Divine Design (7 page)

Michael laughed appropriately for Henry, but his rebuttal was for Meghan. “It would indeed. But we all know actions speak louder than words. I’m sure Ms. Shay’s reputation says more about her skills than her name does.”

When Meghan gasped, Michael was delighted with his direct hit.

She shuffled papers around on her desk in embarrassment, trying to settle herself.

Meghan was panic-stricken, but the emotion she felt most intensely was pain. She deserved his anger and ridicule, and she knew it, but it hurt nonetheless. She blinked back the tears that welled in her eyes as she pushed papers back and forth on her desk. All she could do was handle the situation with as much dignity as she had left.

With a strange glint in her eyes that Michael couldn’t decipher, she looked straight at him and said, “Mr. Ramsey’s right, Henry,” then she changed the subject. “I understand you’re buying a piece of the Apple, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Yes, I am,” he stated. “Since it’s so close to noon, perhaps we could discuss it over lunch, say … at the Essex,” he zinged her again, then for Henry’s benefit he added, “I’m staying there and have an appointment there later, so it would be convenient, and the food is excellent.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “But I have an appointment with my doctor at one-thirty. So, if you wouldn’t mind, we can discuss it now.”

At this point, Henry the Helpful decided to go.

“Mr. Ramsey, I’ll leave you now in Meghan’s expert hands. I’m glad we got the chance to meet.”

“The pleasure was mine, Mr. Alderman, and please call me Michael. I have a feeling my attorney and I will be in conference often, and I’m hoping we can run into each other again sometime,” he said, as he rose to shake Henry’s hand.

“I’ll look forward to it, Michael, and you can call me Henry. I’m sure you will find Meghan is the best there is for this sort of affair,” he said, before letting himself out of the room.

Michael stared after him in amused wonder. Then, calling his own temporary truce with Meghan, he turned and gave her a wry grin. “He wasn’t much help to you, was he?”

“He meant well,” she retorted with a shrug.

“That’s true,” he conceded, the truce over. “Now, can we say the same for you?”

Meghan decided there were too many potholes in the road ahead and tried to steer clear of them.

“Shall we discuss your acquisition, Mr. Ramsey?” she asked formally.

“Ah,” he said, as if suddenly enlightened. “We’re all business in the daylight hours too.”

“That’s up to you, Mr. Ramsey. I’m leaving at one o’clock. You can sit there and torture me until then if you want to. However, you will be charged for my time, and we won’t be any closer to reaching a settlement on your property. The choice is yours,” she pointed out tersely, sitting down in her chair and crossing her legs comfortably.

“Oh, good. Then my choice does occasionally matter,” he said sarcastically. He opened his briefcase and brought out a file folder. He flipped it carelessly onto the top of her desk.

“I have a verbal agreement to buy out Dobson Publishing Company,” he began in a professional tone as cold as her own. “I want total ownership, complete rights, and the use of their good name for as long as I own the company. In return for which I will give them their total asking price. I then wish to have the necessary papers drawn up to incorporate it into Texacal. Their attorneys’ names and addresses as well as those of my attorneys in Texas, and several other minor stipulations, are listed in there also.”

His instructions were clear to Meghan and left her with nothing to say. He closed his briefcase, latched it, and stood to leave, saying, “If you have any questions, you know where to reach me.”

At the door he turned to study her intently, then cautioned her, “I’m not through with you, Meghan Shay.”

She returned his steady look and uttered, “I didn’t think you were, Mr. Ramsey.”

Meghan’s appointment with her doctor took place over lunch in an Italian restaurant that Meghan and Lucy often frequented.

“Oh Lord, Meghan, what are you going to do?” asked a terrified Lucy after listening to the horrifying story.

Morose, Meghan shrugged and glanced across the table at her friend. “I don’t know,” she stated dully, then as an afterthought added, “You don’t happen to have a bottle of pills I could take?”

“Meghan,” Lucy gasped.

The red-haired mother-to-be propped her elbow on the table and laid her forehead in her hand. “Relax,” she mumbled. “It was just the first thing that came to mind. You know I’d never do anything to harm the baby.”

“Oh Lord, Meghan,” Lucy repeated, for at least the tenth time since their meal was served.

Peeking through her fingers at Lucy, Meghan released a derisive half laugh and offered, “Just imagine what he’d say if he found out I’m pregnant.”

“Oh Lord, Meghan!”

Lucy’s remark drew the attention of some of the other diners. Glancing around at the onlookers and then back to one another, the women broke into giggles. The tension effectively drained from the conversation, Lucy encouraged Meghan to eat some of her untouched meal.

After two or three small, tasteless bites of superb manicotti, Meghan began to play with the cherry tomato in her salad. Thoughtfully turning it over and over with her fork, she finally muttered, “There isn’t anything I can do.”

Lucy watched her, but didn’t speak.

“I’ll just avoid him when I can and endure him when I can’t,” she concluded. “Let’s face it, Luce, I deserve it. Somewhere in that panic this morning, I actually felt relief. I remember thinking, ‘Oh, good. He’s come to kill me and I won’t feel guilty anymore!’ What I did to him is appalling. What I should do,” she stated vehemently, “is confess the whole thing and let him horsewhip me until we both feel better.”

“Meghan,” Lucy said sympathetically.

Meghan heaved a heavy sigh.

“Look, Meg, avoid him like you said before. Eventually he’ll either run out of nasty things to say or he’ll go back to Texas. It can’t go on forever,” consoled the eternal optimist.

Meghan looked at Lucy as if she were suddenly inspired with a superior idea.

“That’s it, Lucy.” Meghan grinned exultantly. “He’ll leave soon. And if he doesn’t, I’ll be leaving in a month or so anyway. If I can be pregnant for nine months, I can surely put up with him for one. At least he doesn’t make me nauseous,” she said, giggling. “Speaking of nausea, when will that go away? Greta’s not stupid, you know. If she catches me as pale as a ghost with a mouth full of crackers again, she’s going to start getting a little suspicious.”

Greta was suspicious, but not of Meghan’s physical condition.

“That big hunk of Texas called while you were out,” she reported, when the young attorney returned to her office.

“What big hunk of Texas?” Meghan inquired too casually.

“Well, how many big hunks of Texas have you met lately?” the older woman wanted to know.

Meghan’s gaze wandered around the room as she tried to recall the exact number.

After several seconds, Greta supplied the answer for herself.

“Michael Ramsey.”

“Oh. What did he want?”

“He wanted you to call him when you got back from your doctor’s appointment,” Greta relayed.

“Oh,” was Meghan’s response.

“I didn’t realize you had another appointment to see Lucy this afternoon,” a concerned Greta said, hoping for more information on Meghan’s health.

“We … we had lunch at Tonio’s,” she mumbled guiltily. She left instructions to tell all callers she’d left for the day to work on a pile of paperwork that had to be cleared up by Monday. Then she walked as nonchalantly as possible into her office and closed the door.

She didn’t hear Greta murmur a knowing, “I see.”

T
HAT WEEKEND WOULDN’T
go down as one of Meghan’s favorites.

She stayed in the entire time, sure that now that lightning had already struck once, a second time was entirely possible.

She worked on a couple of cases she’d brought home from the office. She watched television absently. She read the first page of the same book twice and finally tossed it onto the coffee table beside one of her cooked and recooked TV dinners—not her favorite fare.

Her answering machine had been on all weekend, but on Sunday morning she took Lucy’s call and one from Connie, who inquired about her health and offered his help if she needed it. Put out with her, it was his way of letting her know he still loved her.

She didn’t, however, return any of the calls Michael Ramsey ordered her to. Not the Friday night call when he said, “I’ll pretend that I think you didn’t go back to the office this afternoon. Please call me when you get home.”

The Saturday morning call was a little nasty. Why should she answer, “Unless you were out working on another thesis last night, I’m sure you eventually got my message. I’m still waiting for your call.” In the afternoon his call was slightly threatening, “Meghan. I have the patience of Job, but don’t push me.” Meghan was too nervous to call after that. Later that night she realized the afternoon call was nothing compared to the one he made at ten-thirty. “Dammit, Meghan! Call me!”

Michael’s last call came on Sunday afternoon, and Meghan’s heart fluttered with anxiety when he informed her calmly, “I’ll be calling you at the office in the morning, Meghan. If you don’t take my call, I’ll be over in person. If you call in sick tomorrow, I may have to have a talk with my friend Henry and tell him you’re avoiding my calls. … Talk to you soon, darlin’.”

Monday morning she was in the office for Michael’s call.

“Yes, Mr. Ramsey,” she greeted him cheerfully.

Before she could say anything else, he broke in angrily, “Why the hell didn’t you answer my messages?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Ramsey. I did get all of your … kind messages, but the last one led me to believe that rather than return your call last night, you preferred to call me here this morning.” Hesitant, she then added coyly, “Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsey?”

Silence.

“Mr. Ramsey?”

“Meghan,” he said semisweetly. “I’ve kissed the little freckle you carry low on your left hip … and then some. So don’t you think you ought to call me Michael? Henry does, and I haven’t been nearly as familiar with him.”

“Very well, Michael, if that’s what you want. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” she asked innocently.

She could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line, but he didn’t speak.

“Michael? Was that all you wanted?” she repeated.

“No! That’s not all I wanted. I want you to go out to dinner with me,” he said testily.

“What a kind invitation, Michael,” she cooed. “Is this business or pleasure?”

“Would ‘pleasure’ get you there?” he asked cautiously.

“I don’t go out with clients, Michael,” she said purposefully.

“Then it’s business,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh. Well in that case, I do have a couple of free hours this afternoon if you would like to come in—”

“Meghan,” he interrupted. “I do not want to come into your office. And I think I ought to let you know I’m near the end of my rope.”

She laughed softly and confided, “You know, Michael, I never would have dreamed that someone from Texas could ever run out of rope. However, if tomorrow would be more convenient for—”

“Dammit, Meghan!” he bellowed, and then there was silence on both ends. Finally, as if speaking to the village idiot, he said, “Meghan, darlin’, I’d rather not have to threaten you to get you to have dinner with me, but I promise you, if you don’t come out with me, I’m going to spend the entire night thinking up something really terrible to do to you.”

Meghan sighed loudly, fatigued from the battle of wills. Seeing herself as the loser in this skirmish, she gave one more valiant try.

“Michael,” she said, her voice pleading for mercy. “We’ll be working together fairly often over the next month or so. I promise you’ll have plenty of time to browbeat me. Couldn’t we just leave it at that?”

There was silence for what seemed like an eternity before Michael said slowly, “What if I don’t? What if we call a truce?”

“A truce?” she asked, stunned by his sudden turnaround.

“Yes, counselor. It’s like a contract … a pact. A deal not to fight anymore.”

“A truce,” she clarified.

“Yeah. How about it?”

“I’d like that,” she said, truly grateful.

“Then can we have dinner together tonight?” he asked with assurance.

“Well, I … well … could … could we make it Thursday instead?” she asked, playing for time. The longer she could avoid him, the better. If they could make it Thursday, she’d have only three weeks to go before she left town.

“Thursday?” he exclaimed, his voice rising again.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I … I …”

“Thursday,” he broke in. “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

“Oh. I could just meet you. You don’t—”

“I’ll pick you up,” he reiterated.

“Fine.”

The week whizzed by. At seven fifty-five on Thursday night Meghan was totally dressed, totally petrified, and totally nauseous.

Her forehead and the back of her neck were moist with perspiration. She was sure her face looked as pale as chalk. But she was as ready as she’d ever be. She had cleverly chosen a moss green evening dress that was lined in taffeta. In two pieces, the flowing blouson top had a drop waist and side hip band trimmed in pearls. The skirt was comfortable and extremely becoming with its elasticized waistband to conceal her pregnancy and the pleats to flatter her figure.

An unsavory saltiness seeped into Meghan’s mouth as she waited anxiously for Michael to arrive. At this point in her pregnancy she knew all the signs of an imminent eruption and made a mad dash for her crackers. Not in their usual place, Meghan cursed the lovable Mrs. Belinski and started flinging open cupboards and drawers as the doorbell chimed.

“Oh Lord,” she moaned dejectedly, swallowing a mouthful of saliva, hoping it would stay down—hoping everything would stay down—as she went to greet Michael.

Throwing open the door, she instantly and swiftly retraced her steps back to the kitchen, blurting out, “Come in and sit down,” as the contents of her stomach bounced erratically between her abdomen and the back of her throat.