Instead of looking concerned, Peter watched an odd expression cross Farrell's face, an expression that might have been amusement or satisfaction. "Is that right?"

Peter nodded, slightly disconcerted by his strange reaction to what should have been alarming news. "I think somebody is already secretly starting to buy up all the shares in Bancroft's they can get their hands on, and they've been buying them up in blocks small enough not to alert Bancroft's or Wall Street or the SEC yet." Gesturing toward the three computer screens on the credenza behind the desk, Peter said, "May I?"

Farrell nodded and Peter got up and walked over to the credenza. The first two computers processed information from all of Intercorp's reporting divisions, and their screens were lit up with data that Farrell had evidently been looking at earlier. The third computer screen was blank, and Peter used it to key in the codes and requests that he used in his own office. An instant later, the Dow Jones average scrolled across the screen. Interrupting that display, Peter keyed in another set of requests and the screen lit up with the heading:

TRADING HISTORY:

BANCROFT & COMPANY TRADING CODE B&C

NYSE

"Look at this." Peter pointed to the columns of data on the screen. "Until six months ago, Bancroft's stock was pretty much where it had been for two years— selling at ten dollars a share. Until then, the average number of shares traded in a week was one hundred thousand. Now look," he said, moving his finger down the column on the left. "In the last six months it's been inching upward until it's now nearly twelve dollars a share, and the volume of shares traded has been hitting new highs about once a month."

He pressed another key, and the screen went dark, then he turned toward Farrell, frowning. "It's just a hunch, but I think someone—some entity—may be trying to acquire control of the company."

Matt stood up, putting an abrupt and permanent end to the discussion. "Either that, or investors simply think B&C is a good long-term investment. We'll proceed with the purchase of the Houston property."

Peter, realizing he was dismissed, had no choice but to pick up the signed contract on the desk and do as he was instructed. "Mr. Farrell," he said hesitantly, "I've been wondering why you're sending me to Houston to handle these negotiations. It's out of my line—"

"It shouldn't be a difficult deal to close," Matt said with a tentative, reassuring smile. "And it will broaden your experience. As I recall, that was part of the reason you gave for wanting to join Intercorp."

"Yes, sir, it was," Peter replied, but the burst of pride he felt at Farrell's obvious confidence in him to handle things took an awful blow when Farrell added, as Peter headed for the door, "Don't bungle it, Peter."

"I won't," Peter assured him, but he was shaken by the unspoken warning he'd heard in Farrell's voice.

Tom Anderson, who'd been quietly standing near the windows throughout Vanderwild's dissertation, spoke up as soon as he left. "Matt," he said with a chuckle as he returned to the chair he'd vacated in front of Matt's desk, "you scare the hell out of that kid."

"That kid," Matt pointed out dryly, "has an I.Q. of one sixty-five, and he's already made Intercorp several million dollars. He's proving to be an excellent investment."

"And is that land in Houston an excellent investment, too?"

"I think it is."

"Good," Tom replied, sitting down and stretching his long iegs out in front of him. "Because I'd hate to think you were spending a fortune just to retaliate against some society dame who insulted you in front of a reporter."

"Why would you leap to a conclusion like that?" Matt asked, but there was a gleam of sardonic amusement in his eye.

"I dunno. Sunday, I just happened to read in the paper that a chick named Bancroft gave you the cold shoulder at the opera. And tonight, here you are, signing a contract to buy something she wants for herself. Tell me something—how much is that land going to cost Intercorp?"

"Twenty million, probably."

"And how much is it going to cost Ms. Bancroft to buy it from us?"

"A hell of a lot more."

"Matt," he drawled with deceptive casualness, "d'you remember the night eight years ago, when my divorce from Marilyn was final?"

Matt was surprised by the question, but he remembered the time well enough. A few months after Tom started working for him, Tom's wife suddenly announced that she'd been having an affair and wanted a divorce. Too proud to plead and too crushed to fight, Tom had moved his things out of their house, but he'd believed until the day the divorce went through that she'd change her mind. On that day Tom hadn't come into work or telephoned, and at six o'clock that night, Matt understood why—Tom called from the police station, where he'd been taken that afternoon after being arrested for being drunk and disorderly.

"I don't remember much about that night," Matt admitted, "except that we got drunk together."

"I'd already gotten drunk," Tom corrected wryly, "then you bailed me out of jail, and we both got drunk together." Watching Matt closely, he continued. "I have a hazy recollection that you commiserated with my misfortune that night, by ranting about some dame named Meredith who'd jilted you, or something. Except you didn't call her a dame, you called her a spoiled little bitch. At some point before I passed out, you and I drunkenly agreed that women whose names start with the letter M are no good for anyone."

"Your memory is obviously better than mine," Matt said evasively, but Tom had noticed the imperceptible tightening in Matt's jaw at the mention of her name, and he leapt to the instant and correct conclusion.

"So," he continued with a grin, "now that we've established that the Meredith that night is actually Meredith Bancroft, would you care to tell me what happened between you two to make you still hate each other?"

"No," Matt said. "I wouldn't." He stood up and walked over to the coffee table, where he'd laid out the engineering drawings for the Southville facility. "Let's finish our discussion about Southville."

Chapter 21

Traffic was backed up for blocks near Bancroft's corner. Crowds of shoppers huddled tightly in their coats rushed across the intersection, ignoring the don't walk signal, their heads bent against the bitter wind that blasted across Lake Michigan and whirled through the downtown streets. Car horns blared and drivers cursed the pedestrians, who were causing them to miss their green light. In her black BMW, Meredith watched as droves of shoppers paused at Bancroft's windows and then went into the store. The weather had turned cold, and that always brought out the early shoppers who preferred to beat the Christmas rush. Today, however, her mind wasn't on the numbers of shoppers entering the store.