Undo Part 37

Matthew himself joined in the thunderous applause. He felt as though an intense wave of heat had just washed over him. For the first time in Wallaby's history, someone other than Peter Jones was revealing a new product before a cheering audience.

Seconds later the computer's screen, controlled by an automated script, came to life, and its image was projected, via video output, to the overhead screen for all the audience to watch.

The screen cleared and then the Joey II went into a six-minute animated presentation demonstrating the system's new features, including a new slot for plugging in a local area network card, a larger hard disk, faster fax sending and receiving, and built-in file translation software for reading doc.u.ments and other files directly from ICP's formerly incompatible BP desktop and portable computers.

When it was over, cymbals crashed and the audience applauded wildly, thrilling Matthew to the bone. He stole a quick glance to his left, offstage and behind the curtains. Laurence signaled with a thumbs-up gesture.

He turned back to the audience and waited for the applause to finish.

"Today you just saw a prototype of the new Joey II computer, the first engineering collaboration between International Computer Products and Wallaby.

"When the Joey II is available in six months, Wallaby and ICP will begin a co-selling relations.h.i.+p. For the first time in history, two former rivals, Wallaby salespeople and ICP salespeople will share and support the same customers.

"This is a non-financial arrangement, and represents a first-ever strategic alliance between our companies, enabling Wallaby to continue to develop exciting and powerful portable computers, now with built-in ICP compatibility that makes the Joey II the perfect companion to ICP's line of BP desktop computers."

The presentation continued, and Matthew detailed the specific markets and technologies that each of the companies had agreed to develop together. Afterward, as Matthew and Laurence were collecting their notes and briefcases, William strolled into the press room.

"Well done, Matthew," William said, smiling politely to Laurence.

"Thank you."

"May I have a word with you?" William said. "It will only take a minute."

"Sure," Matthew said, shutting his briefcase. "I'll be right back, Lauri," he said, and followed William from the room.

"In here," William said, pus.h.i.+ng into an empty dressing room. The light from the hallway fanned into the room and aided their search for the wall switch.

Finding none, Matthew switched on one of the makeup tables mirrors. Twenty light bulbs lit up around the mirror's rim, and he turned around the chair facing it and seated himself. William pulled up a small stool and sat down.

"It all went very well, Matthew," William said. "I just wanted a moment alone with you to tell you how happy I am, especially after the shakiness we've experienced over the past few months."

"Thank you. And I understand. We've both had our own concerns, you on one side, me on the other."

"Yes," William agreed. "I sometimes didn't believe we would make it to this day, but we did, and now we're ready to move into the final phase." The final phase: ICP acquires Wallaby, and Matthew comes under William's command. "And they bought your response with nary a doubt," William said. "That was good. Because they're going to have a big surprise in a couple of months."

He was referring to the reporter's question that had been directed to Matthew minutes ago: "With this 'strategic alliance,'" the reporter had said, affecting a difficulty with the definition of the agreement, "aren't you afraid, Mr. Locke, of a possible ICP takeover of Wallaby in the future? Or is this perhaps something you may want?"

Despite the dead-on accuracy of the reporter's speculation, Matthew had not wavered in his response, explaining, with a discernible hint of Peter Jones's once-infamous arrogance, that today's strategic alliance announcement was as close as Wallaby intended to get to ICP. To further squash the theory, he threw in a nugget about takeovers, and how FTC regulations would prevent ICP from subsuming Wallaby as long as Wallaby continued to build portable computers.

However the reason his response had sounded so believable to everyone, and to himself especially, because it was the truth.

Was.

Right then, as he had answered the reporter's question, a new plan, a revised plan, had crystallized in Matthew's mind: There would be no eventual merger between ICP and Wallaby.

"It's back to the office for me," William said, checking his watch.

Matthew said good-bye and turned to face himself in the mirror.

He felt different, felt he looked different. Younger. More alive than ever. He pinched back a smile as he whispered the words he would say if it were Peter rather than himself looking him in the eye right now: "I told you so." He said it again, and this time broke into a huge self-satisfied grin, his laughing eyes piercing back from the mirror into his own.

"Matthew?" Laurence stepped into the room. "Who are you talking to? Is everything okay?"

This somehow stuck him as funny and he let out a burst of laughter. "Fine. Great. Super," he said. He whisked his fingers through his hair and inhaled a deep breath.

Ironically, he at once understood that Wallaby - no, that he - now had ICP in a precarious position. William himself had told Matthew that he had not approved any new portable computer designs, banking everything on today's announcement, so that ultimately he could acquire Wallaby with its now-compatible technology. The way Matthew saw it, Wallaby - delightfully modest and manageable, both in size and volume compared to ICP - now held at least a two-year technology advantage over the world's biggest computer company. And the thought of having them by the tail delighted Matthew beyond any dream he ever had of merging the companies as one.

"Good," Laurence said. "Come on, let's go play in the city." She shook her rental car keys at him. "I've got the keys."

"Wrong," Matthew said, and with a playful look in his eye produced his hotel room key and twirled it on his finger. "It looks like I'm holding the only key we'll need."

Chapter 13

It was on days like this, bright and sunny with a slight morning chill, that she felt happier than ever. With Matthew in New York on business, Greta had given the housekeeper the past three days off, letting her know that she could handle her own meals. But that was hardly the reason why it was better for Marie to be out of the house.

She gripped the handlebars firmly, admiring her own hands without ill feelings. The gears of her exercise cycle spun quietly, crisp air breezing in through the open balcony doors. Her breathing was heavy but controlled, just as he had taught her.

She heard the shower stop and checked the cycle's timer. Another quarter mile before she was through. That would work out almost perfectly, giving her a few minutes to cool down before he was all finished in the bathroom.

The cool winter air whispered across her face, and with each misty exhale puffing from her nostrils she imagined the sensual air of France, of Europe, so much there for them to see and do together, an afternoon ride in dewy green hills, pedaling along right behind him with his strong back in view, the bobbing of the red and white checkered tablecloth peeking out from the picnic basket strapped to his bicycle...

"Darling, are you going to pedal all the way to Alaska?"

Jean-Pierre said, glancing at the acc.u.mulated mileage on the cycle's odometer.

Greta laughed heartily. "I stopped looking and...I guess...I just...kept...going."

"To the hospital is where I'll be going," Jean-Pierre said.

Hitching his towel around his waist, he went to the balcony doors and closed them. "With pneumonia!"

"Oh, darling, I'm sorry," she said, lifting her feet from the pedals. She dropped her head into her crossed arms over the handlebars and regulated her breathing as she cooled down. The machine's flywheel slowed to a stop and she shook herself briskly. "I feel so good!" she shouted.

For the past four months, since the beginning of their affair, she had exercised every day. Though Jean-Pierre had been the one to suggest the calisthenics, she had become obsessed with her daily workout and needed no encouragement to get on her cycle and go every morning. With each strained breath she pictured herself becoming more slender, more youthful, more attractive and beautiful and s.e.xy for him.

Clad in undershorts, Jean-Pierre stood combing his long hair before Matthew's bureau mirror. He swung his head back, collected his mane with both hands behind his head, and worked an elastic band over the ponytail.

Greta tugged off her headband and playfully pulled it over his head. "Now you look like an Indian."

He smiled and tugged the band off. As he reached for his s.h.i.+rt hanging on the bedpost, she grabbed his wrist and roughly pulled him beside her on the bed. She flattened his hand against her chest, his middle finger settled over the horseshoe charm he had given her. "Are you an Indian giver?" she said suggestively, moving his hand from the charm to her breast.

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. When her grip loosened he stepped back and stood before her with his hands on her hips. "Greta," he warned her, "I must get ready. I have a nine o'clock lesson, and already I am going to be late."

She stretched, "Okay, okay, no pow-wow for now."

"Besides, darling," he said to her reflection in the mirror, "you too have a busy day ahead of you."

"Yes, yes, I know," she said with an unpleasant expression. "I'll call as soon as I get out of the shower."

He sat beside her, boots in hand. "Maybe you should call now," he said, "so I can be here with you."