Puzzled not only by the laughing looks being exchanged among Jonathan's other friends, but Leigh's explanation as well, Meredith said, "Why is he bringing him here?"
"It's a joke, Meredith! Jon's angry with his father for forcing him to hire the guy, and then holding him up to Jon as the latest example of what
he
ought to be. Jon brought the guy here to spite his father—you know, to force his father to meet him socially. And you know what's really funny about all this," she whispered just as the two men arrived. "Jon's aunt just told us that his father and mother decided at the last minute to spend the weekend at their summer place instead of coming here—"
Jonathan's overloud, slurred greeting made everyone within hearing turn and stare, including his aunt and uncle and Meredith's father. "Hi, everyone," he boomed, waving an expansive arm to include all of them. "Hi, Aunt Harriet and Uncle Russell!" He waited until he had everyone's attention. "I'd like all of you to meet my buddy, Matt Terrell—no, F-Farrell," he
hiccuped
.
"Aunt Harriet, Uncle Russell," he continued, grinning widely, "say hello to Matt, here. He's my father's latest example of what I ought to be when I grow up!"
"How do you do?" Jonathan's aunt said civilly. Tearing her icy glance from her drunken nephew, she made a halfhearted effort to be courteous to the man he'd brought with him. "Where are you from, Mr. Farrell?"
"
Indiana
," he replied in a calm matter-of-fact voice.
"
Indianapolis?" Jonathan's aunt said, frowning. "I don't believe we know any
Farrells
from
Indianapolis."
"I'm not from
Indianapolis. And I'm certain you don't know my family."
"Exactly where are you from?" Meredith's father snapped, ready to interrogate and intimidate any male who went near Meredith.
Matt Farrell turned and Meredith watched in secret admiration as he met her father's withering glance unflinchingly. "
Edmunton
—south of
Gary."
"What do you do?" he demanded rudely.
"I work in a steel mill," he retorted, managing to look and sound just as hard and cold as her father had.
Stunned silence followed his revelation. Several middle-aged couples who'd been hanging back, waiting for Jonathan's aunt and uncle, looked uneasily at each other and moved away. Mrs.
Sommers
obviously decided to make an equally hasty exit. "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Farrell," she said stiffly, and headed off to the dining rooms beside her husband.
Suddenly everyone was in motion. "Well!" Leigh Ackerman said brightly, looking around at all the people in their group
except
Matt Farrell, who was standing back and slightly to the side. "Let's go eat!" She tucked her hand in Jon's arm and turned him toward the door as she pointedly added, "I reserved a table for nine people."
Meredith did a fast count;
there were nine
people in their group—excluding Matt Farrell. Paralyzed with disgust for Jonathan and all his friends, she remained where she was for the moment. Her father saw her standing in the general proximity of Farrell and stopped on his way to the dining room with his own friends, his hand clamping her elbow. "Get rid of him!" he spat out loudly enough for Farrell to hear, and then he stalked off. In a state of angry, defiant rebellion, Meredith watched him leave, then she glanced at Matt Farrell, not certain what to do next. He'd turned toward the French doors and was gazing out at the people on the terrace with the aloof indifference of someone who knows he is an unwanted outsider, and who therefore intends to look as if he prefers it that way.
Even if he hadn't said he was a steelworker from
Indiana
, Meredith would have known within moments of meeting him that he didn't belong. For one thing, his tuxedo didn't fit his broad shoulders as if it had been custom made for him, which meant it was probably rented, nor did he speak with the ingrained assurance of a socialite who fully expects to be welcomed and liked wherever he is. Moreover, there was an indefinable lack of polish to his mannerisms—a subtle harshness and roughness that intrigued and repelled her at one and the same time.
Given all of that, it was astonishing that he should suddenly remind Meredith of herself. But he did. She looked at him standing completely alone, as if he didn't care about being ostracized—and she saw herself when she was at St. Stephen's school, spending every recess with a book in her lap, trying to pretend she
didn't care either. "Mr. Farrell," she asked as casually as she could, "would you like something to drink?"
He turned in surprise, hesitated a moment, then he nodded. "Scotch and water."
Meredith signaled a waiter who hurried to her side, "Jimmy, Mr. Farrell would like a Scotch and water."
When she turned back, she found Matt Farrell studying her with a slight frown, his gaze drifting over her face, her breasts and waist, then lifting again to her eyes, as if he were suspicious of her overture and trying to figure out why she'd bothered making it. "Who was the man who told you to get rid of me?" he asked abruptly.
She hated to alarm him with the truth. "My father."
"You have my deepest and most sincere sympathy," he mocked gravely, and Meredith burst out laughing because no one had ever dared criticize her father, even indirectly, and because she suddenly sensed that Matt Farrell was a "rebel," just as she'd decided to be. That made him a kindred spirit, and instead of pitying him or being repelled by him, she suddenly thought of him as a brave mongrel who'd been unfairly thrust into a group of haughty pedigrees. She decided to rescue him. "Would you like to dance?" she asked, smiling at him as if he were an old friend.
He gave her an amused look. "What makes you think a steelworker from
Edmunton
,
Indiana
, knows how to dance, princess?"
"Do you?"
"I think I can manage."
That was a rather unfair assessment of his ability, Meredith decided a few minutes later as they danced outside on the terrace to the slow tune the little band was playing. He was actually quite competent, but he wasn't very relaxed and his style was conservative.
"How am I doing?"
Blissfully unaware of the double meaning that could be read into her lighthearted evaluation, she said, "So far, all I've been able to tell is that you have good rhythm and you move well. That's all that really matters anyway." Smiling into his eyes to take away any taint of criticism he might mistakenly read into her next words, she confided, "All you actually need is some practice."
"How much practice do you recommend?"
"Not much. One night would be enough to learn some new moves."
"I didn't know there are any 'new' moves."
"There are," Meredith said, "but you have to learn to relax first."
"First?" he repeated. "All this time, I've been under the impression that you were supposed to relax
after
ward
."
It hit her suddenly, what he was thinking and saying. Giving him a level look, she said, "Are we talking about dancing, Mr. Farrell?"
There was an unmistakable reprimand in her voice, and it registered on him. For a moment he studied her with heightened interest, reassessing, reevaluating. His eyes weren't light blue as she'd originally thought, but a striking metallic gray, and his hair was dark brown, not black. When he spoke, his quiet voice had an apology in it. "We are now." Belatedly explaining the reason for the constraint she'd sensed in his movements, he said, "I tore a ligament in my right leg a few weeks ago."
"I'm sorry," Meredith said, apologizing for asking him to come out here. "Does it hurt?"
A startling white smile swept across his tanned face. "Only when I dance."
Meredith laughed at the joke and felt her own worries begin to fade into the background. They stayed outside for another dance, talking about nothing more meaningful than the bad music and the good weather. When they returned to the lounge, Jimmy brought their drinks. Goaded by mischief and resentment for Jonathan, Meredith said, "Please charge these drinks to Jonathan
Sommers
, Jimmy." She glanced at Matt and saw the surprise on his face.
"Aren't you a member here?"
"Yes," Meredith said with a rueful smile. "That was petty revenge on my part."
"For what?"
"For—" Belatedly realizing that anything she said now would sound like pity or embarrass him, she shrugged. "I don't like Jonathan
Sommers
very much."
He looked at her oddly, picked up his drink, and tossed down part of it. "You must be hungry. I'll let you go and join your friends."
It was a polite gesture intended to excuse her, but Meredith had no desire to join Jon's group now, and as she looked around the room, it was obvious that if she did leave Matt Farrell there, no one else was going to make the slightest effort to befriend him. In fact, everyone in the lounge was giving both of them a wide berth. "Actually," she said, "the food here isn't
all
that wonderful."
He glanced at the occupants of the lounge and put his glass down with a finality that told her he intended to leave. "Neither are the people."
"They aren't staying away out of meanness or arrogance," she assured him. "Not really."
Slanting her a dubious, disinterested look, he said, "Why do
you
think they're doing it?"
Meredith saw several middle-aged couples who were friends of her father's—nice people, all of them. "Well, for one thing, they're embarrassed about the way Jonathan acted. And because of what they know about you—where you live and what you do for a living, I mean—most of them simply concluded that they don't have anything in common with you."
He obviously thought she was patronizing him because he smiled politely and said, "It's time for me to go."
Suddenly the idea of having him leave with nothing but humiliation to remember the evening didn't seem fair at all. In fact, it seemed unnecessary and .. . and unthinkable! "You can't leave yet," she announced with a determined smile. "Come with me, and bring your drink."
His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because," Meredith declared with stubborn mischief, "it helps to have a drink in your hand to do this."
"Do what?" he persisted.
"Mingle," she declared. "We are going to mingle!"
"Absolutely not!" Matt caught her wrist to draw her back, but it was too late. Meredith was suddenly bent on ramming him down everyone's throat and making them like it.
"Please humor me," she said softly, her gaze beseeching.
A reluctant grin tugged at his lips. "You have the most amazing eyes—"
"Actually, I'm terribly nearsighted," she teased with her most melting smile. "I've been known to walk into walls. It's a pitiful thing to watch. Why don't you give me your arm and guide me out into the hall so I don't stumble?"
He wasn't proof against her humor or that smile. "You are also very single-minded," he replied, but he chuckled and reluctantly offered her his arm, prepared to humor her.
A few steps down the hall Meredith saw an elderly couple she knew. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Foster." She greeted them cheerfully as they started to stroll past without seeing her.
They stopped at once. "Why, hello, Meredith," Mrs. Foster said, then she and her husband smiled at Matt with polite inquiry.
"I'd like you to meet a friend of my father's," Meredith announced, swallowing her laughter at Matt's incredulous glance. "This is Matt Farrell. Matt is from
Indiana
, and he's in the steel business."
"A pleasure," Mr. Foster said genially, shaking Matt's hand. "I know Meredith and her father don't play golf, but I hope they told you we have two championship courses here at
Glenmoor
. Are you going to be here long enough to play a few rounds?"
"I'm not certain I'm going to be here long enough to finish this drink," Matt said, obviously expecting to be forcibly evicted when Meredith's father discovered she was introducing Matt as his friend.
Mr. Foster nodded in complete misunderstanding. "Business always seems to get in the way of pleasure. But at least you'll see the fireworks tonight—we have the best show in town."
"You're going to tonight," Matt predicted, his narrowed gaze focused warningly on Meredith's guileless expression.
Mr. Foster returned to his favorite subject of golf, while Meredith struggled unsuccessfully to keep her face straight. "What's your handicap?" he inquired of Matt.
"I think
I'm
Matt's handicap tonight," Meredith interceded, slanting Matt a provocative, laughing look.
"What?" Mr. Foster blinked.
But Matt didn't answer and Meredith couldn't, because his gaze had fixed on her smiling lips, and when his gray eyes lifted to hers, there was something different in their depths.
"Come along, dear," Mrs. Foster said, observing the distracted expressions on Matt and Meredith's faces. "These young people don't want to spend their evening discussing golf." Belatedly recovering her composure, Meredith told herself sternly she'd had too much champagne, then she tucked her hand through the crook of Matt's arm. "Come with me," she said, already walking down the staircase to the banquet room where the orchestra was playing.