Rather than let Philip think he'd gotten Matt to agree, Matt said shortly, "She's already decided to do that until after she joins me in South America." The look of pleasure on Bancroft's face made Matt grit his teeth.
"Good, if no one knows you're married, that makes everything neater and cleaner when you get divorced. Here is what I'm offering you, Farrell: In return for you letting go of my daughter, I'll contribute a sizable chunk of money to finance whatever wild-assed scheme she mentioned you have in mind after you leave South America."
In frigid silence Matt watched Philip Bancroft take a large checkbook from his desk. Out of petty vengeance, Matt sat there and let Bancroft write out a check because he wanted to put him to the trouble before he refused it. It was small retribution for the inner torment he'd managed to cause Matt.
Finished, Bancroft threw his pen down and stalked across the room while Matt slowly stood up. "Five minutes after you walk out of this room, I'll have a stop-payment order put on this check at my bank," Bancroft warned. "As soon as you convince Meredith to give up on this travesty of a marriage and let you raise the child, I'll instruct the bank to let the check clear. This money is your reward—one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—for not destroying the life of an eighteen-year-old girl. Take it," he ordered, holding out his hand.
Matt ignored it.
"Take the check, because it's the last cent of my money you'll ever see."
"I'm not interested in your goddamned money!"
"I'm warning you, Farrell," he said, his face darkening with rage again, "take this check."
With icy calm Matt said, "Shove it up your—"
Bancroft's fist slammed forward with surprising force. Matt dodged the blow, grabbed Bancroft's arm in midswing, then he yanked him forward, spun him around, and jerked his arm up high behind his back. In a soft snarl, he said, "Listen to me very carefully, Bancroft. In a few years I'll have enough money to buy and sell you, but if you interfere in my marriage, I'll bury you! Do we understand each other?"
"Let go of my arm, you son of a bitch."
Matt shoved him forward and stalked toward the door.
Behind him, Bancroft recovered his composure with amazing speed. "We have Sunday dinner at three," he snapped. "I'd prefer you not upset Meredith by telling her what transpired in here. As you pointed out, she is pregnant." Pausing with his hand on the door knob, Matt turned, his silence a tacit consent, but Bancroft wasn't finished. Surprisingly, he seemed to have spent his fury and was now reluctantly accepting that he couldn't put an end to the marriage, and that further attempts to try might very well cause a permanent estrangement between Meredith and himself. "I don't want to lose my daughter, Farrell," he said stonily. "It's obvious you and I are never going to like each other, however, for her sake, we can at least try to get along."
Matt studied the other man's angry, set face, but there was no sign of duplicity in his expression. Furthermore, what he was suggesting was logical, sensible, and in his own and his daughter's best interests. After a moment, Matt nodded curtly and accepted the offer at face value. "We can try."
Philip Bancroft watched him walk out and close the door, then he slowly tore the check into pieces, a tight smile on his face. "Farrell," he said derisively, "you've just made two enormous mistakes—you refused this check, and you underestimated your adversary."
Lying beside Matt, Meredith stared at the shadowy canopy above her bed, alarmed by the change she'd sensed in him ever since he'd spoken with her father. When she'd asked him what took place in the library, all Matt would tell her was, "He tried to talk me into getting out of your life." Since the two men had treated each other civilly ever since their private meeting, Meredith assumed they'd declared a truce, and she'd teasingly asked, "Did he succeed?" Matt had said no, and she'd believed him, but tonight he'd made love to her with a grim determination that was completely unlike him. It was as if he wanted to brand her with his body—or else he were saying good-bye ...
She stole a sideways glance at him; he was wide awake, his jaw tight, lost in thought, but she couldn't tell whether he was angry, sad, or simply preoccupied. They'd known each other for only six days, and now more than ever she realized what a handicap that was, because she couldn't gauge his mood at all.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked abruptly.
Startled by his sudden willingness to talk, she said, "I was thinking we've known each other for only six days."
A mocking smile twisted his handsome mouth, as if he'd expected her to say something like that. "That's an excellent reason to give up the idea of staying married, isn't it?"
Meredith's uneasiness escalated to sick panic at his words, and with sudden clarity, she understood the reason for her violent reaction: She was in love with him. Helplessly in love and painfully vulnerable because of it. Hoping to affect a casual attitude, she rolled over onto her stomach and braced herself on her forearms, not certain whether he'd been making a statement or trying to second-guess her thoughts. Her first impulse was to assume that he'd just stated his opinion and to try to salvage her pride by agreeing with him or pretending indifference. But if she did that, she'd never know for certain, and uncertainty was something that drove her crazy. Furthermore, it didn't seem very mature to go leaping to conclusions, especially right now, when there was so much at stake. She decided to follow her second impulse and to find out what he'd meant. Scrupulously avoiding his gaze she traced a circle on her pillow and, summoning all her courage, she said, "Were you asking me for my opinion just now, or were you telling me yours?"
"I was asking if that's what you were thinking."
Relief surged through her, and Meredith smiled as she shook her head and explained, "I was thinking it's hard for me to understand you tonight because we've only known each other for such a short time." When he didn't reply to that, she looked at him and saw that he still looked grim and preoccupied. "It's your turn now," she said with a nervous, determined smile. "What have you been thinking about?"
His silence tonight had unnerved her, now that he was talking, his words chilled her. "I was thinking that the reason we got married was because you wanted the baby legitimized, and because you didn't want to tell your father you were pregnant. The baby's legitimized. Your father already knows you're pregnant. Instead of trying to make this marriage work, there's another solution, one we didn't consider before, but we should now: I can take the baby and raise it."
"Good, if no one knows you're married, that makes everything neater and cleaner when you get divorced. Here is what I'm offering you, Farrell: In return for you letting go of my daughter, I'll contribute a sizable chunk of money to finance whatever wild-assed scheme she mentioned you have in mind after you leave South America."
In frigid silence Matt watched Philip Bancroft take a large checkbook from his desk. Out of petty vengeance, Matt sat there and let Bancroft write out a check because he wanted to put him to the trouble before he refused it. It was small retribution for the inner torment he'd managed to cause Matt.
Finished, Bancroft threw his pen down and stalked across the room while Matt slowly stood up. "Five minutes after you walk out of this room, I'll have a stop-payment order put on this check at my bank," Bancroft warned. "As soon as you convince Meredith to give up on this travesty of a marriage and let you raise the child, I'll instruct the bank to let the check clear. This money is your reward—one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—for not destroying the life of an eighteen-year-old girl. Take it," he ordered, holding out his hand.
Matt ignored it.
"Take the check, because it's the last cent of my money you'll ever see."
"I'm not interested in your goddamned money!"
"I'm warning you, Farrell," he said, his face darkening with rage again, "take this check."
With icy calm Matt said, "Shove it up your—"
Bancroft's fist slammed forward with surprising force. Matt dodged the blow, grabbed Bancroft's arm in midswing, then he yanked him forward, spun him around, and jerked his arm up high behind his back. In a soft snarl, he said, "Listen to me very carefully, Bancroft. In a few years I'll have enough money to buy and sell you, but if you interfere in my marriage, I'll bury you! Do we understand each other?"
"Let go of my arm, you son of a bitch."
Matt shoved him forward and stalked toward the door.
Behind him, Bancroft recovered his composure with amazing speed. "We have Sunday dinner at three," he snapped. "I'd prefer you not upset Meredith by telling her what transpired in here. As you pointed out, she is pregnant." Pausing with his hand on the door knob, Matt turned, his silence a tacit consent, but Bancroft wasn't finished. Surprisingly, he seemed to have spent his fury and was now reluctantly accepting that he couldn't put an end to the marriage, and that further attempts to try might very well cause a permanent estrangement between Meredith and himself. "I don't want to lose my daughter, Farrell," he said stonily. "It's obvious you and I are never going to like each other, however, for her sake, we can at least try to get along."
Matt studied the other man's angry, set face, but there was no sign of duplicity in his expression. Furthermore, what he was suggesting was logical, sensible, and in his own and his daughter's best interests. After a moment, Matt nodded curtly and accepted the offer at face value. "We can try."
Philip Bancroft watched him walk out and close the door, then he slowly tore the check into pieces, a tight smile on his face. "Farrell," he said derisively, "you've just made two enormous mistakes—you refused this check, and you underestimated your adversary."
Lying beside Matt, Meredith stared at the shadowy canopy above her bed, alarmed by the change she'd sensed in him ever since he'd spoken with her father. When she'd asked him what took place in the library, all Matt would tell her was, "He tried to talk me into getting out of your life." Since the two men had treated each other civilly ever since their private meeting, Meredith assumed they'd declared a truce, and she'd teasingly asked, "Did he succeed?" Matt had said no, and she'd believed him, but tonight he'd made love to her with a grim determination that was completely unlike him. It was as if he wanted to brand her with his body—or else he were saying good-bye ...
She stole a sideways glance at him; he was wide awake, his jaw tight, lost in thought, but she couldn't tell whether he was angry, sad, or simply preoccupied. They'd known each other for only six days, and now more than ever she realized what a handicap that was, because she couldn't gauge his mood at all.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked abruptly.
Startled by his sudden willingness to talk, she said, "I was thinking we've known each other for only six days."
A mocking smile twisted his handsome mouth, as if he'd expected her to say something like that. "That's an excellent reason to give up the idea of staying married, isn't it?"
Meredith's uneasiness escalated to sick panic at his words, and with sudden clarity, she understood the reason for her violent reaction: She was in love with him. Helplessly in love and painfully vulnerable because of it. Hoping to affect a casual attitude, she rolled over onto her stomach and braced herself on her forearms, not certain whether he'd been making a statement or trying to second-guess her thoughts. Her first impulse was to assume that he'd just stated his opinion and to try to salvage her pride by agreeing with him or pretending indifference. But if she did that, she'd never know for certain, and uncertainty was something that drove her crazy. Furthermore, it didn't seem very mature to go leaping to conclusions, especially right now, when there was so much at stake. She decided to follow her second impulse and to find out what he'd meant. Scrupulously avoiding his gaze she traced a circle on her pillow and, summoning all her courage, she said, "Were you asking me for my opinion just now, or were you telling me yours?"
"I was asking if that's what you were thinking."
Relief surged through her, and Meredith smiled as she shook her head and explained, "I was thinking it's hard for me to understand you tonight because we've only known each other for such a short time." When he didn't reply to that, she looked at him and saw that he still looked grim and preoccupied. "It's your turn now," she said with a nervous, determined smile. "What have you been thinking about?"
His silence tonight had unnerved her, now that he was talking, his words chilled her. "I was thinking that the reason we got married was because you wanted the baby legitimized, and because you didn't want to tell your father you were pregnant. The baby's legitimized. Your father already knows you're pregnant. Instead of trying to make this marriage work, there's another solution, one we didn't consider before, but we should now: I can take the baby and raise it."
