Yes, sir, I—I know —Joanna Simons's voice came over the speaker phone—"but Miss Bancroft said it's extremely important, and she insisted I interrupt you."

"Take a message," Matt snapped. He started to release the button, then he stopped. "Who did you say was calling?"

"Meredith Bancroft," the secretary emphasized meaningfully, her tone telling him that she, too, had read of his confrontation with Meredith in Sally Mansfield's column. So, obviously, had the men seated in a semicircle around his desk, for the announcement of Meredith's name caused a pulse beat of stunned silence followed instantly by an explosion of nervous, heightened conversation meant to cover the previous silence.

"I'm in the middle of a meeting," Matt said curtly. "Tell her to call me back in fifteen minutes." He put the phone down, knowing that courtesy dictated that he should have volunteered to call Meredith back. He didn't really give a damn; they had nothing left to say to each other. Forcing himself to concentrate on business, he looked at Tom Anderson, and continued the conversation that Meredith's call had interrupted. "There won't be any zoning problem in Southville. We have a contact on the zoning commission who's assured us that the county and the city of Southville are both eager to have us build the factory there. We'll have approval from them on Wednesday, when they meet to vote...."

Ten minutes later he ushered the men out of his office, closed the door, and sat down behind his desk again. When Meredith hadn't called after thirty minutes, he leaned back in his leather chair and glowered at the silent telephone, his hostility growing with every passing moment. How like Meredith, he thought, to call him for the first time in more than a decade, then insist that his secretary interrupt him in the middle of a meeting, and when he didn't take the call, to then make him sit and wait. She had always behaved as if she were royalty. She had been born with an inflated sense of her own worth and brought up to believe that she was better than everyone else... .

Drumming her fingernails on her desk, Meredith leaned back in her chair, angrily watching the clock, deliberately waiting forty-five minutes before calling him again. How like that arrogant, swaggering braggart to make her call him back! she thought wrathfully. Obviously he hadn't acquired any manners along with his wealth, or he'd know that since she had courteously taken the first step in contacting him, it was his duty to take the next step. Of course, good manners would never mean anything to Matthew Farrell. Beneath his newly acquired veneer of urbanity, he was still nothing but a crude, ambitious— Meredith abruptly checked her bitter thoughts; bitterness would only make what lay ahead of her more difficult. Besides, she reminded herself yet again, it was unfair to blame Matt for everything that had happened years before. She had willingly participated in their lovemaking the night they met, and she had disregarded her responsibility to protect herself against pregnancy. When she got pregnant, Matt had decently volunteered to marry her. Later, she had convinced herself that he loved her, but he had never said so. He had never actually deceived her, and it was stupid and childish to blame him for not having lived up to her naive expectations. It was as foolish and pointless as the way she'd spoken to him at the opera. Feeling far more calm and reasonable now, Meredith put aside her hurt pride and promised herself to maintain her philosophical composure. The hands on the clock lurched into position at 10:45, and she reached for the telephone.

Matt jumped at the buzz of his intercom. "Miss Bancroft is on the line," Joanna said.

He picked up the phone. "Meredith?" he said, his voice cupped, impatient, "this is an unexpected surprise."

Distractedly, Meredith noted that he had not said an "unexpected pleasure," as was customary, and that his voice was deeper and more resonant than she remembered.

"Meredith!" His irritation vibrated across the distance separating them and snapped her out of her nervous

preoccupation. "If you've called me to breathe in my ear, I'm flattered but a little confused. What do you expect me to do now?"

"I see you're still as conceited and ill-mannered as—"

"Ah—you've called me to criticize my manners," Matt concluded.

Meredith sternly reminded herself that her goal was to soothe him, not antagonize him. Carefully reining in her temper, she said with sincerity, "Actually, I'm calling because I'd like to—to bury the hatchet."

"In what part of my body?"

It was close enough to the truth to wrench a helpless laugh from her, and when Matt heard it, he suddenly remembered how enchanted he'd once been by her infectious laugh and sense of humor. His jaw tightened and his tone hardened. "What do you want, Meredith?"

"I want, that is, I need to talk to you—in person."

"Last week you turned your back on me in front of five hundred people," he reminded her icily. "Why this sudden change of heart?"

"Something has happened, and we have to discuss it in a mature, calm fashion," she said, desperately trying to avoid being specific until she could deal with him face-to-face. "It's about, well, us—"

"There is no us," he said implacably, "and it's obvious from what happened at the opera that calm maturity is beyond your capability."

An angry retort sprang to Meredith's lips, but she stifled it. She didn't want a battle, she wanted a treaty. She was a businesswoman and she had learned to deal successfully with stubborn men—Matt was bent on being difficult; therefore, she needed to maneuver him into a more reasonable frame of mind. Arguing with him would not accomplish that. "I had no idea Sally Mansfield was nearby when I behaved that way to you," she explained tactfully. "I apologize for what I said, and particularly for saying it in front of her."

"I'm impressed," he said in a mocking tone. "You've obviously studied diplomacy."

Meredith grimaced at the phone, but she kept her voice soft. "Matt, I'm trying to call a truce, can't you cooperate with me just a little?"

The sound of her saying his name jolted him, and he hesitated a full five seconds, then he said abruptly, "I'm leaving for New York in an hour. I won't be back until late Monday night."

Meredith smiled with triumph. "Thursday is Thanksgiving Day. Could we do it before then, say on Tuesday, or are you impossibly busy that day?"

Matt glanced down at his desk calendar which was covered with meetings and appointments scheduled for Thanksgiving week. He was impossibly busy. "Tuesday will be fine. Why don't you come to my office at eleven forty-five?"