Paradise
Page 140
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Angry about several different things, including Meredith's being put under this unreasonable pressure to make a decision, Stuart sighed. "We can't prevent him from filing the lawsuits, or bringing your father to trial; I don't think he stands much chance of gaining anything except revenge, if he does it. Win or lose, though, the day he files those lawsuits, your father's name will be all over the headlines. How is your father's health?"
"Not good enough to risk being put to the strain of that kind of publicity." Her eyes dropped to the documents he was holding, then lifted beseechingly to his. "Are there any loopholes in there we could use?"
"Not one. No traps either, if that's any reassurance. They're fairly simple and forthright, they say exactly what Levinson and Pearson said aloud." He put them on the secretary's desk for Meredith to read, but she shook her head, avoiding the sight of the words, and, picking up a pen from the desk, she scribbled her name on the bottom.
"Give them to him and make him sign them," she said, tossing the pen aside as if it were dirty. "And make that—that maniac write down the days of the week that he named and initial the changes. And make it read so that if he misses a day, he can't make it up with another!"
Stuart almost smiled at that, but he shook his head when she handed the papers back to him. "Unless you want the five million dollars or the Houston land more than you seemed to in there, I don't think you need to go through with this. He's bluffing about your father."
Her face lit up with eagerness and hope. "Why do you think so?"
"It's a hunch. A strong hunch."
"A hunch, based on what?"
Stuart thought of the solemn tenderness on Farrell's face when he was holding Meredith's hand. He thought of the way he'd looked when she slapped him and the lack of roughness in the way he'd restrained her afterward. And, although Stuart had originally thought that Farrell had some sort of eleven-week orgy in mind, the man had seemed genuinely taken aback by that accusation. Rather than tell her such nebulous things, Stuart said something more concrete: "If he's ruthless enough to do this to your father, then why is he being so generous in his offers to you? Why not simply threaten you with suing your father to make you give in?"
"I suppose he thinks he'll have more fun if I'm less resistant. I also think he likes my knowing—and my father knowing—that he can throw that kind of money around and not even miss it. Stuart, my father humiliated him terribly when he was twenty-six, and he's still trying! I can imagine the kind of malice Matt must feel for him, even if you can't."
"I am still willing to bet you that man won't lift a legal hand against your father whether you agree to this or not."
"I want to believe you," she said, calmer now. "Give me a sound reason to, and we'll walk out of here and throw those papers in the wastebasket."
"This is going to sound . .. odd . . . given what I've seen of Farrell today and the reputation he has, but I don't think he'd do anything to hurt you."
She laughed—a short, bitter laugh. "How do you explain intimidation and humiliation, not to mention blackmail? What do you call what he put me through in there?"
Stuart shrugged helplessly. "Not blackmail—he's paying you the money, not the reverse. I would call it pulling out all the stops, using every single means you have to get what you want because you want it so badly. I also think it got out of hand in there, thanks to Pearson's strong-arm tactics and flair for drama. I was watching Farrell most of the time, and every time Pearson got tough with you, Farrell looked angry. I think he picked the wrong attorneys for a gentle finesse attempt like this was supposed to be. Levinson and Pearson play the game only one way—they go for the throat and they play to win."
Meredith's heart sank at Stuart's flimsy rationale. "I can't bet my father's life on anything as flimsy as all that. And I'll tell you something," she added sadly. "Matt picked lawyers who think exactly like he does. You could be right when you say Matt doesn't want to hurt me personally, but you’re wrong about what he's after. I figured it out just as we left." She drew a shaky breath. "Matt isn't after me. He doesn't even know me. What he wants is revenge against my father, and he's figured out two ways to get it: Either he takes my father to trial, or he gets his revenge an even sweeter, better way—by using me. I'm the sweetest revenge of all. Forcing my father to see us together after all these years, making him think there's a chance we'll stay together—to Matt that's an eye for an eye. So," she said, putting her hand on his sleeve, "will you do me a favor when you take this in to him?"
Stuart nodded, covering her hand. "What do you want me to do?"
"Try to make Matt agree that this bargain and our marriage will remain a secret. He probably won't agree —that will deprive him of some of his pleasure, some of his revenge, but try."
"I will."
When she left, Stuart flipped to the second page, wrote in the terms he hoped to get Farrell to agree to, then he straightened. Rather than politely knock on Farrell's office door, Stuart opened it. When he saw that Farrell wasn't there, he headed quietly toward the conference room, hoping to catch him off guard, to see something— some expression—that would give a clue about the man's real feelings.
The draperies had been drawn back in the conference room, and Farrell was standing at the windows, his drink in one hand, staring out at the night skyline, his jaw rigid. He looked, Stuart thought with some satisfaction, like a man who had just suffered an enormous defeat and was trying to come to grips with it. In fact, standing in the vast conference room, surrounded by all the trappings of his wealth and power, there was an incongruous quality of isolation in the way he bent his head and stared at the glass in his hand. He lifted his glass then and tossed down the drink as if trying to wash away a bitter taste, and Stuart spoke. "Should I have knocked?" Farrell's head jerked around, and even in that unguarded instant of surprise, Stuart wasn't certain whether he saw profound relief—or merely tremendous satisfaction, so quickly did Farrell's guard go up. He'd been fairly easy to read when Meredith was present—now Stuart watched him become aloof and completely inscrutable as he flicked a glance at the papers in Stuart's hand to confirm what they were, then started toward the bar.
"I was about to have another drink," Farrell said, showing no apparent eagerness to get his hands on the signed documents. "Would you care for one, or would you rather get down to business?"
"Not good enough to risk being put to the strain of that kind of publicity." Her eyes dropped to the documents he was holding, then lifted beseechingly to his. "Are there any loopholes in there we could use?"
"Not one. No traps either, if that's any reassurance. They're fairly simple and forthright, they say exactly what Levinson and Pearson said aloud." He put them on the secretary's desk for Meredith to read, but she shook her head, avoiding the sight of the words, and, picking up a pen from the desk, she scribbled her name on the bottom.
"Give them to him and make him sign them," she said, tossing the pen aside as if it were dirty. "And make that—that maniac write down the days of the week that he named and initial the changes. And make it read so that if he misses a day, he can't make it up with another!"
Stuart almost smiled at that, but he shook his head when she handed the papers back to him. "Unless you want the five million dollars or the Houston land more than you seemed to in there, I don't think you need to go through with this. He's bluffing about your father."
Her face lit up with eagerness and hope. "Why do you think so?"
"It's a hunch. A strong hunch."
"A hunch, based on what?"
Stuart thought of the solemn tenderness on Farrell's face when he was holding Meredith's hand. He thought of the way he'd looked when she slapped him and the lack of roughness in the way he'd restrained her afterward. And, although Stuart had originally thought that Farrell had some sort of eleven-week orgy in mind, the man had seemed genuinely taken aback by that accusation. Rather than tell her such nebulous things, Stuart said something more concrete: "If he's ruthless enough to do this to your father, then why is he being so generous in his offers to you? Why not simply threaten you with suing your father to make you give in?"
"I suppose he thinks he'll have more fun if I'm less resistant. I also think he likes my knowing—and my father knowing—that he can throw that kind of money around and not even miss it. Stuart, my father humiliated him terribly when he was twenty-six, and he's still trying! I can imagine the kind of malice Matt must feel for him, even if you can't."
"I am still willing to bet you that man won't lift a legal hand against your father whether you agree to this or not."
"I want to believe you," she said, calmer now. "Give me a sound reason to, and we'll walk out of here and throw those papers in the wastebasket."
"This is going to sound . .. odd . . . given what I've seen of Farrell today and the reputation he has, but I don't think he'd do anything to hurt you."
She laughed—a short, bitter laugh. "How do you explain intimidation and humiliation, not to mention blackmail? What do you call what he put me through in there?"
Stuart shrugged helplessly. "Not blackmail—he's paying you the money, not the reverse. I would call it pulling out all the stops, using every single means you have to get what you want because you want it so badly. I also think it got out of hand in there, thanks to Pearson's strong-arm tactics and flair for drama. I was watching Farrell most of the time, and every time Pearson got tough with you, Farrell looked angry. I think he picked the wrong attorneys for a gentle finesse attempt like this was supposed to be. Levinson and Pearson play the game only one way—they go for the throat and they play to win."
Meredith's heart sank at Stuart's flimsy rationale. "I can't bet my father's life on anything as flimsy as all that. And I'll tell you something," she added sadly. "Matt picked lawyers who think exactly like he does. You could be right when you say Matt doesn't want to hurt me personally, but you’re wrong about what he's after. I figured it out just as we left." She drew a shaky breath. "Matt isn't after me. He doesn't even know me. What he wants is revenge against my father, and he's figured out two ways to get it: Either he takes my father to trial, or he gets his revenge an even sweeter, better way—by using me. I'm the sweetest revenge of all. Forcing my father to see us together after all these years, making him think there's a chance we'll stay together—to Matt that's an eye for an eye. So," she said, putting her hand on his sleeve, "will you do me a favor when you take this in to him?"
Stuart nodded, covering her hand. "What do you want me to do?"
"Try to make Matt agree that this bargain and our marriage will remain a secret. He probably won't agree —that will deprive him of some of his pleasure, some of his revenge, but try."
"I will."
When she left, Stuart flipped to the second page, wrote in the terms he hoped to get Farrell to agree to, then he straightened. Rather than politely knock on Farrell's office door, Stuart opened it. When he saw that Farrell wasn't there, he headed quietly toward the conference room, hoping to catch him off guard, to see something— some expression—that would give a clue about the man's real feelings.
The draperies had been drawn back in the conference room, and Farrell was standing at the windows, his drink in one hand, staring out at the night skyline, his jaw rigid. He looked, Stuart thought with some satisfaction, like a man who had just suffered an enormous defeat and was trying to come to grips with it. In fact, standing in the vast conference room, surrounded by all the trappings of his wealth and power, there was an incongruous quality of isolation in the way he bent his head and stared at the glass in his hand. He lifted his glass then and tossed down the drink as if trying to wash away a bitter taste, and Stuart spoke. "Should I have knocked?" Farrell's head jerked around, and even in that unguarded instant of surprise, Stuart wasn't certain whether he saw profound relief—or merely tremendous satisfaction, so quickly did Farrell's guard go up. He'd been fairly easy to read when Meredith was present—now Stuart watched him become aloof and completely inscrutable as he flicked a glance at the papers in Stuart's hand to confirm what they were, then started toward the bar.
"I was about to have another drink," Farrell said, showing no apparent eagerness to get his hands on the signed documents. "Would you care for one, or would you rather get down to business?"
