"It's late," Meredith interrupted, but her voice was taut with strain as she shoved work into her briefcase. "I'm going to go home and try to work there. You and Mark can continue this—this witch hunt without me!"

"Stay away from him, Meredith!" her father warned as she started for the door. "If you don't, you may end up looking like a co-conspirator in all this. By Friday at the latest we'll have enough proof put together to turn him over to the authorities—"

She turned, trying to look scornful. "What authorities?"

"The Securities and Exchange Commission, for starters! If he's acquired five percent of our stock, and I'm damned sure he has by now, then he's in violation of the SEC rules because he hasn't notified them he's done it! And if he's violated that law, then the police won't think he's as pure as the driven snow when it comes to the death of that lawyer, or bomb threats—"

Meredith walked out and closed the door behind her. Somehow she managed to smile and say good night to the other executives she passed on her way to the parking garage, but when she slid into the front seat of the car Matt had given her, her composure broke. Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, she stared at the cement wall of the parking garage, shivering uncontrollably. She told herself she was panicking needlessly, that Matt would have a logical, reasonable explanation for all of this. She was not, absolutely was not going to convict him in her head on such circumstantial evidence. She said it over and over again like a chant. Or a prayer. Slowly, the trembling subsided, and she turned the key in the ignition. Matt was innocent, she knew it with every fiber of her being, and she wouldn't dishonor him by doubting him for one more second.

Despite that noble resolve, her fears and misgivings could not be so easily banished, and by the time she'd changed clothes she was so miserable she couldn't concentrate on anything else. She opened her briefcase, listlessly took out the advertising budget, and realized it was pointless to try to work while her mind was in this state. If she could just see Matt, she told herself, see his face and his eyes, and hear his voice, she'd be reassured that he hadn't done the things her father was accusing him of doing.

She was still telling herself that her only reason for needing to see him was for the reassurance of his company and to stop her imagination from running away with itself when she pressed the buzzer beside the double doors of the penthouse. Matt had already put her name on the permanent guest list at the security desk, so he had no idea that she was coming. Joe O'Hara opened the door, his homely face splitting into a wide grin when he saw her. "Hiya, Mrs. Farrell! Matt's gonna be glad to see you! Nothin' could make him gladder," he predicted as he lowered his voice and peered around her, "except if you happened to have suitcases with you?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Meredith said, smiling helplessly at his outrageous gall. In Matt's bachelor household, Joe seemed to be a jack of all trades—not merely chauffeur or bodyguard, but in his off hours he answered the door, the phone, and he even cooked an occasional meal. Now that she was more accustomed to his bulk and that dark, sinister face of his, he reminded her more of a teddy bear—albeit a lethal one.

"Matt's in the library," he said as he closed the door. "He brought a load of work home with him from the office, but he won't mind the interruption, not a bit! Want me to take you to him?"

"No thanks," she said with a smile over her shoulder. "I know the way."

"I was just leaving for a couple hours," he added meaningfully, and Meredith suppressed a silly surge of embarrassment at what he obviously thought was the reason for her visit.

In the doorway to the library she paused, momentarily cheered and reassured by the sight of Matt. Seated on a leather chesterfield, his ankle propped on the opposite knee, he was reading some documents, making notes in the margins. More documents were spread out on the coffee table in front of him. He glanced up, saw her standing there, and the sudden glamour of his lazy white smile made her heart leap. "This must be my lucky day," he said, getting up and walking toward her. "I thought you weren't going to be able to see me tonight— something about your needing to work and get an uninterrupted night's sleep. I suppose it's too much to hope," he added with another grin, "that you brought some suitcases with you?"

Meredith laughed, but it sounded hollow to her own ears. "Joe asked the same thing."

"I definitely ought to fire him for impertinence," Matt teased, pulling her into his arms for a hungry kiss. She tried to respond, but her heart wasn't in it, and he sensed it almost at once. Lifting his head, he studied her for a puzzled moment. "Why do I have the feeling," he asked, "that your mind is on something other than what we're doing?"

"You're obviously more intuitive than I am."

His hands slid down her arms, then he let her go and stepped back, frowning slightly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm not nearly so good at guessing what's going on in your mind," Meredith replied with more force than she'd intended, and she realized with a jolt that she hadn't come to reassure herself with the sight of him.

She'd come for some answers.

"Why don't we go in the living room, where it's more comfortable, and you can explain the meaning of that remark."

Meredith nodded and followed him, but once they were there, she was too restless to sit down and too self-conscious to face him with her unspoken accusations. Uneasy under his steady scrutiny, she let her gaze drift over the room ... past the collage of old photographs of his sister and father and mother framed on a splendid carved marble table, past the leather-bound photo album lying beside it. Sensing her tension, he remained standing, and when he spoke his voice was both puzzled and a little curt. "What's on your mind?"

Startled by his tone, her gaze snapped to his face, and she told him exactly what was on her mind. "Why didn't you tell me last night the police questioned you about Spyzhalski's death? How could you spend most of the night with me and never show a sign that you're a—a suspect in it!"

"I didn't tell you because you had enough to deal with without that. Secondly, the police are questioning many of Spyzhalski's 'clients,' and I am not a suspect in his death." He saw the relief and uncertainty she was trying to hide, and his jaw hardened. "Or am I?"

"Are you what?"

"A murder suspect—in your eyes."

"No of course not!" Raking her hair off her forehead in a nervous gesture of confusion and frustration, she looked away from him, unable to stop herself from continuing to prod and hating herself for the mistrust that was making her do it. "I'm sorry, Matt. I've had an awful day." Turning, she studied him with renewed intensity, watching for his reaction as she said, "My father is convinced that someone is about to launch a takeover attempt on us." His expression remained unchanged, unreadable. Guarded? "He thinks that whoever is putting the bombs in our stores might be the same person or group who's planning to take us over."