His irate gaze jerked from the cleavage exposed by her jacket to her taunting expression. "Why
dont
you dress like other women?" he demanded.
"I don't know," Lisa said, pausing as if to think it over, then with a bright smile, she announced, "It's probably the same stroke of perversity that makes you enjoy foreclosing on widows and orphans. Where's Meredith?
"In the ladies' lounge."
Having thus indulged in the sort of uncharacteristic rudeness that had festered between both of them for years, they both stoically sought to avoid looking at each other by focusing their attention on the crowd. Simultaneously, a subdued commotion erupted off to their right, and they both looked in that direction, watching as television crews and newspaper reporters, who'd been wandering among the guests or standing on the sidelines, suddenly galvanized into action, rushing toward their prey. Flashes from cameras started going off, and Lisa leaned farther to the right, catching a glimpse of the press mobbing the dark-haired man she'd noticed with Alicia Avery. Television cameras were aiming at his face as he escorted her forward through the explosion of flashbulbs and the throng of reporters waving microphones at him. "Who is that?" she asked, glancing uncertainly at Parker.
"I can't see—" Parker began, watching the uproar with mild interest, but when the crowd parted, he tensed. "It's Farrell."
The last name, combined with the full view of Farrell's tanned face, was enough to tell Lisa that the man with Alicia was Meredith's faithless, heartless, former husband. Hostility exploded inside her as she watched him stop to answer questions being called out to him by reporters, while Alicia Avery hung on his arm, smiling for the photographers. For a long moment Lisa stood there, remembering the anguish he'd caused Meredith and contemplating the wholly satisfying idea of marching up to him in front of the fawning media and calling him a son of a bitch right to his face! Meredith wouldn't like that, she knew; Meredith hated scenes and, besides, no one but Parker and Lisa knew that Meredith and he had ever been involved in any way. Meredith! The thought hit her at the same instant it struck Parker, wiping the bland, civilized expression from his own face as he watched Farrell. "Did Meredith know he was going to be here?" she gasped at the same instant Parker clasped her arm and ordered, "Find Meredith and warn her that Farrell's here."
As Lisa sidled and shoved her way into the crowd, Matthew Farrell's name was already passing through them like a whispered chant. He'd broken away from the press, except for Sally Mansfield, who was standing behind him as he spoke with Stanton Avery near the foot of the grand staircase. Keeping one eye on Farrell so she could warn Meredith where he was, and her other eye on the balcony, Lisa plunged forward, then stopped in helpless dismay as Meredith suddenly appeared and started down the staircase.
Since she couldn't get to her before she reached the bottom step and passed by Farrell, Lisa stood still, taking grim satisfaction in the fact that Meredith had never looked more stunning than she did right now—when her lousy ex-husband was about to see her for the first time in eleven years! In complete defiance of the current slinky fashions, Meredith was wearing a full-skirted strapless gown of shimmering white satin with a tightly fitted bodice sewn with seed pearls and strewn with white sequins and tiny crystals. At her throat was a magnificent ruby and diamond necklace that was either a gift from Parker, which Lisa was inclined to doubt, or on loan from the estate jewelry department of Bancroft's, which Lisa figured was more likely.
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
fiance
. I need to speak to her
fiance
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
hear
d—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.
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 wandered 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.