinks and another was approaching the table, carrying a cordless telephone. "You have a call, Mr. Farrell," he said. "The caller said you instructed that he call you here."
Knowing the
call
had to be from Tom Anderson, Matt excused himself to Meredith, then he picked up the receiver and said without preamble, "What's the story on the
Southville
Zoning Commission?"
"It's not good, Matt," Tom said. "They've turned us down."
"Why in God's name would they turn down a rezoning request that can only benefit their community?" Matt said, more stunned than angry at that moment.
"According to my contact on the commission, someone with a lot of influence told them to turn us down."
"Any idea who it is?"
"Yeah. A guy named Paulson heads the commission. He told several members of it, including my contact, that
Senator Davies
said he'd consider it a personal favor if our rezoning request was denied."
"That's odd," Matt said, frowning, trying to recall if he'd donated money to Davies's campaign or to his opponent, but before he could remember, Anderson added in a voice reeking with sarcasm, "Did you happen to see a mention of a birthday party given for the good senator in the society column?"
"No, why?"
"It was given by one Mr. Philip A. Bancroft. Is there any connection between him and the Meredith we were talking about last week?"
Fury, white hot and deadly, exploded in Matt's chest. His gaze lifted to Meredith, noting her sudden pallor which could only be attributed to his mention of the
Southville
Zoning Commission. To
Anderson he said softly, icily, "There's a connection. Are you at the office?"
Anderson said he was, and Matt told him, "Stay there. I'll be back at
three o'clock
and we'll discuss the next steps."
Slowly, deliberately, Matt placed the phone back on its cradle, then he looked at Meredith, who'd suddenly developed a consuming need to smooth nonexistent creases in the tablecloth with her fingernail. Guilt and knowledge were written across her face, and he hated her at that moment, despised her with a virulence that was almost uncontainable. She had asked for this meeting not to "bury the hatchet," as she'd claimed, but because she wanted something—several things: She wanted to marry her precious banker, she wanted the presidency of Bancroft's, and she wanted a quick, quiet divorce. He was glad she wanted those things so badly, because she wasn't going to get them. What she and her father
were
going to get was a war, a war they were going to lose to him ... along with everything they had. He signaled the waiter for the check. Meredith realized what he was doing, and the alarm that had quaked through her when he mentioned the
Southville
Zoning Commission escalated to panic. They hadn't agreed to anything yet, and suddenly he was putting a premature end to the discussion. The waiter presented the check in a folded leather case, and Matt yanked a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, tossed it on top of the check without ever looking at it, and stood up. "Let's go," he snapped, already coming around the table and pulling out her chair.
"But we haven't agreed on anything," Meredith said desperately as he took her elbow in a tight grip and began urging her toward the door.
"We'll finish our discussion in the car."
Rain was pounding the red canopy in heavy sheets when they emerged, and the uniformed doorman who was stationed at the curb opened his umbrella, holding it over their heads as they climbed into the limousine.
Matt instructed his chauffeur to drive to Bancroft's department store, and then he gave her his full attention. "Now," he said softly, "what is it you want to do?"
His tone suggested he was going to cooperate, and she felt a mixture of relief and shame—shame because she knew why the zoning commission had turned him down, just as she knew why he was going to be denied membership at the
Glenmoor
Country Club. Mentally vowing to somehow
force
her father to undo the damage he'd done to Matt in those two places, she said quietly, "I want us to get a very quick, secret divorce—preferably out of state or out of the country—and I want the fact of our having been married to remain secret."
He nodded, as if giving the matter favorable consideration, but his next words jarred her. "And if I refuse, how can
you retaliate? I suppose," he speculated in a coldly amused voice, "you could continue to cut me dead at boring society functions and your father could have me blackballed at every other country club in
Chicago."
He already knew about her father blackballing him at
Glenmoor
! "I'm sorry about what he did at
Glenmoor
. Truly I am."
He laughed at her earnestness. "I don't give a damn about your precious country club. Someone nominated me after I'd told him not to bother."
Despite his words, Meredith didn't believe he didn't care. He wouldn't be human if he hadn't been deeply embarrassed at being denied membership. Guilt and shame for her father's petty viciousness made her glance slide away from his. She'd enjoyed his company at lunch, and he'd seemed to enjoy hers too. It had felt so good to talk to him as if the ugly past didn't exist. She didn't want to be his enemy; what had happened years ago wasn't entirely his fault. They both had new lives now— lives they'd made for themselves. She was proud of her accomplishments; he had every right to be proud of his. His forearm was resting on the back of the seat, and Meredith gazed at the elegant, wafer-thin gold watch that gleamed at his wrist, and then at his hand. He had wonderful, capable, masculine hands, she thought. Long ago, those hands had been callused, now they were manicured—
She had a sudden, absurd impulse to take his hand in her own and say,
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the things we've done to hurt each other; I'm sorry we were so wrong for each other.
"Are you trying to see if I still have grease under my fingernails?"
"No!" Meredith gasped, her gaze shooting to his enigmatic gray eyes. With quiet dignity she admitted, "I was wishing that things could have ended differently ... ended so that we could at least be friends now."