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  “You’re joking,” he said sarcastically. “You’ve never failed to make it eloquently clear how you feel about me and my profession.”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “That was—that was teasing.” Her gaze skated away from those piercing blue eyes of his, and she headed for the kitchen, dismayed when he picked up the tea tray and followed.

  “Why?” he persisted, referring to her assault on Farrell.

  “Why have I teased you, you mean?”

  “No, but you could start with that.”

  Lisa shrugged, making an adventure in fastidiousness out of putting away the tea things and wiping the sink, but her mind was working frantically. Parker was a banker; everything had to add up to him, and her actions and explanations weren’t doing that. She could either try to bluff, which she was dismally aware wasn’t going to work—not with him—or she could take the biggest gamble of her life and tell him the truth. She decided to gamble. She had lost her heart to him long ago; she had nothing left to lose now but her pride. “Can you remember when you were a kid, say nine or ten years old?” she began, hesitantly continuing to wipe nonexistent crumbs from the countertop.

  “I’m capable of that, yes,” he said dryly.

  “Did you ever like a girl back then, and try to get her attention?”

  “Yes.”

  Swallowing audibly, she plunged ahead because it was too late to turn back. “I don’t know how preppy boys did it, but in my neighborhood a boy usually threw a stick at you. Or teased you terribly. They did that,” she finished achingly, “because they didn’t know any other way to make you notice them.”

  Gripping the countertop with both hands, Lisa waited for him to speak behind her, and when he said absolutely nothing, her stomach clenched. Drawing a long, shattered breath, she stared fixedly ahead and said, “Do you have any idea how I feel about Meredith? Everything I am and have—all the good things—are because of her. She is the kindest, the finest person I’ve ever known. I love her more than my own sisters. Parker,” she finished brokenly, “can you imagine how . . . how horrible it feels to be in love with a man—and have him propose to the friend you also love?”

  Parker spoke then, his voice blunt and incredulous. “I’ve obviously passed out somewhere, stinking drunks, and I’m hallucinating,” he pronounced. “In the morning when they bring me around, some psychoanalyst is going to want to know all about this dream. Just so I can be completely accurate when I describe it, are you trying to tell me you’ve been in love with me?”

  Lisa’s shoulders shook with teary laughter. “It was very stupid of you not to notice.”

  His hands settled on her shoulders. “Lisa, for God’s sake . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m sorr—”

  “Don’t say anything!” she cried. “And especially not that you’re sorry!”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  She tipped her head back, tears streaming from her eyes, and addressed the ceiling in a tone of frustrated misery. “How could I possibly fall in love with such an unimaginative man?” The pressure on her shoulders increased, and she reluctantly let him turn her around. “Parker,” she said, “on a night like this, when two people are badly in need of comfort, and they happen to be a man and a woman, doesn’t the answer seem obvious to you?”

  Her heart stopped beating when he remained still, then it hammered madly when his fingers touched her chin, tipping it up. “The odds are that it’s a very bad idea,” he said, looking down at her wet lashes, surprised and touched by what she’d said and what she was offering.

  “Life is one big gamble,” she told him, and Parker belatedly realized that she was laughing and crying at the same time. And then he forgot to think at all, because Lisa’s arms were twining around his neck and he was suddenly the recipient of the sweetest, hottest kiss . . . a kiss that brought his arms reflexively around her, pulling her tighter and closer. Lisa matched his ardor, subtly pushing it one step further, almost daring him to hold back. And then he wasn’t holding back anymore. . . .

  48

  Wrapped in a bathrobe, Meredith sat in her living room, the television’s remote control in her hand. Sunday morning cartoons were on most of the local channels, and she passed them by with an impatient press of the button, looking for the channel that replayed the previous night’s late news so that she could torture herself with what she was already certain would be news coverage of the debacle. On the sofa beside her, where she’d flung it down a minute ago, was the Sunday morning newspaper with its sensational front-page story and pictures of the brawl. The Tribune had taken a tongue-in-cheek approach by quoting Parker’s remark from their press conference and putting it above the pictures of the fight:

  “Matt Farrell and I are civilized men and we’re handling this in the friendliest of ways. This whole problem is little different than a business contract that wasn’t properly executed, and now has to have the T’s crossed.”

  Beneath that, the caption read:

  FARRELL AND REYNOLDS—“CROSSING THE T’S”

  Below it were pictures of Parker swinging his fist at Matt, another of Matt’s fist connecting with Parker’s jaw, and a third of Parker lying on the floor with Meredith bending down to help him.

  Meredith sipped her coffee as she watched the newscaster finish the national news and switch to his co-anchor for local coverage. “Janet,” he said, grinning at the woman beside him, “I hear there’s something new tonight on the Bancroft-Farrell-Reynolds menage à trois.”

  “There certainly is, Ted,” she replied, turning full face to the camera, her voice filled with amused glee. “Most of you will recall that at their recent press conference, Parker Reynolds, Matthew Farrell, and Meredith Bancroft all seemed like a congenial little family. Well, tonight the three of them dined at the Manchester House, and it seems there was a little family fight. I mean, folks, a real, full-fledged fistfight! It was Parker Reynolds in one corner and Matthew Farrell in the other; husband against fiancé; Princeton University versus Indiana State; old money squaring off against new . . .” She paused to laugh at her own wit, and then said wryly, “Wondering who won? Well, place your bets, folks, because we have pictures that tell all.”

  A picture of Parker swinging at Matt and missing flashed on the screen, followed by one of Matt leveling Parker.

  “If you put your money on Matt Farrell, you won,” she concluded, laughing. “Second place in the match goes to Miss Lisa Pontini, a friend of Miss Bancroft’s, who, we’re told, landed a right hook on Matt Farrell right after that picture was taken. Miss Bancroft didn’t wait around to congratulate the winner or console the loser. We’re told she made a hasty getaway in Matt Farrell’s limousine. The three combatants left together in a taxi and—”

  “Dammit!” Meredith exclaimed, punching the remote control’s off button, then she stood up and headed into her bedroom. As she passed her dresser, she automatically turned on the radio. “And now for the nine o’clock local news,” the announcer said. “Last night, at the Manchester House on the North Side, open hostilities broke out between none other than industrialist Matthew Farrell and financier Parker Reynolds. Farrell, who is married to Meredith Bancroft, and Reynolds, who is engaged to her, were reportedly both having dinner with her when—”

  Meredith slapped the off button on the top of the radio. “Unbelievable!” she gritted out. From the instant Matt crossed her path at the opera, nothing in her life was the same. Her entire world was being turned upside down! Sinking down on the bed, she picked up the phone and called Lisa’s number again. She’d tried until late last night to reach her, but either Lisa wasn’t answering her phone or she wasn’t home. Neither was Parker, for that matter, because Meredith had tried to call him too.

  Parker answered on the fifth ring, and for a split second Meredith went blank. “Parker?” she uttered.

  “Mmmm,” he said.

  “Are—are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled, sounding groggily as if he’d been