In her panic and desperation, Meredith unthinkingly put her hand on his chest. "Matt, please listen to me—" She watched his gaze rivet on her hand, then it slowly lifted to her face, and when his eyes met hers, there was a distinct change in him, though she was unaware that it was the intimacy of her gesture that caused it. The rigidity left his jaw, his body relaxed; his eyes were no longer hard and indifferent, but lazy and speculative; even his voice was different—smooth, soft, like satin over cold steel. "Go ahead and talk, sweetheart, I'm hanging on to every word."
Meredith's mind rang out an alarm as she looked into those heavy-lidded gray eyes, but she was too desperate to speak to heed the warning or even to notice that his hands were slowly gliding up and down her arms. Drawing a quick, steadying breath, she launched into the speech she'd rehearsed all morning: "Friday evening, I went to your apartment to try to reason with you—"
"I already know that," he interrupted.
"What you don't know is that your father and I had a raging argument."
"I'm sure you didn't rage, sweetheart," he said with thinly veiled sarcasm. "A well-bred woman like you would never stoop so low."
"Well, I did," Meredith said, shaken by his attitude but determined to forge ahead. "You see, your father told me to stay away from you—he accused me of destroying our baby and newly destroying your life. I—I didn't know what he was talking about at first."
"I'm sure the fault was his for not making himself clear—"
"Stop talking to me in that condescending way," Meredith warned with a mixture of panic and desperation. "I'm trying to make you understand!"
"I'm sorry. What is it I'm supposed to understand?"
"Matt, I didn't have an abortion—I had a miscarriage. A miscarriage," she repeated, searching his impassive features for some sign of reaction.
"A miscarriage. I see." His eyes dropped to her lips and his hand slid up her arm, curving around her nape. "So beautiful. . ." he whispered huskily. "You always were so damned beautiful.. ."
Stunned into blank immobility by his words and the husky timbre of his voice, she stared at him, not certain what he was thinking, unable to believe he'd accepted her explanation so easily and calmly. "So beautiful," he repeated, his hand tightening on her nape, "and such a liar!" Before she could summon a coherent thought, his mouth swooped down, seizing hers in a kiss of ruthless sensuality, grinding her lips apart. His fingers shoved into her hair and twisted, forcing her head back and holding her captive as his tongue drove insolently into her mouth.
The kiss was intended to punish and degrade her, and Meredith knew it, but instead of fighting him as he obviously expected her to do, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body to his, and kissed him back with all the shattering tenderness and aching contrition in her heart, trying to convince him in this way that she spoke the truth. Her response made him stiffen in shock; he tensed, as if he intended to shove her away, and then with a low groan he gathered her into his arms and kissed her with a slow, melting hunger that demolished her defenses completely and drove her mad with helpless yearning. The kiss deepened dramatically, his mouth moving urgently, persuasively, on hers, and against her, Meredith felt the rigid pressure of his aroused body.
When he finally lifted his head, she was too dazed to immediately grasp the meaning of his caustic question, "Are you using birth control? Before we get into bed so you can show me how badly you really want that Houston property, I want to be certain there won't be another child from this encounter—or another abortion."
Meredith lurched back, staring at him in stunned anger.
"Abortion!" she choked. "Didn't you hear what I just told you? I had a miscarriage."
"Damn you, don't lie to me!"
"You have to listen—"
"I don't want to talk anymore," he said roughly, and his mouth captured hers in a bruising kiss.
Frantic to stop him, to make him listen before it was too late, Meredith struggled and finally managed to tear her mouth from his. "No!" she cried, wedging her hands against his chest, burying her face against his shirt. His hand clamped against the back of her head as if he intended to force her head up again, and Meredith fought with a strength born of terror and panic, shoving his hands away and tearing out of his grasp. "I didn't have an abortion—I didn't!" she cried, backing up a step, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths, her words spilling out with all the pent-up pain and fury she felt. Gone was the carefully rehearsed speech she'd planned, and in its place came a torrent of anguished words. "I had a miscarriage, and I nearly died. A miscarriage! No one will perform an abortion when you're nearly six months pregnant—"
Minutes ago his eyes had been smoldering with desire, now they raked over her with savage contempt. "Evidently they will if you've given an entire wing to the hospital where it's performed."
"It's not a question of legality, it's too dangerous!"
"Apparently it was, since you were in there for almost two weeks."
Meredith realized he'd already considered all this long ago, arrived at his own logical, if erroneous, conclusions, and that nothing she said was going to make any difference. The realization was shattering, and she turned her head aside, brushing at the tears of futility starting to spill from her eyes, but she could not stop talking to him. "Oh, please," she implored brokenly, "listen to me. I hemorrhaged, and I lost our baby. I asked my father to send you a telegram to tell you what happened and to ask you to come home. I never imagined he'd lie to you, or stop you from getting into the hospital, but your father said that's what he did ..." The dam of tears broke loose, flooding her eyes and shattering her voice as she wept. "I thought I was in love with you! I waited for you to come to the hospital. I waited and waited," she cried, "but you never did."
She bent her head, her shoulders jerking with sobs she couldn't suppress any longer. Matt knew she was crying, but he was rendered incapable of reaction by a memory that had started screaming through his brain when she mentioned her father—a vision of Philip Bancroft standing in his study, white-faced with rage: You think you're tough, Farrell, but you don't even know what tough is yet, I'll stop at nothing to get Meredith free of you! After that tirade, after Bancroft's rage was spent, he'd asked Matt if they could try to get along for Meredith's sake. Bancroft had seemed sincere. He'd seemed to accept the marriage, albeit reluctantly. But had he really, Matt wondered now. I'll stop at nothing to get Meredith free of you . . .