Paradise (83 page)

"He's a big boy," Matt said flatly, shoving papers back into his briefcase, "he can take the heat. If he lent you more money than he should have, it's his own fault, and he'll figure out a way to cut his losses." Every time she mentioned Reynolds, jealousy ate at him like acid, and this was no exception; his mood took a sudden turn for the worse. "You need to get a good night's sleep," he told her, and Meredith simultaneously realized that there was an edge to his voice and that he was getting ready to leave. Surprised by his rather abrupt departure, she walked him to the door, berating herself for dumping all her concerns on him.

He turned in the doorway. "What time are we assembling here for your birthday tomorrow?"

"Seven-thirty?" she suggested.

"Fine."

He stepped into the hall and Meredith moved to the open doorway. "About tomorrow night," she said, "since it's my birthday, I'd like to ask a favor of you."

"What's that?" he asked, putting down his briefcase and shrugging into his coat.

"That you and Parker talk to each other—no stony silences," she warned, "like the way you two acted before the press conference. Agreed?"

That was one mention too many of her precious Parker. Matt nodded, started to say something, hesitated, and then took a step forward and said it. "Speaking of Reynolds," he asked with deceptive calm, "are you still sleeping with him?"

Her mouth dropped open, and she demanded, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I assume you were sleeping with him, since you were engaged to him, and I'm asking you if you still are."

"Who the hell do you think you are!"

"Your husband."

For some reason the solemn finality of the statement made her heart slam into her ribs. Her hand tightened on the doorknob in a reflexive grab for support. He saw her reaction and added with a slight smile, "It has a nice sound, once you get used to it."

"No, it doesn't," she replied mutinously. But it did—a little.

His smile vanished. "Then let me introduce you to a word that has an even worse sound. If you are still sleeping with Reynolds, that word is
adultery."

Meredith gave the door a shove that would have sent it crashing into its frame if he hadn't stopped it with his foot and simultaneously hauled her into the hall with his hands on her shoulders. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was both rough and tender, his arms drawing her tightly against him. And then he gentled the kiss, brushing his parted lips on hers in a light, exquisite touch that was even harder to resist than the other one. He trailed his lips to her ear and nipped the lobe, his whisper sending shivers down her spine. "I know you want to kiss me back, I can feel it. Why not indulge the impulse," he invited Her huskily. "I'm more than willing and completely available ..."

To her horror, his teasing statements doused her anger and gave her simultaneous impulses to giggle and to do exactly what he suggested.

"If I die in an accident on the way home tonight," he cajoled softly, his mouth sliding over her cheek toward her lips again, "think how guilty you'll feel if you don't."

Pushed another step toward laughter, Meredith opened her mouth to say something duly flippant or, better yet, sarcastic, and the instant she did, his mouth captured hers. His hand clamped the back of her head, holding her mouth to his while his other arm angled down across her back, holding her hips tightly to his. And Meredith was lost. Locked to him from toe to head, possessed by his hands and mouth and tongue, she went down to ignominious defeat. Against his chest, her fists flattened, her hands sliding up his shirt inside his coat, her fingers splaying wide of their own accord, spreading against the muscled warmth of his chest. His tongue stroked intimately against hers, his mouth inexorably forcing hers to open wider, and suddenly Meredith was welcoming the invasion of his tongue, helplessly kissing him back with all the desperation and confusion rioting inside her. As soon as she did, his arm tightened, his mouth starting to move with fierce, devouring hunger over hers, and Meredith felt his own desire beginning to pour through her veins.

In sheer panic she tore free of his mouth and then his grasp. She stepped back into the doorway, her chest heaving, fists clenched at her sides.

"How could you even
consider
sleeping with Reynolds when you kiss me like that?" he demanded in a low, accusing voice.

Meredith managed a look of angry scorn. "How could you break your promise to behave impersonally tonight?"

"We aren't in your apartment," he pointed out, and his ability to twist everything and everyone to suit himself was the last straw. She stepped back, checked the impulse to slam the door in his face and, at the last second, she shut it with a hard snap. Once inside the protection of her own apartment, however, she slumped against the door and her head bent in anguished defeat. The mere fact that he had blackmailed and coerced her into this arrangement would have been enough to make any woman with a spine be able to withstand him for three short months. But not her, she thought furiously, shoving away from the door. Not her. She hadn't even lasted three weeks! She was spineless where he was concerned, putty in his hands. Filled with self-disgust, Meredith wandered toward the sofa, stopping at the end table to pick up Parker's picture. He looked back at her, smiling, handsome, dependable, filled with integrity. Furthermore, he loved her! He'd told her so dozens of times. Matt hadn't—not once! But was that going to stop her from surrendering her pride, her self-respect, to Matthew Farrell? Probably not, she thought bitterly. Not at this rate.

Stuart had said Matt didn't want to hurt her. Based on the way he'd swooped to her rescue yesterday, Meredith was inclined to accept that even now, when she was battered by emotions she didn't want and couldn't control. No, Matt didn't want to hurt her. For a variety of obscure and convoluted reasons, what Matt
did
want was to have her back with him, and
that
was where she'd get hurt. Matt's reputation for womanizing was legendary; he was also completely unpredictable and unreliable. The combination was absolutely guaranteed to break her heart.

She sank down on the sofa and put her face in her hands. He didn't want to hurt her ... For a few minutes Meredith contemplated trying to appeal to his protective instinct—the same one that had made him move heaven and earth to help her yesterday. She could tell him honestly, "Matt, I know you don't really want to hurt me, so please go away. I have a nice life planned for myself. Don't spoil it for me. I don't mean anything to you—not really. I'm just another conquest to you, a passing fixation you have ..."

She considered it, but she knew it would be a waste of time. She'd already said as much to him, but to no avail. Matt meant to fight this battle to the very end and emerge victorious—and he was doing it for reasons that were probably clearer to her than to him.

Lifting her head, she stared into the fire, remembering his words:
I'll give you paradise on a gold platter. We'll be a family, we'll have children . . . I'd like six, but I'll settle for one.

If she told him she couldn't have children, that might make him give up his whole scheme. And the moment she realized it might, Meredith felt as if her heart would shatter, and that reaction made her furious with herself and him. "Damn you!" she told him aloud. "Damn you for making me feel vulnerable like this again."

He didn't want to be a family; he just wanted the novelty, the accomplishment of having her live with him for a while. Sexually she would bore him within days, Meredith knew. Matt was an entirely sensual being; he'd slept with movie stars and exotic models. Meredith was sexually repressed and embarrassingly inept, and she knew it. She'd felt that way eleven years ago with Matt. After their divorce it had taken two years to regain just a little of her self-esteem and the ability to feel some desire. Lisa had insisted that the only complete cure was to sleep with someone else, and Meredith had tried. She'd gone to bed with a university track star who'd been chasing her for months, and it had been disastrous. His panting and pawing had revolted her, while her reticence and ineptitude had frustrated and angered him. Even now she could remember his taunts and they made her shudder:
C'mon, baby, don't just lie there, do something for me . . . What the hell's the matter with you anyway ... How can anybody who looks as hot as you be so cold?
When he tried to consummate the act, something inside her had snapped and she'd fought him off, grabbed her clothes, and fled. Sex, she'd decided, was not for her.

Parker had been her only other lover, and he was different—tender, sweet, undemanding. And even he was disappointed with her in bed; he'd never criticized her openly, but she sensed how he felt.

Meredith flopped back and let her head rest against the arm of the sofa, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling, refusing to cry the tears that ached in her throat. Parker could never have made her feel as miserable as she did now. Never. Only Matt could do this to her. And even so, she wanted him.

The realization hit her unbidden, terrifying, unacceptable. Undeniable.

In just a few days Matt had led her this far along the path of utter and humiliating capitulation. Tears of shame and futility sparkled in her eyes. He didn't even have to say I love you to make her want to throw all her plans for her life away.

Across the room, the antique grandfather clock began to chime the hour of ten. To Meredith it was tolling the end of her peace and serenity.

Matt maneuvered the Rolls out from behind two trucks that were blocking his lane, then he reached for the car phone. The clock on the dash showed ten o'clock, but he didn't hesitate to make his call. Peter
Vanderwild
answered Matt's call on the second ring, sounding startled and honored by this unprecedented late-night call. "My trip to Philadelphia was a complete success, sir," he told Matt on the erroneous assumption that was why his boss was calling.

"Never mind that now," Matt said impatiently. "What I want to know is if there's any way at all that there could be a leak about us buying up Bancroft's stock—a leak that would start takeover rumors on Wall Street?"

"No way. I've taken all the usual precautions to cover our identity until it's time to file the SEC papers. Their stock is climbing steadily, so it's naturally costing us more to get it lately."

"I think there's another player in the game," Matt said tersely. "Find out who the hell it is!"

"Someone else actually wants to take them over?"
Vanderwild
repeated. "I thought that too before, but why? They're a lousy investment right now unless you have a personal reason like yours."

"Peter," Matt warned, "keep your face out of my personal business or you'll be looking through the want ads."

"I didn't mean—that is, I read the newspapers—I apologize—"

"Fine," Matt interrupted. "Get busy checking out the rumors, find out if there really is another player, and if there is one, find out who the hell it is."

The luxury liner lifted gracefully over the heavy Atlantic swells, then glided down in what seemed to Philip Bancroft to be the most annoying, boringly repetitious movement he'd ever been forced to endure. Seated at the captain's table between a senator's wife and a Texas oilman, he listened with feigned interest to the woman who was speaking to him. "We should make port late in the afternoon, the day after tomorrow," she was saying. "Have you enjoyed the cruise so far?"

"Immensely," he lied, stealing a glance at his watch beneath the edge of his tuxedo jacket. It was ten o'clock in Chicago. He could be watching the news right now, or playing cards at the country club, instead of being held prisoner on this floating hotel.

"Will you be staying with friends while we're in Italy?" she asked.

"I don't have friends there," Philip replied. Despite the exasperating tedium, he felt better, stronger, every day. His doctor had been right—he had needed to absent himself completely from the concerns of the world and his business for a while.

"No friends in Italy?" she repeated, trying valiantly to carry the one-sided conversation.

"No. Just an ex-wife," Philip retorted absently.

"Oh. Will you be visiting her?"

"Hardly," Philip replied, and then his hand stilled in shock that he had even referred to the woman he'd thrown out of his home and his life all those years ago. Obviously, all this enforced relaxation was numbing his brain.

Chapter 47

From the moment Matt had suggested her birthday celebration become a foursome, Meredith had felt grave doubts about the evening, but when Parker and Lisa arrived within moments of each other, they both looked so determinedly cheerful and festive, she was lulled into thinking it might not be a disaster after all. "Happy birthday,
Mer
," Lisa said, wrapping her in a tight hug and handing her a gaily wrapped box. "Happy birthday," Parker said, and gave her a small, rather heavy oblong box. "Farrell's not here yet?" he added, glancing around.

"Not yet, but there's wine and hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen. I was just fixing a tray."

"I'll finish and bring it out," Lisa volunteered. "I'm famished." She vanished into the kitchen in a cloud of fringed plum silk.

Scowling at her back, Parker demanded of Meredith, "Why does she dress like that? Why can't she dress like normal people?"