"I consider that threat to be privileged lawyer-client communication so I won't have to testify against you if you do."

Emotions ran riot through her entire body; she stared at Sam in rage and disbelief while Stuart's prediction that Matt was out for vengeance banished any doubt that Intercorp's purchase of the land had been a coincidence. Obviously this was some of the unpleasantness Pearson had warned Stuart about today.

"What do you want to do next?"

Her stormy blue eyes snapped to bis. "Next, after I kill him? Then I want to feed him to the fish! That vicious, scheming—" She broke off, schooling her features into a semblance of calm, and walked behind her desk. "I'll have to think this over, Sam. Let's discuss it on Monday. "

When Sam left, Meredith began to pace. She paced the length of her office, back and forth across the windows, trying to conquer her fury so that she could be objective and effective. It was one thing for Matt to make her personal life a nightmare; she could deal with that through Stuart somehow. But now he was attacking Bancroft & Company, and that panicked and infuriated her more than anything he might have tried to do to her personally. He had to be stopped—and now. God knew what else he planned to do—or worse, what schemes he'd already put into motion.

Angrily, she shoved her fingers through the hair at her nape, and continued to pace until slowly she calmed down and began to think. "Why is he doing this?" she said aloud to the empty room. The answer was clear—it had to be his way of retaliating for having his Southville zoning request turned down. Matt had been pleasant at lunch last week—until he got that phone call about Southville. Her father's interference with Matt's zoning request was obviously the cause of this battle.

But it was all so unnecessary now! Somehow she had to make him listen to her, had to make him understand that he'd won his battle, and her father was conceding it. All Matt had to do to get his rezoning request approved was to resubmit it to the commission! Since Stuart wasn't available to advise her not to do it, Meredith took the only course open to her: She marched over to the desk and dialed Matt's office.

When his secretary answered his phone, Meredith deliberately deepened her voice, trying to disguise it. "This is—Phyllis Tilsher," she lied, using her secretary's name. "Is Mr. Farrell in?"

"Mr. Farrell has gone home. He won't be in until Monday afternoon."

Meredith glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was already five o'clock. "I didn't realize it was so late. I don't have his home phone number with me at the moment. May I have it please?"

"I am not permitted to give out Mr. Farrell's home number to anyone," she said. "Those are Mr. Farrell's instructions."

Meredith hung up. She couldn't bear to wait until Monday before trying again, and calling him at the office was a waste of time anyway. Even if she gave a false name, his secretary would undoubtedly insist on knowing what she wanted before putting her through. She could go to his office on Monday, but in the mood he was in, he'd probably refuse to see her and then have his security people toss her out of the building. If she couldn't make him listen to her at his office, and she didn't dare wait until Monday to try, she had to get to him at... "Home!" she said aloud. Reaching him at home was a much better plan; he wouldn't have a secretary at his home who'd already been told to refuse to let her talk to him. On a wild chance that he might have a listed phone number, she picked up the phone and called information.

The operator was sorry to inform her that his number was unpublished.

Disappointed but not defeated, Meredith hung up. Now that she'd decided to talk to him at his home, she wasn't going to give up. With a viable plan in mind, and the opportunity to see it through, Meredith possessed a calm, iron resolve that was in complete contrast to her delicate appearance and soft voice. Trying to think of someone who might know his private number and be willing to give it to her, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Matt had escorted Alicia Avery to the opera, and Stanton Avery had sponsored Matt as a prospective member at the Glenmoor Country Club. Smiling with satisfaction, she looked up Stanton Avery's number in her private phone directory and dialed it.

According to the Avery butler, Mr. Avery and his daughter were staying at their St. Croix residence and were not expected to return for another week. Meredith considered trying to pry their phone number in St. Croix out of the servant, but on quick reflection she realized Stanton wouldn't be likely to give her Matt's number. He'd be more likely to guard Matt's privacy from the woman who'd insulted him at the opera, and whose father had blackballed Matt's membership at Glenmoor. Meredith hung up, and then called Glenmoor, intending to ask the club's manager to get Matt's phone number from his application for membership.

But Timmy Mattin had already left for the day. And the office was closed.

Biting her lip, she accepted the fact that she now had no choice but to go to Matt's apartment. The prospect of confronting an infuriated Matthew Farrell, especially on his own ground, was chilling. A shiver ran down her spine when she recalled the savage look on his face when she'd railed his father a dirty drunk. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes, while within her regret mingled with fear and anger. If only her father hadn't interfered with Matt's zoning request... or humiliated him by blackballing him at Glenmoor. If only she hadn't lost her temper in the car ... then their lunch would have concluded as pleasantly as it had begun, and none of this would be happening.

Regrets, however, weren't going to solve her monumental problem, and she opened her eyes, bracing herself for what she had to do. She didn't know Matt's phone number, but she knew exactly where he lived. So did everyone else who read the Chicago Tribune. Last month's Sunday supplement had contained a four-page color layout of the fabulous penthouse apartment that Chicago's newest and richest entrepreneur had bought and furnished in the BerkeleyTowers on Lake Shore Drive.

Chapter 33

Lake Shore Drive traffic was moving at a crawl, and Meredith found herself hoping nervously that the weather, which was turning foul, wasn't a portent of events to come. Rain mixed with sleet had started falling when she pulled out of the parking garage, and the wind was howling like a banshee as it buffeted her car. Ahead of her was a vast sea of glowing red taillights; to the east, Lake Michigan was undoubtedly churning like a boiling pot.

In the warmth of her car, Meredith tried to concentrate on exactly what she would say to Matt when she first saw him—something that would soothe his fury and convince him to let her stay. Something diplomatic. Very diplomatic. Her sense of humor, which hadn't had much reason to assert itself lately, chose that unlikely moment to present her with a sudden vision of herself, knocking on his apartment door, and when he opened it, waving a white handkerchief in his face in a request for a truce.