"No," Meredith said, starting to panic at how the police might construe Matt's remark, and then inspiration struck. She was so relieved, she smiled. "I'm Matt's wife, I have no duty to repeat that, not even in a courtroom."
Philip looked at Lisa. "You heard it, and you're not married to the bastard."
Lisa looked at Meredith and saw the pleading in her eyes. Without further hesitation she took her side. "Actually, Mr. Bancroft," she lied with
an apologetic smile, "I don't think that's what Matt said after all. No, I'm sure it wasn't. You know how imaginative I am," she added, backing out of the office, "that's why I'm such a brilliant designer here—a very vivid imagination."
When her father transferred his frustrated glower to her, Meredith pointed out something to him that had just occurred to her. "You know," she told him quietly, "in your desperation to blame Matt for everything, you're tripping on your own faulty logic. On the one hand, you're accusing him of having no feelings for me, and of using me merely to get revenge against you. If that's true, how can you possibly believe he'd actually have
Spyzhalski
murdered to protect me from scandal?" She scored a point with that one, she knew, because her father swore under his breath and walked out, but an instant later Meredith's heart missed a beat as something else Matt said came back to haunt her. The same night
Spyzhalski's
body was found, she'd been teasing him about his offer to divert the reporters while she drove into his apartment garage.
You'd do that? Just for me?
she'd joked, but his reply hadn't been joking, it had been said with deadly earnestness.
You have no idea,
he'd answered,
how much I'd do
—
just for you.
Meredith walked over to her desk and shook her head, shoving the thought aside. "Stop it!" she warned herself aloud. "You're letting everyone else's suspicions get to you!"
At six o clock, however, it became almost impossible not to do exactly that. "Here are your first two pieces of evidence, Meredith," her father announced, walking in with Mark Braden, and furiously tossing two reports onto her desk.
Filled with sudden foreboding, Meredith slowly shoved the advertising budget she'd been reviewing aside, glanced at the grim faces of both men, and pulled the reports over in front of her. The first report was a lengthy background check that Mark had run on Matt. On it, Mark had put red circles around the names of every company Matt owned, every legitimate business enterprise he was involved in, and there were dozens of them. Eight of the names had large red X's beside them. She looked at the other report, which contained the names of the people, institutions, and companies that had recently acquired more than a 1,000-share block of stock in Bancroft's, and her heart began to thud with dread: Those eight names with the red X's on the investigative report about Matt
also
appeared on the list of new shareholders. Combined, Matt had already acquired a gigantic block of stock in B & C, all of it purchased in names other than his own or
Intercorp's
.
"That's only the beginning," her father said. "That shareholder list isn't up-to-date, and the investigative report on Farrell is incomplete. God knows how many additional shares he's bought or in what names. When our stock prices went up, Farrell obviously decided to put a few bombs in our stores to drive them down, so he could buy them cheaper. Now," he said, leaning his flattened palms on her desk, "will you admit that he's behind what's happening to us?"
"No!" Meredith said stonily, but God help her, she wasn't certain whether she was denying that he was right or denying her ability to admit it. "All this proves is that he—he decided to acquire shares of our stock. There could be several reasons for that. Perhaps he realized we're a good long-term investment and it—it amused him to make money on your own company!" She stood up, her knees shaking, and looked at both men. "That's a far cry from having bombs planted in our stores or having people murdered!"
"Why did I ever think you had sense!" Philip said in frustrated fury. "That bastard already owns the property we want in
Houston, and God knows how much he owns of us! He's already got enough shares to vote himself a
seat
on our board right now—"
"It's late," Meredith interrupted, but her voice was taut with strain as she shoved work into her briefcase. "I'm going to go home and try to work there. You and Mark can
continue this—this witch hunt without me!"
"Stay away from him, Meredith!" her father warned as she started for the door. "If you don't, you may end up looking like a co-conspirator in all this. By Friday at the latest we'll have enough proof put together to turn him over to the authorities—"
She turned, trying to look scornful. "What authorities?"
"The Securities and Exchange Commission, for starters! If he's acquired five percent of our stock, and I'm damned sure he has by now, then he's in violation of the SEC rules because he hasn't notified them he's done it! And if he's violated that law, then the police won't think he's as pure as the driven snow when it comes to the death of that lawyer, or bomb threats—"
Meredith walked out and closed the door behind her. Somehow she managed to smile and say good night to the other executives she passed on her way to the parking garage, but when she slid into the front seat of the car Matt had given her, her composure broke. Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, she stared at the cement wall of the parking garage, shivering uncontrollably. She told herself she was panicking needlessly, that Matt would have a logical, reasonable explanation for all of this. She was not, absolutely was
not
going to convict him in her head on such circumstantial evidence. She said it over and over again like a chant. Or a prayer. Slowly, the trembling subsided, and she turned the key in the ignition. Matt was innocent, she knew it with every fiber of her being, and she wouldn't dishonor him by doubting him for one more second.
Despite that noble resolve, her fears and misgivings could not be so easily banished, and by the time she'd changed clothes she was so miserable she couldn't concentrate on anything else. She opened her briefcase, listlessly took out the advertising budget, and realized it was pointless to try to work while her mind was in this state. If she could just see Matt, she told herself, see his face and his eyes, and hear his voice, she'd be reassured that he hadn't done the things her father was accusing him of doing.
She was still telling herself that her only reason for needing to see him was for the reassurance of his company and to stop her imagination from running away with itself when she pressed the buzzer beside the double doors of the penthouse. Matt had already put her name on the permanent guest list at the security desk, so he had no idea that she was coming. Joe O'Hara opened the door, his homely face splitting into a wide grin when he saw her. "
Hiya
, Mrs. Farrell! Matt's
gonna
be glad to see you!
Nothin
' could make him gladder," he predicted as he lowered his voice and peered around her, "except if you happened to have suitcases with you?"
"I'm afraid I don't," Meredith said, smiling helplessly at his outrageous gall. In Matt's bachelor household, Joe seemed to be a jack of all trades—not merely chauffeur or bodyguard, but in his off hours he answered the door, the phone, and he even cooked an occasional meal. Now that she was more accustomed to his bulk and that dark, sinister face of his, he reminded her more of a teddy bear—albeit a lethal one.
"Matt's in the library," he said as he closed the door. "He brought a load of work home with him from the office, but he won't mind the interruption, not a bit! Want me to take you to him?"
"No thanks," she said with a smile over her shoulder. "I know the way."
"I was just leaving for a couple hours," he added meaningfully, and Meredith suppressed a silly surge of embarrassment at what he obviously thought was the reason for her visit.
In the doorway to the library she paused, momentarily cheered and reassured by the sight of Matt. Seated on a leather chesterfield, his ankle propped on the opposite knee, he was reading some documents, making notes in the margins. More documents were spread out on the coffee table in front of him. He glanced up, saw her standing there, and the sudden glamour of his lazy white smile made her heart leap. "This must be my lucky day," he said, getting up and walking toward her. "I thought you weren't going to be able to see me tonight— something about your needing to work and get an uninterrupted night's sleep. I suppose it's too much to hope," he added with another grin, "that you brought some suitcases with you?"
Meredith laughed, but it sounded hollow to her own ears. "Joe asked the same thing."
"I definitely ought to fire him for impertinence," Matt teased, pulling her into his arms for a hungry kiss. She tried to respond, but her heart wasn't in it, and he sensed it almost at once. Lifting his head, he studied her for a puzzled moment. "Why do I have the feeling," he asked, "that your mind is on something other than what we're doing?"
"You're obviously more intuitive than I am."
His hands slid down her arms, then he let her go and stepped back, frowning slightly. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I'm not nearly so good at guessing what's going on in your mind," Meredith replied with more force than she'd intended, and she realized with a jolt that she hadn't come to reassure herself with the sight of him.
She'd come for some answers.
"Why don't we go in the living room, where it's more comfortable, and you can explain the meaning of that remark."
Meredith nodded and followed him, but once they were there, she was too restless to sit down and too self-conscious to face him with her unspoken accusations. Uneasy under his steady scrutiny, she let her gaze drift over the room ... past the collage of old photographs of his sister and father and mother framed on a splendid carved marble table, past the leather-bound photo album lying beside it. Sensing her tension, he remained standing, and when he spoke his voice was both puzzled and a little curt. "What's on your mind?"
Startled by his tone, her gaze snapped to his face, and she told him exactly what was on her mind. "Why didn't you tell me last night the police questioned you about
Spyzhalski's
death? How could you spend most of the night with me and never show a sign that you're a—a suspect in it!"
"I didn't tell you because you had enough to deal with without that. Secondly, the police are questioning many of
Spyzhalski's
'clients,' and I am
not
a suspect in his death." He saw the relief and uncertainty she was trying to hide, and his jaw hardened. "Or am I?"
"Are you what?"
"A murder suspect—in your eyes."
"No of course not!" Raking her hair off her forehead in a nervous gesture of confusion and frustration, she looked away from him, unable to stop herself from continuing to prod and hating herself for the mistrust that was making her do it. "I'm sorry, Matt. I've had an awful day." Turning, she studied him with renewed intensity, watching for his reaction as she said, "My father is convinced that someone is about to launch a takeover attempt on us." His expression remained unchanged, unreadable. Guarded? "He thinks that whoever is putting the bombs in our stores might be the same person or group who's planning to take us over."
"It's possible he's right," he said, and from his cool, clipped tone, she knew he was beginning to realize that she suspected him, and that he was going to despise her for it. In profound misery she looked away again, and her gaze fell on the framed photograph of his mother and father smiling at each other on their wedding day. A similar photo had been in one of the albums she'd packed away at the farm. The photographs... The names beneath them . . .
The names.
His mother's maiden name was COLLIER. The Collier Trust had bought up Bancroft & Company's loans. If she hadn't been so beset with other problems, she'd have made the connection before.
Her gaze shot to Matt's face, while the dawning pain of betrayal slashed through her like a thousand jagged knives. "Your mother's name was Collier, wasn't it?" she said, her voice ragged with anguish. "You are the Collier Trust, aren't you!"
"Yes," he said, watching her, as if almost uncertain of how or why she was reacting like this.
"Oh, my
God!"
she said, backing away a step. "You're buying up our stock, and you've bought up all our loans. What are you planning to do, foreclose and take us over if we're late with a payment?"
"That's ridiculous," he said, but there was urgency in his voice as he started toward her. "Meredith, I was trying to help you."
"How?" she cried, wrapping her arms around her stomach and jerking back out of his reach. "By buying up our loans or buying up our stock?"
"Both—"
"You're lying!" she said as everything fell into place, and her blinding obsession with him gave way to agonizing reality. "You started buying our stock the day after we had lunch—right after you found that my father blocked your rezoning request. I've seen the dates. You weren't trying to
help
me!"
"No, not then I wasn't," he answered with desperate sincerity. "I bought the original blocks of stock with every intention of accumulating enough to gain either a seat on your board of directors or possibly a controlling interest."
"And you've kept right on buying them ever since," she flung back. "Only now the shares you're buying are costing you a lot less, aren't they, because our stock has dropped after those bomb threats! Tell me something," she demanded shakily, "just this once, tell me the truth—the complete and entire truth! Did you have
Spyzhalski
killed? Are you behind those bomb threats?"