Partway down the staircase, Meredith stopped to speak to an elderly couple, and Lisa held her breath. Parker stepped up beside her, his gaze shifting restlessly from Farrell to Sally Mansfield to Meredith.
His attention on what Stanton was saying to him, Matt looked around for Alicia, who’d gone to the powder room, and someone called his name—or what sounded like his name. Turning his head, he looked for the source of the voice, looked higher, toward the staircase. . . . And he froze. With his champagne glass arrested halfway to his mouth, Matt stared at the woman on the staircase who had been a girl, and his wife, the last time he saw her. And at that moment he understood why the media loved to compare her to a young Grace Kelly. With her blond hair caught up in an elegant cluster at the nape, entwined with small white roses, Meredith Bancroft was a breathtakingly beautiful image of breeding and serenity. In the years since he’d last seen her, her figure had ripened, and her delicately boned face had acquired a radiance that was mesmerizing. Matt’s shock vanished as quickly as it had hit him, and he managed to drink his champagne and nod at whatever Stanton was saying to him, but he continued to study the lush beauty on the staircase—only now it was with the detached interest of an expert examining a piece of art he already knows is flawed and a fake.
Except that even he could not entirely harden his heart against her as she stood there, listening to an older couple who were stopping her from descending the stairs. She had always gotten along well with people much older than she was, Matt remembered, thinking of the night she had taken him under her wing at her country club, and his heart softened yet more. He searched for signs of the brittle woman executive in her, but what he saw was an entrancing smile, shining turquoise eyes, and an unexpected aura of being—he searched his mind for the word and all he could think of was untouched. Perhaps it was the virginal white she wore, or the fact that while most of the other women were wearing seductive gowns that were slashed down to the navel and up to the thigh, Meredith had bared only her shoulders, and she still managed to look more provocative than they. Provocative and regal and unattainable.
Within him he felt the last vestiges of bitterness subside. More than beauty, there was a gentleness about her that he’d forgotten—a gentleness that had to have been overridden by nothing less than stark terror in order for her to have gone through with that abortion. She had been so young when she was forced to marry him, Matt thought now, and she hadn’t really known him at all. No doubt she expected to end up living in some dirty town like Edmunton, married to a drunk—as Matt’s father had been—and trying to raise their child. Her father would have damned sure tried to convince her that was going to happen; he’d have done anything to put an end to her alliance with a nobody—including convincing her to have an abortion and divorce him. Matt had realized all that shortly after their divorce. Unlike her father, Meredith had never been a snob, not really. Well-bred and carefully raised, yes, but never actually such a complete snob that she’d have done those things to Matt and their child. Fear and youth and pressure from her domineering father had done that. He realized that now. After eleven years it had taken seeing her again to realize what she had been. And what she still was.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Stanton said, nudging Matt.
“Very.”
“Come with me, I’ll introduce you to her and her fiancé. I need to speak to her fiancé anyway. By the way, you should get to know Parker—he controls one of the biggest banks in Chicago.”
Matt hesitated, and then he nodded. Meredith and he were bound to see each other at all sorts of social functions; it seemed best to get past the hurdle of the first confrontation now rather than later. At least this time, when he was introduced to her, he wouldn’t have need to feel like a social leper.
Scanning the crowd for Parker, Meredith descended the last step, then stopped at the sound of Stanton Avery’s bluff, jovial voice beside her. “Meredith,” he said, putting a detaining hand on her arm, “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
She was already smiling, already beginning to extend her hand as she shifted her gaze from Stanton’s grin to a very tall man’s tanned throat and then to his face. Matthew Farrell’s face. Mind reeling, stomach churning, she heard Avery’s voice as if in a tunnel, saying, “This is my friend, Matt Farrell. . . .” And she saw the man who had let her lie alone in the hospital when she lost his baby, then sent her a telegram telling her to get a divorce. Now he was smiling down at her—that same, unforgettable, intimate, charming, loathsome smile, while he reached out to take her hand, and something inside of Meredith burst. She jerked her hand out of Matt’s reach, looked him over with freezing contempt, and turned to Stanton Avery. “You really ought to be more selective about your friends, Mr. Avery,” she said with cool hauteur. “Excuse me.” Turning her back, Meredith walked away, leaving behind her a fascinated Sally Mansfield, a stunned Stanton Avery, and an infuriated Matthew Farrell.
It was three A.M. before the last of Meredith and Parker’s guests left Meredith’s apartment, leaving only the two of them with her father. “You shouldn’t be up so late,” Meredith told him as she sank down on a chintz-covered Queen Anne chair. Even now, hours after confronting Matthew Farrell, she still shook inside when she thought of it, only now it was anger with herself that haunted her—that, and the savage fury in his eyes when she left him standing there with his hand outstretched to her, looking like a fool.
“You know perfectly well why I’m still here,” Philip said, pouring himself a glass of sherry. He hadn’t learned of Meredith’s meeting with Farrell until an hour ago when Parker told him, and he obviously intended to hear the details.
“Don’t drink that. The doctors said you shouldn’t.”
“Damn the doctors, I want to know what Farrell said to you. Parker tells me you cut Farrell dead.”
“He didn’t have a chance to say a word to me,” Meredith replied, and she told him exactly what had transpired. When she was finished, she watched in frustrated silence as he swallowed down the forbidden sherry—an aging, impressive, silver-haired man in a custom-tailored tuxedo. He had dominated and manipulated her for most of her life, until she had finally found the courage and fortitude to withstand the force of his iron will and volcanic temper. And despite all that, she loved him and worried about him. He was all the family she had, and his face was drawn from illness and fatigue. As soon as his leave of absence was arranged he was taking an extended cruise, and his doctor had made him promise that he’d neither worry about Bancroft & Company, world affairs, or anything whatsoever. For the six weeks he was away, he wasn’t to watch the news, read the paper, or do anything that wasn’t completely frivolous and restful. Tearing her gaze from her father, she looked at Parker and said, “I wish you hadn’t told my father what happened tonight. It wasn’t necessary.”
Sighing, Parker leaned back in his chair and reluctantly told her of something she hadn’t known. “Meredith, Sally Mansfield saw—and probably heard—the whole confrontation. We’ll be lucky if everyone doesn’t read about it in her column tomorrow.”
“I hope she prints it,” Philip said.
“I don’t,” Parker countered, ignoring Philip’s glower with his usual unruffled calm. “I don’t want people asking questions about why Meredith snubbed him.”
Leaning her head back, Meredith let out a ragged sigh and closed her eyes. “If I’d had time to think, I wouldn’t have done it—not so openly, anyway.”
“Several of our friends were asking about it already tonight,” Parker said. “We’ll have to think of some explanation,” he began, but Meredith interrupted him.
“Please,” she said wearily, “not tonight. I, for one, would like to go to bed.”
“You’re right,” Parker said, and stood up, giving Philip little choice except to leave with him.
18
It was nearly noon by the time Meredith got out of the shower. Clad in burgundy wool slacks and a sweater, with her hair pulled up into a ponytail, she w
andered into the living room and looked with renewed dismay at the Sunday Tribune she’d flung onto the sofa after seeing Sally Mansfield’s column. The very first item Sally had written was about last night’s fiasco:
Women all over the world seem to be falling prey to Matthew Farrell’s legendary charm, but our own Meredith Bancroft is certainly immune to him. At the opera benefit ball Saturday night, she gave him what would have been called in olden days the “cut direct.” Our lovely Meredith, who is reputedly gracious to one and all, refused to shake Matthew Farrell’s hand. One wonders why.
Too tense to work and too weary to go out, Meredith stood in the center of the lovely room, looking at the antique tables and chairs as if they were as unfamiliar to her as her own inner turmoil. The Persian carpet beneath her feet was patterned in pale green and rose on a cream background. Everything was exactly as she’d wanted it, from the chintz draperies pulled back from the wide windows to the ornate French desk she’d found at an auction in New York. This apartment, with its view of the city, had been her only real extravagance—this and the BMW she’d bought five years earlier. Today the room seemed jumbled and unfamiliar, exactly as her thoughts were.
Abandoning the notion of working for a while, she walked into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. With her back against the counter, she sipped her coffee, waiting for the feeling of unreality to vanish, avoiding thinking about last night until her head cleared. With a fingernail she idly traced the vines that wound through the ceramic tiles on the countertop. Plants hung from the ceiling over the breakfast nook, basking in the sunlight coming through the windows. Today the sky was overcast. So was she. The hot, fresh coffee was doing more to erase the numbness in her mind than the shower had, and as full awareness returned, she could hardly bear the angry shame she felt for her behavior last night. Unlike Parker and her father, Meredith didn’t regret what she had done because of a fear about the repercussions of Sally Mansfield’s column. What hammered at her was the fact that she had lost control—no, that she had lost her mind! Years ago she had forced herself to stop blaming Matthew Farrell, not so much for his sake but for her own, because the fury and pain she’d felt at his betrayal had been more than she could endure. A year after her miscarriage, she had made herself think over, objectively, all that had happened between them; she had struggled and worked for that objectivity, and when she’d found it, she’d clung to it until it was a part of her.
Objectivity—and a psychologist she’d talked to in college—had enabled her to understand that what had happened to them had been inevitable. They’d been forced to marry each other, and except for the child they’d conceived together, they did not have one single other reason to stay married. They’d had nothing in common, nor would they ever have had. Matt had been callous in the way he’d ignored her plea to come home from South America when she miscarried, and more callous in his immediate demand for a divorce. But beneath his surface charm, he’d always been invulnerable and uncompromising. How could he be otherwise, given his background? He’d had to fight his way through life, coping with a drunken father, a young sister, a job in the steel mills, and all the rest. If he weren’t tough, and hard, and consumed with self-purpose, he’d never have made it out of there. When he treated Meredith with such painful indifference eleven years ago, he was simply being what he was: hard and cold and tough. He’d done his duty and married her, prompted perhaps partially by greed. He’d soon realized Meredith had no money of her own and, when she lost the baby, he had no further reason to remain married to her. He had none of her values, and if they’d stayed married, he’d have broken her heart. She’d come to understand all that—or at least she’d thought she had. And yet, last night, for one horrible, turbulent moment she’d lost her objectivity and her composure. That should never have happened, wouldn’t have happened if she’d had just a few minutes warning before she had to confront him—or if he hadn’t smiled at her in that warm, familiar, intimate way! Her hand had actually itched to slap that phony smile off his face.
What she’d said to Stanton had been what she felt; what dismayed her most were the uncontrollable, wrenching feelings that had made her say it. And what she feared was that it might happen again. But even as the thought occurred to her, she realized there was no possibility of that. Except for resenting the fact that Matt had become more handsome, and had acquired more superficial charm than any man with his utter lack of scruples had a right to, she felt nothing now. Evidently, the explosion of emotions she’d felt last night had been the last feeble eruption from a dead volcano.
Now that she’d reasoned her way through it, Meredith felt considerably better. Pouring another cup of coffee, she carried it into the living room and sat down at her desk to work. Her beautiful apartment once again felt orderly and familiar and serene—just like her mind. She glanced at the telephone on her desk, and for one absurd instant she felt an impulse to call Matt Farrell and do what good breeding dictated: apologize for making a scene. She dismissed that nonsensical impulse with a light shrug as she opened her briefcase and took out the financial data for the Houston store. Matthew Farrell hadn’t given a damn about what she thought or what she did when they were married. Therefore, he certainly wouldn’t care what she did last night. Besides, he was so egotistical and so inured, nothing could hurt or offend him.
19
At exactly ten o’clock on Monday morning, Peter Vanderwild presented himself to Miss Stern, whom he’d privately nicknamed “The Sphinx,” then he waited like an irritated supplicant for her to acknowledge him. Not until she was damned good and ready did she stop typing and aim her basilisk gaze at him. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Farrell at ten o’clock,” he informed her.
“Mr. Farrell is in a meeting. He will see you in fifteen minutes.”
“Do you think I should wait?”
“Only if you have nothing whatsoever to do for the next fifteen minutes,” she replied frostily.
Dismissed like a recalcitrant schoolboy, Peter strode stiffly to the elevator and returned to his office. That seemed infinitely wiser than remaining on the sixtieth floor and thus proving to her he had nothing to do for fifteen minutes. At 10:15 Miss Stern motioned him into the inner sanctum while three of Haskell’s vice presidents were still filing out of it, but before Peter could open his mouth, the phone on Matt Farrell’s desk rang.
“Sit down, Peter,” Matt said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” With the phone at his ear, Matt opened the file on potential acquisitions that Peter had left with him. All of them were corporations that owned large blocks of commercial real estate, and Matt had reviewed each one over the weekend. He was pleased with several of Peter’s choices, impressed by the extraordinary thoroughness of his research, and slightly stunned by some of his recommendations. When he hung up the phone, he leaned back in his chair and concentrated all his attention on Peter. “What do you particularly like about the Atlanta company?”
“Several things,” Peter replied, startled by the abruptness of the question. “Their properties are mostly new commercial mid-rise buildings with a high percentage of occupancy. Nearly all their tenants are established corporations with long-term leases, and all the buildings are extremely well maintained and managed. I saw that myself when I flew to Atlanta to look them over.”
“What about the Chicago company?”
“They’re into high-rent residential buildings in prime locations here and their profits are excellent.”
Matt’s gaze narrowed on the younger man as he bluntly pointed out, “From what I could see in this file, many of their buildings are over thirty years old. The cost of renovating and repairs will begin eating into those excellent profits in seven to ten years.”
“I took that into account when I prepared that profit forecast in the file,” Peter said. “Also, the land those buildings are sitting on will always be worth a fortune.”
Satisfied, Matt nodded and opened the next file. It was this recommendation that had made him won
der if Peter’s acclaimed genius might not have been overrated, along with his common sense. Frowning at Vanderwild over the top of the folder, he said, “What made you consider this Houston company?”
“If Houston continues its economic recovery, property values are going to soar and—”
“I realize that,” Matt interrupted impatiently. “What I want to know is why you would recommend we consider acquiring Thorp Development. Everybody who reads The Wall Street Journal knows that company has been for sale for two years, and they know why it hasn’t sold: It’s ridiculously overpriced and it’s badly managed.”
Feeling as if the chair he was sitting in had suddenly become electrified, Peter cleared his throat and doggedly persevered. “You’re right, but if you’ll bear with me a moment, you might change your opinion about its desirability.” When Farrell nodded curtly, Peter plowed ahead: “Thorp Development is owned by two brothers who inherited it ten years ago when their father died. Since they got control of the company, they’ve made a lot of poor investments, and to do that, they’ve mortgaged most of the properties their father had acquired over the years. As a result, they’re in debt up to their corporate ears to Continental City Trust in Houston. The two brothers can’t stand each other, and they can’t agree on anything. For the past two years one brother has been trying to sell off the entire company with all its assets in a single bloc, while the other brother wanted to split up the assets and sell them off in pieces to anyone who’ll buy one. Now, however, they don’t have any choice except to do the latter, and do it quick, because Continental is about to start foreclosing.”