He'd called Friday night to say that he missed her and needed to hear the sound of her voice. His Saturday morning message had been mildly confused at her lack of reply. Saturday night he'd been worried by her silence, and he'd asked if her father had gotten ill on his cruise. Sunday morning he said he was alarmed and that he was going to call Lisa. Unfortunately, Lisa had evidently explained that Meredith had gone to see Matt on Friday to tell him the truth and get things straightened out. Parker's sunday night message was furious and hurt: "Call me, dammit!" he'd said. "I want to believe you have a legitimate reason for spending the weekend with Farrell, if that's what you've done, but I'm running out of excuses." Meredith sustained that part better than his next words, which were filled with confusion and tenderness, "Darling, where are you, really? I know you aren't with Farrell. I'm sorry I said that, my imagination is running wild. Did he agree to a divorce? Has he murdered you? I'm terribly worried about you."

Meredith closed her eyes, trying to banish the sensation of impending doom so that she could attempt to get on with her day. The note she'd left Matt had been cowardly and childish, and she couldn't understand why she'd been unable to stay there until he woke up and then say good-bye to him like a mature adult. Every time she went near Matt Farrell, she said and did things that she'd never do under ordinary circumstances—foolish, wrong, dangerous things! In less than forty-eight hours with him, she'd thrown away her scruples and forgotten about things that mattered to her, like decency and principles. Instead, she'd gone to bed with a man she didn't love, and she had betrayed Parker. Her conscience was on a rampage.

She thought of the way she'd responded to him in bed, and bright color ran up her pale cheeks. At eighteen she'd been awed by the fact that Matt seemed to know all the right places to touch her, all the right things to whisper to her, in order to drive her into a frenzy of defenseless desire. To discover, when she was twenty-nine, that he could still do it—only much more so—filled her with despondent shame. Yesterday she'd practically begged him for a climax—she, who was helplessly modest in bed with her own fiance.

Meredith drew herself up short. These sorts of recriminations, these thoughts, weren't fair to either Matt or her. The things she'd told him yesterday had shaken him deeply. They'd gone to bed together as a way to ... to console each other. He had not merely used that as an excuse to get her into bed. At least, she thought a little wildly, it hadn't seemed like it at the time.

She was doing it again, she realized in frustrated alarm—losing focus, concentrating on all the wrong things. It was counterproductive to sit, on the verge of tears, filled with remorse and obsessed with anything as silly as his sexual expertise. She needed to take action, to do something to banish this strange, nameless panic that had been growing inside her from the moment she'd left Matt's bed. At four o'clock that morning she'd arrived at certain conclusions, and she'd made a decision. Now she needed to stop going over the problems and follow through with that decision.

"I had to wait for a fresh pot of coffee to brew," Phyllis said, heading toward Meredith's desk with a steaming mug in one hand and a fistful of pink message slips in the other. "Here are your messages. Don't forget, you rescheduled the executive committee meeting for today at eleven."

Meredith managed not to look as harassed and miserable as she felt. "Okay, thanks. Will you get Stuart Whitmore on the phone for me? And will you see if you can reach Parker at his hotel in Geneva? If he isn't in his suite, leave a message."

"Who do you want first?" Phyllis asked with her usual cheerful efficiency.

"Stuart Whitmore," Meredith said. First she would tell Stuart of her decision. Next she would talk to Parker, and try to explain. Explain? she thought miserably.

Trying to think of something less daunting, she picked up the phone messages and leafed disinterestedly through them. The fifth one brought her halfway to her feet, her heart beginning to hammer. The message said that Mr. Matthew Farrell had called at 9:10 a.m.

The harsh buzz of her intercom jerked Meredith's attention to the phone, and she saw that both her lines were lit up, their hold buttons flashing.

"I have Mr. Whitmore on line one," Phyllis said when Meredith answered the intercom, "and Matthew Farrell is on line two. He says it's urgent."

Meredith's pulse rate doubled. "Phyllis," she said shakily, "I don't want to speak to Matt Farrell. Would you tell him that I want us to communicate with each other through our attorneys from now on? And also tell him I'm going out of town for a week or two. Be polite to him," she added nervously, "but very firm."

"I understand."

Meredith put down the phone, her hand shaking, watching the flashing light on line two become constant. Phyllis was giving Matt the message. She started to reach for the phone; she should at least talk to him and find out what he wanted, she thought, then she jerked her hand back. No, she shouldn't! It didn't matter. As soon as Stuart told her where to go to get a quick, legal divorce, whatever Matt wanted would be irrelevant. She'd arrived at the obvious solution of a Reno divorce—or something like it—in the small hours of the morning, and it made perfect sense. Now that there was no more enmity between them, she knew Matt wouldn't consider carrying out the threats he'd made in the car that day after lunch. All that was in the past.

The light on Matt's call went out, and she couldn't stand the suspense. She buzzed Phyllis and asked her to come in. "What did he say?" Meredith asked her.

Phyllis bit back a puzzled smile at Meredith's complete loss of serenity. "He said he understood perfectly."

"Was that all?"

"Then he asked if your trip was a sudden, unscheduled one, and I told him it was. Is that okay?"

"I don't know," Meredith said helplessly. "Did he say anything when you told him my trip was sudden?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean by that?"

"What he did was laugh, but not loud. I guess you'd call it a chuckle—sort of low and deep. Then he thanked me and said good-bye."

For some reason, Matt's entire reaction made Meredith feel acutely uneasy. "Was there anything else?" she asked when Phyllis continued to hover in the doorway.

"I was just wondering," the secretary replied a little sheepishly. "I mean, do you think he has really dated Michelle Pfeiffer and Meg Ryan, or do you think the movie magazines just make that stuff up?"

"I'm sure he has," Meredith said, struggling to keep her voice and face completely blank.