Paradise (38 page)

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
bis
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.

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 wonder 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."

"How do you know all this?" Matt asked.

"When I flew to
Houston in October to visit my sister, I decided to look Thorp over and check out some of their properties while I was there. I got the name of their banker, Charles Collins, from Max Thorp, and I allied him when I got back here. Collins was desperately eager to 'help' Thorp find a buyer, and he talked his head off. In the course of our conversation, I began to suspect that the reason for his eagerness might be that he needs to get Thorp's loans off his books. He called me last Thursday and told me Thorp was eager to work a deal with us and that they'd sell out very cheap. He urged me to reconsider and make them an offer. If we move quickly, I figure we can pick up any of Thorp's properties for the amount of the mortgages on them, rather than their actual value, because Collins is about to foreclose and Thorp obviously knows it."

"What makes you think he's about to foreclose?"

Peter smiled a little. "I called a banker friend of mine in
Dallas and asked if he knew Collins at Continental City Trust. He said he did, and he made a friendly phone call to Collins, ostensibly to commiserate about the sad state of banking in
Texas
. Collins told
him
the bank examiners were pressuring him to foreclose on several large, delinquent loans—including the ones to Thorp." Peter paused in silent triumph, waiting for some sort of compliment from his dispassionate boss for the thoroughness and outcome of his research; what he got was a brief smile and an almost imperceptible nod of approval. It felt as if God had just blessed him. Buoyed up beyond all bounds of reason by that,
Peter leaned
forward in his chair. "Are you interested in hearing about some of the properties Thorp owns? A couple of them are
prime
parcels that could be developed and sold for a fortune."

"I'm listening," Matt said, though he wasn't nearly as interested in buying and developing raw land as he was in buying commercial buildings.

"The best of Thorp's properties is a very desirable fifteen-acre parcel of land two blocks from The Galleria which is an enormous and deluxe shopping center with its own hotels. Neiman-Marcus is in the Galleria complex;
Saks Fifth Avenue
and a lot of exclusive designer boutiques are close by, and the expressway is within sight. Thorp's property is between the two shopping complexes, and it's the perfect site for another top-quality department store and mall."

"I've seen the area when I was there on business," Matt put in.

"Then you surely know what a bargain it would be if we could buy that piece of land for the twenty million Thorp owes on it. We could either develop it ourselves or hold on to the land and sell it later for a nice profit. Five years ago, it was worth $40 million. If
Houston continues its economic recovery, it'll be worth that soon."

Matt was jotting notes in the Thorp file and waiting for a break in Peter's recitation so that he could explain that he preferred that
Intercorp
invest in commercial buildings, when Peter added, "If you're interested, we'd have to move quickly because both Thorp and Collins indicated they're expecting an offer for that property at any hour. I thought they were trying to hustle me until they named names. Evidently Bancroft & Company, here in
Chicago, is hot for the land, and no wonder! There's nowhere else in
Houston like it. Hell, we could grab it for twenty million and turn around in a few months and sell it to Bancroft's for twenty-five to thirty million which is what it's actually worth." Peter's voice trailed off because Matthew Farrell's head had snapped up and he was staring at Peter with a very strange expression on his face.

"What did you say?" he demanded.

"I said that Bancroft & Company plans to buy the land," Peter said, wary of that cold, calculating, ominous look in Farrell's eyes. Thinking Farrell wanted more information, he added quickly, "Bancroft's is like Bloomingdale's or Neiman-Marcus—old, dignified stores with a predominantly upper class clientele. They've begun expanding into—"

"I'm familiar with Bancroft's," Matt said tightly. His gaze shifted to the file on Thorp and he studied the appraisal on the
Houston land with heightened interest. He saw the figures on the appraisal documents, and he realized the land was a bargain with a huge potential for profit. But profit wasn't on his mind right now. With renewed anger, he was thinking of Meredith's actions Saturday night.

"Buy it," he said softly.

"But don't you want to hear about some of the other properties?"

"I'm not interested in anything except the piece of property that Bancroft's wants. Tell legal to draw up an offer, contingent on our own appraiser agreeing with Thorp's appraiser on the value of the tend. Take it to
Houston tomorrow and present it to Thorp yourself."

"An offer?" Peter almost stammered. "For how much?"

"Offer fifteen million, and give them twenty-four hours to sign the contract or we'll walk. They'll counter immediately with twenty-five. Settle at twenty, and tell them we want ownership of the property within three weeks or the deal is off."

"I really don't think—"

"There's another contingency. If Thorp accepts our offer, they are to keep the entire transaction completely confidential. No one is to know we're buying that land until after the sale is consummated. Tell legal to include all that in the contract, along with the other usual contingencies."

Suddenly Peter felt uneasy. In the past, when Farrell had invested in or bought companies Peter had recommended, he hadn't done it on Peter's recommendations alone. Far from it. He'd checked things out himself and taken precautions. This time, however, if something went wrong, Peter would be solely and entirely held to blame. "Mr. Farrell, I really don't think—"