silver limousine was waiting at the curb for them. Standing beside it was a burly chauffeur with a broken nose and the physique of a buffalo, who held the back door open for her. Normally, Meredith found riding in a limousine restful and luxurious, but as they charged away from the curb, she grasped the armrest in uneasy surprise. She managed to keep her alarm from showing as the chauffeur hurtled the limo around corners, but when he ran a red light and bluffed out a CTA bus, her gaze darted nervously to Matt.

He responded to her unspoken comment with a mild shrug. "Joe hasn't given up his dream of driving at Indy."

"This isn't Indy," Meredith pointed out, clutching the armrest tighter as they swerved around another corner.

"And he isn't a chauffeur."

Determined to imitate his nonchalance, Meredith pried her fingers loose from the padded armrest. "Really? What is he, then?"

"A bodyguard."

Her stomach lurched at this proof that Matt had done things to make people hate him enough to do him physical harm. Danger had never attracted her, she liked peace and predictability and she found the idea of a bodyguard a little barbaric.

Neither of them spoke again until after the car lurched to a stop at the canopied entrance of Landry's, one of Chicago's most elegant, exclusive restaurants.

The maitre d', who was also a part owner of the restaurant, was stationed at his usual post near the front door, clad in a tuxedo. Meredith had known John ever since her boarding school days, when her father used to bring her there for lunch and John sent soft drinks to her table, fixed up like exotic bar drinks, with his compliments.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Farrell," he intoned formally, but when he turned to Meredith, he added with a twinkling smile: "It's always a pleasure to see you, Miss Bancroft." Meredith shot a swift look at Matt's unreadable face, wondering how he felt at the discovery that she was better known at the restaurant he'd chosen than he was. She forgot about that as they were escorted toward their table, and she realized there were several people whom she knew dining there. Judging from their shocked stares, they recognized Matt and were undoubtedly wondering why she was lunching with a man she'd publicly shunned. Sherry Withers, one of the biggest gossips in Meredith's circle of acquaintances, lifted her hand in a wave, her gaze leveled on Matt, her brows raised in amused speculation.

A waiter led them past banks of fresh flowers and around a fanciful white trellis to a table that was far enough away from the ebony grand piano in the center of the room to enjoy the music, but not so close that it hindered conversation. Unless you were a regular patron of Landry's, it was nearly impossible to reserve a table with less than two weeks notice; reserving a good table, which this one certainly was, was virtually impossible, and Meredith wondered idly how Matt had accomplished it.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked her when they were seated.

Her mind shifted abruptly from aimless conjecture over how he got reservations to the very dire confrontation that lay immediately before her. "No, thank you, just ice water—" Meredith began, then she decided a drink might help steady her nerves. "Yes," she corrected herself. "I would."

"What would you like?"

"I'd like to be in Brazil," she mumbled on a ragged sigh.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Something strong," Meredith said, trying to decide what to drink. "A Manhattan." She shook her head, negating that drink. It was one thing to be calmed, another to be lulled into saying or doing something she shouldn't. She was a nervous wreck, and she wanted something to soothe her tension. Something she could sip slowly until it did its job. Something she didn't like. "A martini," she decided with an emphatic nod.

"All of that?" he asked, straight-faced. "A glass of water, a Manhattan, and a martini?"

"No... just the martini," she said with a shaky smile, but her eyes were filled with frustrated dismay and an unconscious appeal for his patience.

Matt was temporarily intrigued by the combination of startling contrasts she presented at that moment. Wearing a sophisticated black dress that covered her from throat to wrist, she looked both elegant and glamorous. That alone wouldn't have disarmed him, but combined with the faint blush that was staining her smooth cheeks, the helpless appeal in those huge, intoxicating eyes of hers, and her girlish confusion, she was nearly irresistible. Softened by the fact that she had asked for this meeting to make amends, he abruptly decided to follow the same course of action that he had tried to follow the night he spoke to her at the opera—and that was to let bygones be bygones. "Will I throw you into another bout of confusion if I ask what kind of martini you'd like?"

"Gin," Meredith said. "Vodka," she amended. "No, gin—a gin martini."

Her flush deepened and she was too nervous to notice the glint of amusement in his eyes as he solemnly asked, "Dry or wet?"

"Dry."

"Beefeater's, Tanqueray, or Bombay?"

"Beefeater's."

"Olives or onion?"

"Olives."

"One or two?"

"Two."

"Valium or aspirin?" he inquired in that same bland voice, but a grin was tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she realized he'd been teasing her all along. Gratitude and relief built inside her, and she looked at him, returning his smile. "I'm sorry. I'm, well, a little nervous."

When the waiter had departed with their drink order, Matt considered her admission about being nervous. He looked about him at the beautiful restaurant where a meal cost as much as he used to make in an entire day working at the mill. Without actually intending to, he made an admission of his own: "I used to daydream about taking you to lunch in a place like this."

Distracted by how best to open the subject on her mind, Meredith's glance skimmed over the magnificent pink floral sprays in massive silver containers and the tuxedo-clad waters hovering solicitously at linen-covered tables agleam with china and crystal. "A place like what?"

Matt laughed shortly. "You haven't changed, Meredith; the most extravagant luxury is still ordinary to you."

Determined to maintain the fragile goodwill that had begun while she debated over what to drink, Meredith said reasonably, "You wouldn't know whether I've changed or not—we spent only six days together."

"And six nights," he emphasized meaningfully, deliberately trying to make her blush again, wanting to shake her composure, to see again the uncertain girl who'd been unable to decide what to drink.

Pointedly ignoring his sexual reference, she said, "It's hard to believe we were ever married."

"That's not surprising since you never used my name."

"I'm sure," she countered, striving for a tone of serene indifference, "that there are dozens of women who are more entitled to do that than I ever was."

"You sound jealous."

"If I sound jealous," Meredith retorted, holding on to her temper with an effort, and leaning closer across the table, "then there's something terribly wrong with your hearing!"

A reluctant smile drifted across his features. "I had forgotten that prim boarding-school way you have of expressing yourself when you're angry."

"Why," she hissed, "are you deliberately trying to goad me into an argument?"

"Actually," he said dryly, "that last was a compliment."

"Oh," Meredith said. Surprised and a little flustered, she shifted her gaze to the waiter who was placing their drinks on the table. They gave him their lunch order, and she decided to wait until Matt had finished part of his drink, until the alcohol in it had soothed him a bit, before she broke the news to him about their nonexistent divorce. She left the next topic up to him to choose.

Matt picked up his glass, annoyed with himself for having needled her, and said with genuine courtesy and interest, "According to the society columns, you're active in a half-dozen charities, the symphony, the opera, and the ballet. What else do you do with your time?"

"I work fifty hours a week at Bancroft's," Meredith replied, vaguely disappointed that he'd never read about her achievements anywhere.

Matt knew all about her supposed accomplishments at Bancroft's, but he was curious about how good an executive she really was, and he knew he could judge that simply by listening to her talk. He began questioning her about her work.

Meredith answered—haltingly at first and then more freely, because she dreaded telling him the reason for this meeting and because her work was her favorite topic. His questions were so astute, and he seemed so genuinely interested in her answers, that before long she was telling him of her achievements and her goals, her successes and her failures. He had a way of listening that encouraged confidences—he concentrated exclusively on what was being said to him, as if each word were interesting and important and meaningful. Before she realized it, Meredith had even confided the problem she faced with accusations of nepotism at the store and how difficult it was to deal with that as well as the chauvinism her father fostered among his staff with his own attitude.

By the time the waiter cleared away their luncheon plates, Meredith had answered all his questions and finished nearly half the bottle of Bordeaux that he'd ordered. It occurred to her that the reason she'd been so vocal was because she'd been stalling about telling him her upsetting news. But even now, when that could no longer be put off, she felt vastly more relaxed than at the beginning of the meal.

In companionable silence they regarded each other across the table. "Your father is lucky to have you on his staff," Matt said, and he meant it sincerely. He had no doubt that she was one hell of an executive—possibly even a gifted executive. While she'd spoken, her management style had become clear to him; so had her dedication and intelligence, her enthusiasm and, most of all, her courage and wit.

"I'm the lucky one," Meredith said, smiling at him. "Bancroft's means everything to me. It's the most important thing in my life."

Matt leaned back in his chair, absorbing this newly discovered side of her. He frowned at the wine in the glass he was holding, wondering why in the hell she talked about those damned department stores as if they were people whom she loved. Why was her career the most important thing in her life? Why wasn't Parker Reynolds—or some other suitably prominent socialite —more important to her? But even while he asked himself the questions, Matt thought he knew the answer Her father had succeeded after all; he had dominated her so ruthlessly and so effectively, that in the end he had turned her off men almost completely. Whatever her reason for marrying Reynolds was, she apparently wasn't in love with him. Based on what she said, and the way she looked when she spoke of Bancroft's, she was wholly committed to and in love with a department store.

Pity drifted through him as he looked at her. Pity and tenderness—he had experienced those emotions the night he met her, along with a raging desire to possess her that had obliterated his common sense. He had walked into that country club, taken one look at her jaunty smile and glowing eyes, and lost his mind. His heart softened as he remembered the way she had gaily introduced him as if he were a steel magnate from Indiana. She had been so full of laughter and life, so innocently eager in his arms. God, he had wanted her! He had wanted to take her away from her father, to cherish and pamper and protect her.

If she had stayed married to him, he would have been incredibly proud of her now. In an impersonal sort of way, he was proud as hell of what she'd become.

Pamper and protect her? Matt realized the direction of his thoughts and clenched his teeth in self-disgust. Meredith didn't need anyone to protect her, she was as deadly as a black widow spider. The only human being who mattered to her was her father, and to appease him, she'd murdered her unborn child. She was spoiled, spineless, and heartless—an empty, beautiful mannequin who was meant to be draped in beautiful clothes and propped at the end of a dining room table. That was all she was good for, it was her only use in life. It was her appearance that had made him forget that for the past few minutes—that gorgeous face of hers with those captivating aquamarine eyes fringed with curly lashes; the proud way she held herself; that soft, generous mouth; the musical sound of her voice; the hesitant, infectious smile. Christ, he'd always been a fool where she was concerned, he thought, but his hostility was suddenly doused by the realization that this spurt of anger was foolish and pointless. Regardless of what she had done, she had been very young and very frightened, and it had happened long ago. It was over. Idly twirling the stem of the wineglass in his fingers, he looked at her and paid her a casual, impartial compliment: "From the sound of things, you've become a formidable executive. If we'd stayed married, I'd probably have tried to lure you over to my organization."

He had unwittingly tossed her the opening she needed, and Meredith seized it. Trying to inject a note of humor into the dire moment, she said with a nervous, choked laugh, "Then start trying to lure me over."

His eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Unable to maintain her wavering smile, Meredith leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table, and drew a long, steadying breath. "I—I have something to tell you, Matt. Try not to get upset."

With a disinterested shrug, he lifted his wineglass toward his mouth. "We have no feelings for each other, Meredith. Therefore, nothing you could tell me could upset me—"

"We're still married," she announced.

His brows jerked together. "Nothing except that!"

"Our divorce wasn't legal," she plunged on, inwardly shrinking from his ominous gaze. "The—the lawyer who handled the divorce wasn't a real lawyer, he was a fraud, and he's being investigated right now. No judge ever signed our divorce decree—no judge even saw it"

With alarming deliberation he put his glass down and leaned forward, his low voice hissing with anger. "Either you're lying or else you don't have enough sense to dress yourself! Eleven years ago, you invited me to sleep with you without giving a thought to protecting yourself from pregnancy. When you got pregnant you came running to me and dumped the problem in my lap. Now you're telling me you didn't have the brains to hire a real lawyer to get you a divorce, and we're still married. How in the hell can you run an entire division of a department store and still be that stupid?"

Each contemptuous word he spoke cracked against her pride like a whip, but his reaction was no worse than what she'd expected, and she accepted the tongue-lashing as her due. Fury and shock temporarily robbed him of further speech, and she said in a low, soothing voice, "Matt, I can understand how you feel...."

Matt wanted to believe she was lying about the whole mess, that this was some sort of crazy attempt to get money from him, but his every instinct told him she was telling him the truth.

"If our positions were reversed," she continued, trying to speak in a calm, rational voice, "I would feel just as you do—"

"When did you find this out?" he interrupted tightly.

"The night before I called you to arrange this meeting."

"Assuming you're telling me the truth—that we're still married—just exactly what do you want from me?"

"A divorce. A nice, quiet, uncomplicated, immediate divorce."

"No alimony?" he jeered, watching the angry flush steal up her cheeks. "No property settlement, nothing like that?"

"No!"

"Good, because you sure as hell aren't going to get any!"

Angry at his deliberate and rude reminder that his wealth was now far greater than hers, Meredith looked at him with well-bred disdain. "Money was all you ever thought about, all that mattered to you. I never wanted to marry you, and I don't want your money! I'd rather starve than have anyone know we were ever married!"

The maitre d' chose that untimely moment to appear at their table to inquire if their meal had been satisfactory or if they wanted anything else.

"Yes," Matt said bluntly. "I'll have a double shot of scotch on the rocks, and my wife," he emphasized, taking petty, malicious satisfaction out of doing exactly what she'd just said she never wanted to do, "will have another martini."

Meredith, who never, ever had engaged in a public scene, glowered at her old friend and said, "I'll give you a thousand dollars to poison his drink!"

Bowing slightly, John smiled and said with grave courtesy, "Certainly, Mrs. Farrell," then he turned to a furious Matt, and added drolly, "Arsenic or do you prefer something more exotic, Mr. Farrell?"

"Don't you dare ever to call me by that name again!" Meredith warned John. "It is not my name."

The humor and affection vanished from John's face, and he bowed again. "My sincerest apologies for having taken undue liberties, Miss Bancroft. Your drink will be delivered with my compliments."

Meredith felt like a complete witch for taking her anger out on him. Morosely, she glanced at John's stiff, retreating back and then at Matt. She waited a moment longer for their tempers to cool, then she drew a long, calming breath. "Matt, it's counterproductive for us to sling insults at one another. Can't we please try to treat each other at least with courtesy? If we could, it would make it much easier for us to deal with all this."

She was right, he knew, and after a moment's hesitation he said shortly, "I suppose we can try. How do you think things ought to be handled?"

"Quietly!" she said, smiling at him in relief. "And quickly. The need for secrecy and haste is far greater than you probably realize."

Matt nodded, his thoughts finally becoming more organized. "Your fiance," he assumed. "According to the papers, you want to marry him in February."

"Well, yes, there is that," she agreed. "Parker already knows what's happened. He's the one who discovered that the man my father hired isn't a lawyer, and that our divorce doesn't exist. But there's something else— something vitally important to me that I could lose if this comes out."

"What's that?"

"I need a discreet—preferably secret—divorce so that there won't be any gossip or publicity about us. You see, my father is going to take a leave of absence because of his health, and I desperately want the chance to fill in for him as interim president. I need that chance to prove to the board of directors that when he retires permanently, I'm capable of handling the presidency of the corporation. The board is hesitant to appoint me interim president—as I told you, they're very conservative and they already have doubts about me because I'm relatively young for the position, and because I'm a woman. I already have those two strikes against me, and the press hasn't helped by portraying me as a frivolous social butterfly, which is what they like to do. If the press gets hold of our situation, they'll turn it into a carnival. I've announced my engagement to a very upright, important banker and you're supposed to be marrying a half-dozen starlets, but here we are—still married to each other. Potential bigamy doesn't get people appointed to the presidency of Bancroft's. I promise you, if this comes out, it will put an end to my chances."

"I don't doubt you believe that," Matt said, "but I don't think it would be as damaging to your chances as you think it would."

"Don't you?" she said bitterly. "Think how you reacted when I told you the lawyer was a fraud. You instantly leapt to the conclusion that I am an inept imbecile incapable of managing my own life, let alone anything else, like a department store chain. That is exactly how the board will react, because they're not one bit fonder of me than you are."

"Couldn't your father simply make it clear he wants them to appoint you?"

"Yes, but according to the bylaws of the corporation, the board of directors has to unanimously agree on the election of a president. Even if my father did control them, I'm not certain he'd intercede in my behalf."

Matt was spared the need to reply to that because a waiter was bringing their drinks and another was approaching the table, carrying a cordless telephone. "You have a call, Mr. Farrell," he said. "The caller said you instructed that he call you here."

Knowing the call had to be from Tom Anderson, Matt excused himself to Meredith, then he picked up the receiver and said without preamble, "What's the story on the Southville Zoning Commission?"

"It's not good, Matt," Tom said. "They've turned us down."

"Why in God's name would they turn down a rezoning request that can only benefit their community?" Matt said, more stunned than angry at that moment.

"According to my contact on the commission, someone with a lot of influence told them to turn us down."

"Any idea who it is?"

"Yeah. A guy named Paulson heads the commission. He told several members of it, including my contact, that Senator Davies said he'd consider it a personal favor if our rezoning request was denied."

"That's odd," Matt said, frowning, trying to recall if he'd donated money to Davies's campaign or to his opponent, but before he could remember, Anderson added in a voice reeking with sarcasm, "Did you happen to see a mention of a birthday party given for the good senator in the society column?"

"No, why?"

"It was given by one Mr. Philip A. Bancroft. Is there any connection between him and the Meredith we were talking about last week?"

Fury, white hot and deadly, exploded in Matt's chest. His gaze lifted to Meredith, noting her sudden pallor which could only be attributed to his mention of the Southville Zoning Commission. To Anderson he said softly, icily, "There's a connection. Are you at the office?" Anderson said he was, and Matt told him, "Stay there. I'll be back at three o'clock and we'll discuss the next steps."

Slowly, deliberately, Matt placed the phone back on its cradle, then he looked at Meredith, who'd suddenly developed a consuming need to smooth nonexistent creases in the tablecloth with her fingernail. Guilt and knowledge were written across her face, and he hated her at that moment, despised her with a virulence that was almost uncontainable. She had asked for this meeting not to "bury the hatchet," as she'd claimed, but because she wanted something—several things: She wanted to marry her precious banker, she wanted the presidency of Bancroft's, and she wanted a quick, quiet divorce. He was glad she wanted those things so badly, because she wasn't going to get them. What she and her father were going to get was a war, a war they were going to lose to him... along with everything they had. He signaled the waiter for the check. Meredith realized what he was doing, and the alarm that had quaked through her when he mentioned the Southville Zoning Commission escalated to panic. They hadn't agreed to anything yet, and suddenly he was putting a premature end to the discussion. The waiter presented the check in a folded leather case, and Matt yanked a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, tossed it on top of the check without ever looking at it, and stood up. "Let's go," he snapped, already coming around the table and pulling out her chair.

"But we haven't agreed on anything," Meredith said desperately as he took her elbow in a tight grip and began urging her toward the door.

"We'll finish our discussion in the car."

Rain was pounding the red canopy in heavy sheets when they emerged, and the uniformed doorman who was stationed at the curb opened his umbrella, holding it over their heads as they climbed into the limousine.

Matt instructed his chauffeur to drive to Bancroft's department store, and then he gave her his full attention. "Now," he said softly, "what is it you want to do?"

His tone suggested he was going to cooperate, and she felt a mixture of relief and shame—shame because she knew why the zoning commission had turned him down, just as she knew why he was going to be denied membership at the Glenmoor Country Club. Mentally vowing to somehow force her father to undo the damage he'd done to Matt in those two places, she said quietly, "I want us to get a very quick, secret divorce—preferably out of state or out of the country—and I want the fact of our having been married to remain secret."

He nodded, as if giving the matter favorable consideration, but his next words jarred her. "And if I refuse, how can you retaliate? I suppose," he speculated in a coldly amused voice, "you could continue to cut me dead at boring society functions and your father could have me blackballed at every other country club in Chicago."

He already knew about her father blackballing him at Glenmoor! "I'm sorry about what he did at Glenmoor. Truly I am."

He laughed at her earnestness. "I don't give a damn about your precious country club. Someone nominated me after I'd told him not to bother."

Despite his words, Meredith didn't believe he didn't care. He wouldn't be human if he hadn't been deeply embarrassed at being denied membership. Guilt and shame for her father's petty viciousness made her glance slide away from his. She'd enjoyed his company at lunch, and he'd seemed to enjoy hers too. It had felt so good to talk to him as if the ugly past didn't exist. She didn't want to be his enemy; what had happened years ago wasn't entirely his fault. They both had new lives now— lives they'd made for themselves. She was proud of her accomplishments; he had every right to be proud of his. His forearm was resting on the back of the seat, and Meredith gazed at the elegant, wafer-thin gold watch that gleamed at his wrist, and then at his hand. He had wonderful, capable, masculine hands, she thought. Long ago, those hands had been callused, now they were manicured—

She had a sudden, absurd impulse to take his hand in her own and say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the things we've done to hurt each other; I'm sorry we were so wrong for each other.

"Are you trying to see if I still have grease under my fingernails?"

"No!" Meredith gasped, her gaze shooting to his enigmatic gray eyes. With quiet dignity she admitted, "I was wishing that things could have ended differently... ended so that we could at least be friends now."

"Friends?" he repeated with biting irony. "The last time I was friendly with you, it cost me my name, my bachelorhood, and a hell of a lot else."

It has cost you more than you know, Meredith thought miserably. It has cost you a factory you want to build in Southville, but somehow I will make that right. I'll force my father to rectify the damage he's done and make him agree never to interfere with you again. "Matt, listen to me," she said, suddenly desperate to make things right between them. "I'm willing to forget the past and—"

"That's gracious of you," he jeered.

Meredith stiffened, sorely tempted to point out that she was the injured party, the abandoned spouse, but then she squelched the impulse and continued doggedly. "I said I was willing to forget the past, and I am. If you'll agree to a quiet, congenial divorce, I'll do everything I can to smooth things over for you here in Chicago."

"Just how do you think you can smooth things over for me in Chicago, princess?" he asked, his voice reeking with sarcastic amusement.

"Don't call me princess! I'm not being condescending, I'm trying to be fair."

Matt leaned back and regarded her, his eyes shuttered.

"I apologize for being rude, Meredith. What is it that you intend to do for me?"

Relieved by his apparent change in attitude, she said quickly, "For a start, I can make certain you aren't treated like a social outcast. I know my father blocked your membership at our club, but I will try to make him change that—"

"Let's forget about me," he suggested smoothly, revolted by her wheedling and hypocrisy. He'd liked her better when she'd stood her ground at the opera and haughtily insulted him. But she needed something from him now, and Matt was glad it was desperately important to her. Because she wasn't going to get it. "You want a nice, quiet divorce because you want to marry your banker and because you want to be president of Bancroft's, right?" When she nodded, Matt continued. "And the presidency of Bancroft's is very, very important to you?"

"I want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life," Meredith averred eagerly. "You—you will cooperate, won't you?" she said, searching his unreadable face as the car pulled to a stop in front of Bancroft's.

"No." He said it with such polite finality that for a moment Meredith's mind went blank.

"No?" she repeated in angry disbelief. "But the divorce is—"

"Forget it!" he snapped,

"Forget it? Everything I want hinges on it!"

"That's too damned bad."

"Then I'll get one without your consent!" she flung back.

"Try it and I'll make a stink you'll never live down. For starters, I'll sue your spineless banker for alienation of affection."

"Alienation of—" Too stunned to be cautious, Meredith burst out with a bitter laugh. "Have you lost your mind? If you do that, you'll look like an ass, like a heartbroken, jilted husband."

"And you'll look like an adulteress," he countered.

Fury erupted through Meredith's entire body. "Damn you!" she raged, her color rising. "If you dare to publicly embarrass Parker, I'll kill you with my own two hands! You're not fit to touch his shoes!" she exploded. "He's ten times the man you are! He doesn't need to try to bed every woman he meets. He has principles, he's a gentleman, but you wouldn't understand that because underneath that tailor-made suit you're wearing, you're still nothing but a dirty steelworker from a dirty little town with a dirty, drunken father!"

"And you," he said savagely, "are still a vicious, conceited bitch!"

Meredith swung, palm open, then swallowed a gasp of pain as Matt caught her wrist an inch from his face, holding it in a crushing grip, while he warned in a silky voice: "If the Southville Zoning Commission doesn't reverse their decision, there will be no further discussion of a divorce. If I decide to give you a divorce, I'll decide the terms and you and your father will go along with them." Increasing the pressure on her wrist, he jerked her forward until their faces were only inches apart. "Do you understand me, Meredith? You and your father have no power over me. Cross me one more time, and you'll wish to God your mother had aborted you!"

Meredith jerked her arm free of his grasp. "You are a monster!" she hissed. Rain spattered on her cheek and she snatched up her gloves and purse and threw a quelling look at the chauffeur/bodyguard, who had opened the door for her, and was watching their altercation with the enthusiastic intensity of a spectator at a tennis match.

As she climbed out of the car, Ernest rushed forward, belatedly recognizing Meredith, ready to defend her from whatever peril she might be in. "Did you see the man in that car?" she demanded of the Bancroft doorman. When he said that he had indeed, she said, "Good. If he ever comes near this store, you are to call the police!"