Paradise (Second Opportunities 1)

"I don't qualify in either category," Matt pointed out.

"You are famous, and besides, you've dated all sorts of glamorous movie stars, so she'll think she's died and gone to heaven."

Vaguely displeased at Meredith's deliberate and ostensibly unconcerned reminder of what she perceived to be the women he'd slept with, Matt automatically followed her as she sidled through a six-deep throng of women shoppers blocking the counter and part of the aisle.

His briefcase banged into a wide derriere and hooked on a purse strap, but Meredith was obviously an old hand at this, because she sidled right through. He was looking down, untangling his briefcase handle from the purse strap when the owner of the purse, mistaking him for an inept purse-snatcher, let out an outraged cry of alarm and yanked on her purse. "Your strap caught on my briefcase—" Matt explained, glancing up at her.

Her mouth dropped open in shock as she recognized his face. "Aren't you—aren't you Matt Farrell?"

"No," Matt lied, and rudely shouldered past her, trying to get to Meredith through the sea of coats and purses. Meredith looked over her shoulder, obviously impatient at his delay, and held out her gloved hand to pull him forward through the throng, then she turned back to the elderly salesclerk she was talking to. The loudspeakers were playing "Jingle Bells," and the page system was chiming, and over it all was the loud hum of women calling for salesclerks to help them. In growing discomfort Matt waited beside her at a crowded counter which he now realized was surrounded by women who were pawing through the nylon stockings and pantyhose that dripped from revolving chrome racks. They hung from overhead wires, too, waving in front of his nose, blowing enticingly in the air currents from the heating vents and revolving doors just beyond.

With relief he heard Meredith say his name, and he leaned forward to meet the fascinated sixty-two-year-old who was scrutinizing his every feature. "How do you do," Matt said, leaning forward to shake her outstretched hand. As he did so, a stocking draped itself across his head from the overhead wire, and he had to pause to untangle himself from it. He held out his hand again, and it draped itself languorously  over his cashmere-clad shoulder.

"Why, Meredith!" Mrs. Millicent burst out excitedly, watching him bat the nylon off his shoulder. "He reminds me of Cary Grant!" Meredith cast a skeptical glance at him just in time to see another stocking drape itself over his ear. He yanked this one down and put it on the counter, and she tore her laughing gaze from him, then she quickly concluded her conversation with Mrs. Millicent.

With Matt in the lead, they retraced their way through the crowd. Unfortunately, when they were almost to the aisle, the shopper who'd mistaken him for a purse-snatcher pointed him out to everyone within hearing. "That's him!" she called, oblivious to Meredith, who was right on his heels, blocked from view by his shoulders. "That's Matthew Farrell—Meredith Bancroft's husband, the one who used to date Meg Ryan and Michelle Pfeiffer!"

A lady on Matt's right thrust her shopping bag at him. "Could I have your autograph?" she pleaded, searching in her purse for a pen in the apparent hope he would sign the bag. Matt reached for Meredith's arm, shouldering past the woman. Behind him, she announced in offended anger to everyone else, "Who wants his autograph anyway? I just remembered that he also dated a porn queen!"

Matt could feel the tension radiating from Meredith even after they dashed through the revolving doors and were outside in the frigid night air. "Despite what you're thinking," he said defensively, knowing how much she hated notoriety, "people don't ask me for autographs. It's only happening now because our faces are plastered all over the local news."

She flashed him a dubious look and said nothing.

The situation in the restaurant across the street was worse than her store. The place was packed with Christmas shoppers having early dinners, and they were waiting in double lines in the vestibule. "Do you think we should wait?" Meredith asked him. And before the words were out or her mouth, the buzzing started around them. Opposite them, a woman leaned across the three-foot space that separated her line from the one Matt and Meredith were in. "Excuse me," she said, speaking to Meredith with her eyes on Matt. "Aren't you Meredith Bancroft?" Without waiting for Meredith to answer, she said to Matt, "And that makes you Matthew Farrell!"

"Not really," Matt said shortly, and it didn't take the pressure he was exerting on Meredith's arm to make her agree to get out of there.

"Let's go to my apartment and order a pizza," she said when they reached her car in its reserved spot in the parking garage.

Furious with fate for doing this to him, Matt waited while she unlocked the car and got into it, but he stopped her from closing the door. "Meredith," he said firmly, "I have never dated a porn queen."

"That's a load off my mind," she said with a sidelong smile, and Matt was surprised and relieved that she'd evidently regained much of her humor and equilibrium. "And I will admit," she added, turning on the ignition and waiting for the old BMW to catch, "Meg Ryan and Michelle Pfeiffer are both blondes."

"I know Michelle Pfeiffer very casually," he said, helpless not to defend himself, "and I've never met Meg Ryan."

"Really?" Meredith dryly replied, her hand on the door handle to close it. "Mrs. Millicent was all excited because she was supposedly on your yacht for a cruise."

"She was. I wasn't!"

Chapter 46

They had pizza and wine at her place—picnic-style, on the floor in front of the fire. They'd finished eating and were having the last of the wine before they tackled the work they'd brought in. Matt leaned forward and reached for his wineglass, surreptitiously watching her gazing into the fire, her arms wrapped around her updrawn knees. She was, he thought, an utterly captivating bundle of contradictions. A few weeks ago he'd watched her walk down the grand staircase at the opera, looking like a regal socialite. At her office today, in a business suit, surrounded by her staff, she was every inch an executive. Tonight, sitting before the fire in jeans that hugged her shapely bottom and a bulky cable-knit sweater that came almost to her knees, she was ... the girl he had known long ago. Maybe that change from executive to artless girl was why he couldn't gauge her mood or guess her thoughts. Earlier, he'd thought she was upset over the mention of the women allegedly in his life, but all during their meal she'd been delightful company.