Paradise (47 page)

"And she loves you," Meredith concluded, turning in surprise at the veiled sarcasm in his voice.

Matt glanced at his sister's picture. "She loves me."

Meredith sensed instinctively that this girl was important to him, and if that was true—if he was possibly thinking of marrying her—then he would be as eager as she to get a swift, simple divorce. Which would make her task this afternoon much easier.

As they walked through his secretary's office, Matt stopped to talk to the gray-haired woman. "Tom Anderson is at the
Southville
zoning commission hearing," he told her. "If he gets back while I'm at lunch, give him the number at the restaurant and have him call me there."

A silver limousine was waiting at the curb for them. Standing beside it was a burly chauffeur with a broken nose and the physique of a buffalo, who held the back door open for her. Normally, Meredith found riding in a limousine restful and luxurious, but as they charged away from the curb, she grasped the armrest in uneasy surprise. She managed to keep her alarm from showing as the chauffeur hurtled the limo around corners, but when he ran a red light and bluffed out a CTA bus, her gaze darted nervously to Matt.

He responded to her unspoken comment with a mild shrug. "Joe hasn't given up his dream of driving at Indy."

"This
isn't
Indy," Meredith pointed out, clutching the armrest tighter as they swerved around another corner.

"And he isn't a chauffeur."

Determined to imitate his nonchalance, Meredith pried her fingers loose from the padded armrest. "Really? What is he, then?"

"A bodyguard."

Her stomach lurched at this proof that Matt had done things to make people hate him enough to do him physical harm. Danger had never attracted her, she liked peace and predictability and she found the idea of a bodyguard a little barbaric.

Neither of them spoke again until after the car lurched to a stop at the canopied entrance of Landry's, one of
Chicago's most elegant, exclusive restaurants.

The maitre d', who was also a part owner of the restaurant, was stationed at his usual post near the front door, clad in a tuxedo. Meredith had known John ever since her boarding school days, when her father used to bring her there for lunch and John sent soft drinks to her table, fixed up like exotic bar drinks, with his compliments.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Farrell," he intoned formally, but when he turned to Meredith, he added with a twinkling smile: "It's always a pleasure to see you, Miss Bancroft." Meredith shot a swift look at Matt's unreadable face, wondering how he felt at the discovery that she was better known at the restaurant he'd chosen than he was. She forgot about that as they were escorted toward their table, and she realized there were several people whom she knew dining there. Judging from their shocked stares, they recognized Matt and were undoubtedly wondering why she was lunching with a man she'd publicly shunned. Sherry Withers, one of the biggest gossips in Meredith's circle of acquaintances, lifted her hand in a wave, her gaze leveled on Matt, her brows raised in amused speculation.

A waiter led them past banks of fresh flowers and around a fanciful white trellis to a table that was far enough away from the ebony grand piano in the center of the room to enjoy the music, but not so close that it hindered conversation. Unless you were a regular patron of Landry's, it was nearly impossible to reserve a table with less than two weeks notice; reserving a good table, which this one certainly was
,
was virtually impossible, and Meredith wondered idly how Matt had accomplished it.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked her when they were seated.

Her mind shifted abruptly from aimless conjecture over how he got reservations to the very dire confrontation that lay immediately before her. "No, thank you, just ice water—" Meredith began, then she decided a drink might help steady her nerves. "Yes," she corrected herself. "I would."

"What would you like?"

"I'd like to be in
Brazil," she mumbled on a ragged sigh.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Something strong," Meredith said, trying to decide what to drink. "A
Manhattan." She shook her head, negating that drink. It was one thing to be calmed, another to be lulled into saying or doing something she shouldn't. She was a nervous wreck, and she wanted something to soothe her tension. Something she could sip slowly until it did its job. Something she didn't like. "A martini," she decided with an emphatic nod.

"All of that?" he asked, straight-faced. "A glass of water, a
Manhattan, and a martini?"

"No .. . just the martini," she said with a shaky smile, but her eyes were filled with frustrated dismay and an unconscious appeal for his patience.

Matt was temporarily intrigued by the combination of startling contrasts she presented at that moment. Wearing a sophisticated black dress that covered her from throat to wrist, she looked both elegant and glamorous. That alone wouldn't have disarmed him, but combined with the faint blush that was staining her smooth cheeks, the helpless appeal in those huge, intoxicating eyes of hers, and her girlish confusion, she was nearly irresistible. Softened by the fact that she had asked for this meeting to make amends, he abruptly decided to follow the same course of action that he had tried to follow the night he spoke to her at the opera—and that was to let bygones be bygones. "Will I throw you into another bout of confusion if I ask what kind of martini you'd like?"

"Gin," Meredith said. "Vodka," she amended. "No, gin—a gin martini."

Her flush deepened and she was too nervous to notice the glint of amusement in his eyes as he solemnly asked, "Dry or wet?"

"Dry."

"Beefeater's,
Tanqueray
, or
Bombay?"

"Beefeater's."

"Olives or onion?"

"Olives."

"One or two?"

"Two."

"Valium or aspirin?" he inquired in that same bland voice, but a grin was tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she realized he'd been teasing her all along. Gratitude and relief built inside her, and she looked at him, returning his smile. "I'm sorry. I'm, well, a little nervous."

When the waiter had departed with their drink order, Matt considered her admission about being nervous. He looked about him at the beautiful restaurant where a meal cost as much as he used to make in an entire day working at the mill. Without actually intending to, he made an admission of his own: "I used to daydream about taking you to lunch in a place like this."

Distracted by how best to open the subject on her mind, Meredith's glance skimmed over the magnificent pink floral sprays in massive silver containers and the tuxedo-clad waters hovering solicitously at linen-covered tables agleam with china and crystal. "A place like what?"

Matt laughed shortly. "You haven't changed, Meredith; the most extravagant luxury is still ordinary to you."

Determined to maintain the fragile goodwill that had begun while she debated over what to drink, Meredith said reasonably, "You wouldn't know whether I've changed or not—we spent only six days together."

"And six nights," he emphasized meaningfully, deliberately trying to make her blush again, wanting to shake her composure, to see again the uncertain girl who'd been unable to decide what to drink.

Pointedly ignoring his sexual reference, she said, "It's hard to believe we were ever married."

"That's not surprising since you never used my name."

"I'm sure," she countered, striving for a tone of serene indifference, "that there are
dozens
of women who are more entitled to do that than I ever was."

"You sound jealous."

"If I sound jealous," Meredith retorted, holding on to her temper with an effort, and leaning closer across the table, "then there's something terribly wrong with your hearing!"

A reluctant smile drifted across his features. "I had forgotten that prim boarding-school way you have of expressing yourself when you're angry."

"Why,"
she hissed, "are you deliberately trying to goad me into an argument?"

"Actually," he said dryly, "that last was a compliment."

"Oh," Meredith said. Surprised and a little flustered, she shifted her gaze to the waiter who was placing their drinks on the table. They gave him their lunch order, and she decided to wait until Matt had finished part of his drink, until the alcohol in it had soothed him a bit, before she broke the news to him about their nonexistent divorce. She left the next topic up to him to choose.

Matt picked up his glass, annoyed with himself for having needled her, and said with genuine courtesy and interest, "According to the society columns, you're active in a half-dozen charities, the symphony, the opera, and the ballet. What else do you do with your time?"

"I work fifty hours a week at Bancroft's," Meredith replied, vaguely disappointed that he'd never read about her achievements anywhere.

Matt knew all about her supposed accomplishments at Bancroft's, but he was curious about how good an executive she really was, and he knew he could judge that simply by listening to her talk. He began questioning her about her work.

Meredith answered—haltingly at first and then more freely, because she dreaded telling him the reason for this meeting and because her work was her favorite topic. His questions were so astute, and he seemed so genuinely interested in her answers, that before long she was telling him of her achievements and her goals, her successes and her failures. He had a way of listening that encouraged confidences—he concentrated exclusively on what was being said to him, as if each word were interesting and important and meaningful. Before she realized it, Meredith had even confided the problem she faced with accusations of nepotism at the store and how difficult it was to deal with that as well as the chauvinism her father fostered among his staff with his own attitude.

By the time the waiter cleared away their luncheon plates, Meredith had answered all his questions and finished nearly half the bottle of
Bordeaux that he'd ordered. It occurred to her that the reason she'd been so vocal was because she'd been stalling about telling him her upsetting news. But even now, when that could no longer be put off, she felt vastly more relaxed than at the beginning of the meal.

In companionable silence they regarded each other across the table. "Your father is lucky to have you on his staff," Matt said, and he meant it sincerely. He had no doubt that she was one hell of an executive—possibly even a gifted executive. While she'd spoken, her management style had become clear to him; so had her dedication and intelligence, her enthusiasm and, most of all, her courage and wit.

"I'm the lucky one," Meredith said, smiling at him. "Bancroft's means everything to me. It's the most important thing in my life."

Matt leaned back in his chair, absorbing this newly discovered side of her. He frowned at the wine in the glass he was holding, wondering why in the hell she talked about those damned department stores as if they were people whom she loved. Why was her career the most important thing in her life? Why wasn't Parker Reynolds—or some other suitably prominent socialite —more important to her? But even while he asked himself the questions, Matt thought he knew the answer Her father had succeeded after all; he had dominated her so ruthlessly and so effectively, that in the end he had turned her off men almost completely. Whatever her reason for marrying Reynolds was, she apparently wasn't in love with him. Based on what she said, and the way she looked when she spoke of Bancroft's, she was wholly committed to and in love with a department store.

Pity drifted through him as he looked at her. Pity and tenderness—he had experienced those emotions the night he met her, along with a raging desire to possess her that had obliterated his common sense. He had walked into that country club, taken one look at her jaunty smile and glowing eyes, and lost his mind. His heart softened as he remembered the way she had gaily introduced him as if he were a steel magnate from
Indiana
. She had been so full of laughter and life, so innocently eager in his arms. God, he had wanted her! He had wanted to take her away from her father, to cherish and pamper and protect her.

If she had stayed married to him, he would have been incredibly proud of her now. In an impersonal sort of way, he was proud as hell of what she'd become.

Pamper and protect her? Matt realized the direction of his thoughts and clenched his teeth in self-disgust. Meredith didn't need anyone to protect her, she was as deadly as a black widow spider. The only human being who mattered to her was her father, and to appease him, she'd murdered her unborn child. She was spoiled, spineless, and heartless—an empty, beautiful mannequin who was meant to be draped in beautiful clothes and propped at the end of a dining room table. That was all she was good for, it was her only use in life. It was her appearance that had made him forget that for the past few minutes—that gorgeous face of hers with those captivating aquamarine eyes fringed with curly lashes; the proud way she held herself; that soft, generous mouth; the musical sound of her voice; the hesitant, infectious smile. Christ, he'd always been a fool where she was concerned, he thought, but his hostility was suddenly doused by the realization that this spurt of anger was foolish and pointless. Regardless of what she had done, she had been very young and very frightened, and it had happened long ago. It was over. Idly twirling the stem of the wineglass in his fingers, he looked at her and paid her a casual, impartial compliment: "From the sound of things, you've become a formidable executive. If we'd stayed married, I'd probably have tried to lure you over to my organization."