There were so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he needed desperately to say to her. He swallowed the rest of his brandy, fighting the urge to write her another letter. Every day, he wrote her letters even though he knew damned well he couldn't send them. He had to stop writing those letters, Zack warned himself.
He had to put her out of his mind before he went insane…
He had to get some sleep…
And even while he was thinking that, he was reaching for a pen and tablet.
Sometimes he told her where he was and what he was doing, sometimes he described in great detail things he thought would interest her, like the islands on the horizon or the habits of the local fishermen, but tonight he was in a much different mood. Tonight exhaustion and brandy sent his rampaging regrets and worries soaring to new heights. According to the outdated American newspaper he'd bought in the village this morning, Julie was definitely suspected of aiding and abetting his escape. It suddenly occurred to him that she was going to need to hire a lawyer to keep the police and FBI from badgering her or, worse, from charging her with collusion just to terrify her into admitting things that weren't true. If that happened, she'd need a top-notch attorney, not some country bumpkin. She'd need money to hire an attorney like that. A new sense of urgency banished the defeated despair that had clouded his thinking since she left him and his mind began to work furiously, coming up with new problems and sudden solutions.
It was dawn when he leaned back in his chair, incredibly weary and completely beaten. Beaten, because he knew he was going to send her this letter. He had to send it to her, partly because of the solutions he'd come up with, but also because he desperately wanted her to know the truth about how he felt. He was now certain that the truth couldn't hurt her nearly as much as he'd hurt her with a lie. This would be their last communication, but at least it would correct the ugly ending to the most exquisitely beautiful days and nights of his life.
Sunlight was peeping through the curtains in the salon and he glanced at his watch. Mail on this island was only picked up once a week, early in the morning on Mondays, which meant he couldn't take the time to rewrite his rambling, incoherent letter, not when he still had to write a letter to Matt and explain what he wanted done.
Chapter 51
"That's Keaton down there, off the starboard wing, Mr. Farrell," the pilot said as the sleek Learjet slid gracefully out of the cloud cover and began its final approach. "I'm going to make a pass over the airstrip before I set her down, just to make sure it's in as good a shape as it's supposed to be."
Matt reached up and pressed the intercom button. "Fine, Steve," he said absently, studying his wife's worried features. "What's wrong?" he asked Meredith quietly. "I thought I reassured you completely that there's nothing illegal about delivering a letter that was addressed to Julie Mathison in care of me. The authorities are well aware that I have Zack's power of attorney to handle his financial affairs. I've already turned over the envelope his instructions came in so they can try to trace it. Not that it will help them," he added with a chuckle. "It's postmarked from Dallas, where he's obviously paying someone to receive mail intended for me, remove it from its original envelope, and then forward it on to me."
Knowing how strongly he felt about what he was doing, Meredith made a better effort to hide her worry and asked, "Why is he doing that if he trusts you so implicitly?"
"He's doing it so I can freely hand over to the authorities whatever envelopes I receive from him, without giving away his whereabouts. He's protecting both of us. So you see, I've adhered to the strictest letter of the law so far."
Meredith leaned her head back against the curved white leather sofa that dominated the plane's cabin and said with a laughing sigh, "No, you haven't. You did not tell the FBI that he enclosed a letter to Julie Mathison along with his letter to you, and you didn't tell them you're delivering it."
"The letter to her is in a blank, sealed envelope," he countered lightly. "I have no way of knowing if Zack wrote what's in it. For all I know it contains recipes. I hope," he said with mock horror, "you aren't suggesting that I should open the letter to find out what's in it. It happens to be a federal offense to do things like that. Furthermore, my love, there is no law that specifically requires me to tip off the authorities every time Zack contacts me."
Alarmed and unwillingly amused by his bold nonchalance, Meredith tipped her chin down and looked at the handsome man she'd fallen in love with and lost when she was an innocent eighteen-year-old debutante and he was a twenty-five-year-old steel worker. In one short decade, he'd left the mills behind him and built his own financial empire on a foundation of daring, brilliance, and guts. And then he'd reclaimed her. Despite his veneer of smooth sophistication, tailor-made clothes, yachts, and private planes, however, Matt was, and would always be, a street fighter at heart. And she loved him for it. She loved that reckless, forceful streak in him, even though she knew it was the reason he was now ignoring the possible legal consequences of his actions. He believed in Zachary Benedict's innocence, and that was the only justification he needed for what he chose to do. Period. Even though she knew it was futile and probably unnecessary, she'd insisted on coming along this afternoon, just to make certain he didn't stick his neck out too far.
"Why are you smiling like that?" he asked her.
"Because I love you," she admitted wryly. "Now, why are you smiling?"
"Because you love me," he whispered tenderly, putting his arm around her and nuzzling her neck. "And," he admitted, "because of this." From his breast pocket, he took out the letter Zack had written him.
"You said that's just a list of instructions about Julie Mathison. What's funny about a list of instructions?"
"That's what's funny—a list of instructions. When Zack went to prison he had a fortune in investments spread out all over the world. Do you know how many instructions he gave me when he gave me power of attorney to handle them all?"
"No. How many?"
"One instruction," he said with a grin, holding up his forefinger. "He said, 'Try not to bankrupt me.'"
Meredith laughed, and Matt glanced out the window as the plane swooped down, racing for the runway, the setting sun glinting off its wings "Joe's here with the car," he said, referring to their chauffeur, who'd flown into Dallas on a commercial flight that morning, rented a nondescript car, and driven it here to meet them. Matt wanted to arrive and depart without anyone knowing they'd been here, which meant they couldn't call a taxi from the airfield, even if there was a taxi service in Keaton.