True Colors. Diana Palmer

lies from the beginning.

      If she felt any consolation at all, it came from Myrna’s uncertainty about the fate of her only grandchild. It was a bitter pleasure at that, because Meredith didn’t like hurting people—not even people like Myrna. All that pain, all that anguish, and for what? Myrna had wanted Cy to marry a local socialite he’d been dating infrequently, but that had obviously come to nothing. Cy was still single and showed no interest whatsoever in becoming anyone’s husband. There was a cold cynicism in him now that Meredith didn’t recognize, a hardness that completely overshadowed the sensitivity she remembered. He’d changed, as she had. Only Myrna remained the same: icy and arrogant and certain of getting her own way. But not this time, Meredith told herself. Oh, no, not this time. She wasn’t leaving town until Cy had the truth of it, no matter what it took. And she had a few surprises for him before that day came.

      Meredith called the office as soon as she reached Mary’s house. Working eased her aching heart, made her whole again. She wanted to check with her contacts on the inquiries she was making into Harden Properties. Cy had to have an Achilles’ heel. She’d noticed that most of his executives ate at the restaurant where she worked. She smiled at that irony. He’d given her a job at the very best place to eavesdrop on his business. How would he feel, she wondered smugly, when he found out?

      During the next few days, she made it her business to be especially courteous to his executives and become friendly with them. That being the case, they were much less guarded in their conversation, assuming that she wouldn’t know what they were talking about. But she did. From the information she gleaned, she gathered that one of Cy’s directors was quietly working against him, trying to obtain a majority of the stockholders’ votes to oust Cy from his own company. She mentioned that over the phone to Don the night she heard this. He agreed to find the director and cultivate him.

      Little bits and pieces of conversation, small tidbits of gossip, fueled her secretive inquiries, provided her with insight into the best avenues to pursue as she sought a foothold in Cy’s company.

      Cy hadn’t been back to the restaurant since they argued, which was something of a relief. Neither had Myrna, and Meredith began to wonder if something was afoot.

      Meanwhile, Mrs. Dade had noticed Meredith’s special attention to the Harden executives, and she asked her employee into the office late one evening to discuss it.

      “You’re a good waitress,” Mrs. Dade said with a steely look, “but I don’t like the attention you’re giving Cy Harden’s employees. Not only does it not look good, but you’re making a spectacle of yourself in front of the other help.”

      Meredith’s eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t aware that I was paying them any special attention, Mrs. Dade,” she said innocently. “They’re very nice tippers….” She added that last bit with a calculating look and saw with pleasure that she’d given exactly the impression she meant to.

      Mrs. Dade’s face relaxed into a smile. “I see.”

      I thought you would, Meredith thought with silent satisfaction.

      “Well, if that’s all it is,” Mrs. Dade continued. “But you mustn’t pay them such obvious attention. It does look bad. And I’d hate to have to let you go.”

      That would be interesting, she thought. She wondered what Mrs. Dade would do if she fired Meredith and Cy found out. It might be the restaurant manager who was out on the streets looking for work, because Cy didn’t like anyone undermining his orders.

      “I’ll be very careful not to let it happen again, Mrs. Dade,” Meredith promised.

      The older woman smiled. “Okay. No harm done. I know how much you young girls depend on tips to keep you going. And you are very good at your job, Meredith.”

      Meredith suppressed the desire to curtsy. “Thank you, Mrs. Dade.”

      “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

      Dismissed, Meredith got her light jacket and walked to the bus stop, laughing softly to herself. She wondered what the businesslike Mrs. Dade would say if she knew how her erstwhile employee really was. It was like having a secret identity, and she loved the subterfuge. Of course, it wouldn’t do for her to lose sight of the reason she was here, she reminded herself, and the smile faded. The acquisition of those mineral rights was the bottom line, and she had to remember it. If Cy Harden and his mother got their noses bloodied in the fight, that wouldn’t bother her in the least. But she was holding the reins of Henry’s domestic operation. It wouldn’t do to let things get too personal. She had to keep her mind on the objective, without allowing herself to be too much diverted by the past. There were hundreds of Tennison International employees whose jobs hinged on the decisions she made. It was an awesome responsibility, and it allowed little leeway for personal revenge.

      The wind was picking up, and it felt cool. Meredith closed her eyes, drinking in the feel of the breeze on her face. Until she’d come home to Billings, she hadn’t even realized that she’d missed it. Despite the long hours and hard work, this job was like a vacation, a safety valve from the pressure that had jeopardized her health. The aftereffects of pneumonia—the weakness and cough—had already disappeared. She felt stronger by the day, perhaps because she was finding her roots all over again. It felt good to be home, except that she missed Blake so terribly.

      The bus was late, and Meredith was the only person waiting for it. When a sleek, light gray car pulled up beside her with the window down, she almost jumped out of her skin. Then she recognized the driver and her teeth clenched.

      “You don’t need to be out here alone at this hour of night,” Cy said curtly. “It’s dangerous.”

      “This is Billings, not Chicago,” she said without thinking.

      He scowled, and she felt her heart stop, because she’d given away a tidbit of information she’d never meant to divulge.

      “Know Chicago, do you?” he asked softly.

      She smiled. “I know a lot of cities. Chicago is one, yes.” She put her hand on her hip and moved it suggestively. “One city is pretty much like another, if you know which streets are the best pickings.”

      His eyes flashed as the insinuation penetrated. “And you did?”

      She tossed back her long hair and gave him a blank look. “What do you think?”

      His face hardened even more. The thought of Meredith having to go on the streets to stay alive at the age of eighteen made him sick, even sicker than the certainty that he’d condemned her to it. He had to block out the images of other hands touching her…

      “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said harshly, borrowing one of Henry’s favorite euphemisms, “I didn’t become a streetwalker!”

      He relaxed visibly, and she hated herself for reacting to that horrible expression in his eyes. She should have let him think what he liked.

      “Get in,” he said, weary with relief. “I’ll drive you to the house.”

      She didn’t argue. It was a dark and lonely night, and she’d never liked being on her own after dusk. Usually she wasn’t; Mr. Smith was always somewhere nearby.

      “Who is he?” he asked as the powerful car purred away from the curb and down the long, wide street.

      “He?”

      “Don’t play games. The man leaving your house that morning.”

      “His name is Mr. Smith,” she said simply.

      “Is he your lover?”

      She leaned her head back against the seat with a long sigh. “Isn’t it a nice evening?” she mused. “I always did love Billings at night.”

      “You haven’t answered me,” he said impatiently.

      “I won’t, either,” she replied. She turned toward him, her eyes steady and accusing. “You have no right at all to ask anything about my personal life. Not