To his shock, she laughed at that—a sad, whimsical laugh—and confidingly asked, "Isn't it ironic that I never got caught up in any of the lies about my past? I mean, everyone in the world believed that fairy tale about my being an orphan, and the affairs I did have before we were married never came out." She shook her head, making her heavy, shoulder-length hair shimmer in the waning sunlight. "I got away unscathed when I was guilty, but when I was truly innocent, you convicted me on circumstantial evidence. Is that poetic justice, do you think?"

Philip was utterly at a loss for words, unable to believe her, unable to completely doubt her. It wasn't so much the things she'd told him that made him believe she'd been innocent, it was her attitude toward it all—the serene acceptance of her fate, the lack of rancor, the frankness and honesty in those eyes of hers. Her next question made his head jerk toward her in surprise. "Do you know why I married you, Philip?"

"Presumably you wanted the financial security and social prestige I could offer."

She chuckled at that and shook her head. "You underrate yourself. I already told you I was dazzled by your looks and breeding, and I was in love with you, but I'd never have married you if it hadn't been for one more thing."

"What was that?" Philip asked in spite of himself.

"I believed," she confessed somberly, "I honestly believed that I had something to offer you too— something you needed. Do you know what it was?"

"I can't imagine."

"I thought I could teach you how to laugh and enjoy life."

Silence hung over the room for a long moment, then she looked at him from beneath her thick lashes and there was a funny catch in her voice as she asked softly, "Did you ever learn how to laugh, darling?"

"Don't call me that!" Philip almost shouted, but his chest felt tight with emotions he didn't want to feel— hadn't felt in decades—and he slammed his empty glass down on a table. "I should be going."

She nodded. "Regrets are an awful burden. The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be able to convince yourself you were actually right thirty years ago. But if you stay, who knows what would happen?"

"Nothing would happen," he said, referring to going to bed with her, startled then that the idea would even occur to him.

"Good-bye," she said quietly. "I'd ask you to give my love to Meredith, but you won't, will you?"

"No."

"She doesn't need it," Caroline said with a winsome smile. "From everything I've been reading, she's remarkable and wonderful. And," she added with pride, "whether you like it or not, there's a part of me in her. She," Caroline informed him, "knows how to laugh."

Philip stared at her in blank confusion. "What do you mean, from what you've been reading? What are you talking about?"

Caroline tipped her head toward the pile of Chicago newspapers and gave a throaty chuckle. "I was referring to the way she's handling being married to Matthew Farrell and engaged to Parker Reynolds—"

"How the hell do you know about that?" Philip exploded, his face turning cold and pale.

"It's all over the papers," Caroline began, then she faltered, watching him stalk over to the newspapers and yank them up. His entire body seemed to vibrate with fury as he clutched the paper that broke the news of the arrest of Stanislaus Spyzhalski, and he glared at the pictures of Meredith, Matt, and Parker on the front page.

He threw that one down and yanked up the next one, which contained excerpts from their joint news conference with a picture of Farrell grinning at her. Another newspaper was opened to an article about a bomb scare in the New Orleans store, and it slid from his fingers. "He warned me what he'd do eleven years ago," he said in a strangled whisper, more to himself than to her. "He warned me, and he's doing it!" He looked up at Caroline, his eyes alive with fury. "Where's the nearest telephone?"

Chapter 51

Matt was pacing in the foyer of his apartment when Meredith finally arrived at seven o'clock that night— thirty minutes late. He pulled open the door, jerked her into his arms, and said furiously, "Dammit, if you're going to be late, and bombs are going off all over the place, call me to let me know you're all right!" He held her away, tempted to shake her, and instantly regretted his outburst. She looked exhausted.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think you'd imagine anything like that"

"I evidently have an overactive imagination where you're concerned," Matt said wryly, smiling to take the sting out of his greeting. He led her toward the back of the apartment and up the steps to the lounge area because it was the coziest part of the place, and because the view from the corner windows was the best.

"I was at the police station most of the afternoon," she explained as she sat down on the leather sofa, "trying to give them any information I could that might help them find whoever put the bomb in the store. When I went home to change and come over here, Parker called, and we were on the phone for almost an hour."

Meredith trailed off, remembering Parker's phone call. Neither of them had brought up the fact that he'd spent the night at Lisa's. Parker was no liar, and his deliberate failure to offer an explanation was silent confirmation to Meredith that the night had not been platonic. It felt strange to imagine those two being involved—strange and yet almost reassuring somehow, because Meredith loved them both.

Before he hung up, Parker had wished her happiness, but he'd sounded dubious and worried about her ability to be happy with Matt. About Matt he'd said little— except that he regretted starting the fistfight with him. "The only thing I regret more," Parker had said dryly, "is that I missed my punch."

The rest of their conversation had been about business, and it had not been either reassuring or pleasant.

Pulling herself out of her reverie, she said, "I'm sorry if I seem preoccupied. This has been an incredible day, from beginning to end."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Meredith looked up at him, struck anew by the aura of quiet command, of absolute competence that surrounded him. Casually dressed in dark trousers with his white shirt open at the throat and the cuffs folded back on his forearms, Matthew Farrell positively exuded indomitable power and strength. It was stamped on his jaw and etched into every one of his hard, chiseled features.

And yet, she thought with an unconscious smile, in bed she could make this bold, powerful man groan with need and turn to her in stormy desperation. She loved knowing that. She loved him.