Paradise Read online

  “If our positions were reversed,” she continued, trying to speak in a calm, rational voice, “I would feel just as you do—”

  “When did you find this out?” he interrupted tightly.

  “The night before I called you to arrange this meeting.”

  “Assuming you’re telling me the truth—that we’re still married—just exactly what do you want from me?”

  “A divorce. A nice, quiet, uncomplicated, immediate divorce.”

  “No alimony?” he jeered, watching the angry flush steal up her cheeks. “No property settlement, nothing like that?”

  “No!”

  “Good, because you sure as hell aren’t going to get any!”

  Angry at his deliberate and rude reminder that his wealth was now far greater than hers, Meredith looked at him with well-bred disdain. “Money was all you ever thought about, all that mattered to you. I never wanted to marry you, and I don’t want your money! I’d rather starve than have anyone know we were ever married!”

  The maître d’ chose that untimely moment to appear at their table to inquire if their meal had been satisfactory or if they wanted anything else.

  “Yes,” Matt said bluntly. “I’ll have a double shot of scotch on the rocks, and my wife,” he emphasized, taking petty, malicious satisfaction out of doing exactly what she’d just said she never wanted to do, “will have another martini.”

  Meredith, who never, ever had engaged in a public scene, glowered at her old friend and said, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to poison his drink!”

  Bowing slightly, John smiled and said with grave courtesy, “Certainly, Mrs. Farrell,” then he turned to a furious Matt, and added drolly, “Arsenic or do you prefer something more exotic, Mr. Farrell?”

  “Don’t you dare ever to call me by that name again!” Meredith warned John. “It is not my name.”

  The humor and affection vanished from John’s face, and he bowed again. “My sincerest apologies for having taken undue liberties, Miss Bancroft. Your drink will be delivered with my compliments.”

  Meredith felt like a complete witch for taking her anger out on him. Morosely, she glanced at John’s stiff, retreating back and then at Matt. She waited a moment longer for their tempers to cool, then she drew a long, calming breath. “Matt, it’s counterproductive for us to sling insults at one another. can’t we please try to treat each other at least with courtesy? If we could, it would make it much easier for us to deal with all this.”

  She was right, he knew, and after a moment’s hesitation he said shortly, “I suppose we can try. How do you think things ought to be handled?”

  “Quietly!” she said, smiling at him in relief. “And quickly. The need for secrecy and haste is far greater than you probably realize.”

  Matt nodded, his thoughts finally becoming more organized. “Your fiancé,” he assumed. “According to the papers, you want to marry him in February.”

  “Well, yes, there is that,” she agreed. “Parker already knows what’s happened. He’s the one who discovered that the man my father hired isn’t a lawyer, and that our divorce doesn’t exist. But there’s something else—something vitally important to me that I could lose if this comes out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need a discreet—preferably secret—divorce so that there won’t be any gossip or publicity about us. You see, my father is going to take a leave of absence because of his health, and I desperately want the chance to fill in for him as interim president. I need that chance to prove to the board of directors that when he retires permanently, I’m capable of handling the presidency of the corporation. The board is hesitant to appoint me interim president—as I told you, they’re very conservative and they already have doubts about me because I’m relatively young for the position, and because I’m a woman. I already have those two strikes against me, and the press hasn’t helped by portraying me as a frivolous social butterfly, which is what they like to do. If the press gets hold of our situation, they’ll turn it into a carnival. I’ve announced my engagement to a very upright, important banker and you’re supposed to be marrying a half-dozen starlets, but here we are—still married to each other. Potential bigamy doesn’t get people appointed to the presidency of Bancroft’s. I promise you, if this comes out, it will put an end to my chances.”

  “I don’t doubt you believe that,” Matt said, “but I don’t think it would be as damaging to your chances as you think it would.”

  “Don’t you?” she said bitterly. “Think how you reacted when I told you the lawyer was a fraud. You instantly leapt to the conclusion that I am an inept imbecile incapable of managing my own life, let alone anything else, like a department store chain. That is exactly how the board will react, because they’re not one bit fonder of me than you are.”

  “Couldn’t your father simply make it clear he wants them to appoint you?”

  “Yes, but according to the bylaws of the corporation, the board of directors has to unanimously agree on the election of a president. Even if my father did control them, I’m not certain he’d intercede in my behalf.”

  Matt was spared the need to reply to that because a waiter was bringing their drinks and another was approaching the table, carrying a cordless telephone. “You have a call, Mr. Farrell,” he said. “The caller said you instructed that he call you here.”

  Knowing the call had to be from Tom Anderson, Matt excused himself to Meredith, then he picked up the receiver and said without preamble, “What’s the story on the Southville Zoning Commission?”

  “It’s not good, Matt,” Tom said. “They’ve turned us down.”

  “Why in God’s name would they turn down a rezoning request that can only benefit their community?” Matt said, more stunned than angry at that moment.

  “According to my contact on the commission, someone with a lot of influence told them to turn us down.”

  “Any idea who it is?”

  “Yeah. A guy named Paulson heads the commission. He told several members of it, including my contact, that Senator Davies said he’d consider it a personal favor if our rezoning request was denied.”

  “That’s odd,” Matt said, frowning, trying to recall if he’d donated money to Davies’s campaign or to his opponent, but before he could remember, Anderson added in a voice reeking with sarcasm, “Did you happen to see a mention of a birthday party given for the good senator in the society column?”

  “No, why?”

  “It was given by one Mr. Philip A. Bancroft. Is there any connection between him and the Meredith we were talking about last week?”

  Fury, white hot and deadly, exploded in Matt’s chest. His gaze lifted to Meredith, noting her sudden pallor which could only be attributed to his mention of the Southville Zoning Commission. To Anderson he said softly, icily, “There’s a connection. Are you at the office?” Anderson said he was, and Matt told him, “Stay there. I’ll be back at three o’clock and we’ll discuss the next steps.”

  Slowly, deliberately, Matt placed the phone back on its cradle, then he looked at Meredith, who’d suddenly developed a consuming need to smooth nonexistent creases in the tablecloth with her fingernail. Guilt and knowledge were written across her face, and he hated her at that moment, despised her with a virulence that was almost uncontainable. She had asked for this meeting not to “bury the hatchet,” as she’d claimed, but because she wanted something—several things: She wanted to marry her precious banker, she wanted the presidency of Bancroft’s, and she wanted a quick, quiet divorce. He was glad she wanted those things so badly, because she wasn’t going to get them. What she and her father were going to get was a war, a war they were going to lose to him . . . along with everything they had. He signaled the waiter for the check. Meredith realized what he was doing, and the alarm that had quaked through her when he mentioned the Southville Zoning Commission escalated to panic. They hadn’t agreed to anything yet, and suddenly he was putting a premature end to the discussion. The waiter presented