Parker looked at the ring in her hand and much of his anger faded. "Keep it for now," he said. "We're both too angry to think clearly. No, that's wrong, and that's what bothers me. I'm furious and you're trying to pass this whole thing off like a goddamned lark!"
"Dammit, I was trying to soothe things over so you wouldn't be so angry."
He hesitated uncertainly, then reached out and closed her fingers over the ring. "Is that what you were doing, Meredith, or is that what you think you were doing? I feel like the world has caved in, and you—who have to face the next three months—are taking it better than I am. I think maybe I should stay away until you've had time to decide just how important I really am to you."
"And I think," Meredith countered tautly, "you ought to spend some of that time wondering why you couldn't have offered me some sympathy and understanding instead of seeing this whole thing like some sexual challenge to your private property!"
He left then, closing the door behind him, and Meredith sank down on the sofa. The world, which had seemed so bright and promising just a few days before, had collapsed around her feet—exactly as it always did when she went near Matthew Farrell.
Chapter 42
"I'm sorry, sir, you aren't allowed to park here," the doorman said as Matt got out of his car in front of Meredith's apartment building.
His mind on his impending first date with his wife, Matt put a $100 bill into the man's gloved hand and continued toward the entrance without breaking stride.
"I'll keep an eye on it for you, sir," the doorman called behind him.
The oversize tip was also payment for future favors as needed, but Matt didn't pause to tell him that, nor would it have been necessary; doormen all over the world were masters of diplomacy and economics who understood that enormous tips such as that were advance payment for small future services, not merely present ones. At the moment Matt wasn't certain what future services he might require, but ingratiating himself with Meredith's doorman seemed like a wise precaution in any case.
The guard at the desk checked his guest list, saw Matt's name, and nodded politely. "Miss Bancroft—Apartment 505," he said. "I'll buzz her to let her know you're on the way up. Elevators are right there."
Meredith was so tense that her hands shook as she combed her fingers through the sides of her hair, shoving it into a casual, windblown style that fell about her shoulders. Stepping back from the mirror, she glanced at the bright green silk shirt and matching wool crepe skirt she was wearing, adjusted the slender hammered-gold belt at her waist, then she clipped a pair of large gold squares at her ears and slid a gold bracelet onto her wrist. Her face was abnormally pale, so she applied more blusher to her cheekbones; she was just about to add more lipstick when the buzzer shrilled twice, and the tube slid from her trembling fingers, leaving a coral streak across the polished wood of her dressing table. Ignoring the fact that Matt was obviously on his way up, she picked up the tube, intending to use it, then she changed her mind, capped it, and tossed it into her purse. Looking nice for Matthew Farrell, who hadn't even had the courtesy to let her know where they were going so that she could have a clue as to what to wear, was completely unnecessary. In fact, if he had seduction in mind, the worse she looked the better!
She walked to the door, stoically ignoring her trembling knees, jerked it open, and, raising her eyes no higher than his chest, she said very truthfully, "I was hoping you'd be late."
The ungracious greeting was no less than Matt expected, but she looked so damned beautiful in emerald green with her shining hair swinging loose and artless about her shoulders, he had to suppress the urge to laugh and drag her into his arms. "How late were you hoping I'd be?"
"About three months, actually."
He did laugh then, a rich, throaty chuckle that made Meredith's head snap up a few inches, but she couldn't quite look him in the face yet. "Are you enjoying yourself already?" she asked, staring fixedly at a pair of very broad shoulders encased in a soft fawn cashmere sport coat and an open-necked cream shirt that seemed to glow against his tanned throat.
"You look lovely," he said quietly, ignoring her jibe.
Still without looking at him, she turned on her heel and walked over to the closet to get a coat. "Since you didn't have the courtesy to let me know where we're going," she said to the inside of the closet, "I had no idea what I should wear."
Matt said nothing, he knew she was going to put up a fight when she found out, and so he'd simply not told her. "You're dressed perfectly," he said instead.
"Thank you, that's extremely informative," Meredith answered. She pulled out her coat from the closet, turned around, and collided with his chest. "Would you mind moving?"
"I'll help you with your coat."
"Don't help me!" she said, stepping sideways and tugging her coat. "Don't help me with anything! Don't ever help me again!"
His hand locked on her upper arm, pulling her gently but forcibly around. "Is this the way it's going to be all night?" he asked quietly.
"No," she said bitterly, "this is the good part."
"I know how angry you are—"
Meredith lost her fear of looking at him. "No, you don't know!" she said, her voice shaking with ire. "You think you know, but you can't even begin to imagine!" Abandoning her vow to stay aloof and silent and to bore him to death, she said, "You asked me to trust you in your office, then you took everything I told you about what happened eleven years ago, and used it against me! Did you honestly think you could tear my life to pieces on Tuesday, and walk in here on Wednesday, and everything would be all sweet and rosy, you—you heartless hypocrite!"
Matt gazed into her stormy eyes and honestly considered saying, "I'm in love with you." But she wouldn't believe that after what happened yesterday—and if by some chance he could make her believe it, she'd use it against him and walk out on their agreement. And that he could not let her do. Yesterday she'd told him that all there was between them was a horrible past. He desperately needed the time he'd bargained for—time to breach her defenses and prove to her that a future relationship with him would not cause a repeat of the pain of the past. So instead of trying to explain or argue, he embarked on phase one of the psychological campaign he'd mentally mapped out—which was to get her to break the habit of blaming him completely for that past. Taking her coat, he held it out for her. "I know I seem like a ruthless hypocrite to you now, and I don't blame you for thinking it. But at least do me the justice of remembering that I was not the villain eleven years ago." She slid her arms into the sleeves and wordlessly started to step away, but he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, waiting until she lifted her resentful eyes to his. "Hate me for what I'm doing now," he told her with quiet force, "I can accept that, but don't hate me for the past. I was as much a victim of your father's scheming as you were!"