False Pretenses (16 page)

And he had. Eileen had moved to Spain. She'd seen her sons, Brad and Trent, twice a year after that. She'd died five years later. No one had known what she'd died of.

Laurette shuddered now. Timothy had mentioned her death over dinner one evening, between the soup and the main course.

Then Charlotte had come along and he'd married her. And she'd given birth to Catherine. At least Charlotte was still alive, living, the last Laurette knew, in London. She'd heard from Charlotte but once, a
telegram received just after Timothy's death. It had read simply: “Such a pity. stop.” Laurette had clearly pictured the look of malicious glee on Charlotte's face.

Then Elizabeth. And she'd murdered Timothy.

 

Elizabeth was tired, so tired that all she wanted to do was fall in bed and sleep for a week. Flanked by Adrian and Coy, she'd paid unannounced visits to three of their largest American-based companies. A textile company in Atlanta, a lumber company in Seattle, and the headquarters of a grocery-store chain in Cleveland.

In her protected, and isolated environment on Park Avenue, she'd never really understood the scope of her power. Now she did. The men they visited had recognized it, but hadn't known how to handle her. They gave her endless attention, but serious questions, she soon realized, were directed to Adrian or to Coy. At one meeting with the president of the Copperton grocery stores, she'd giggled involuntarily at what she came later to call the good-ole-boys ritual. It had sounded ridiculous at first. Unfortunately, she thought, it soon came to sound very normal.

She realized other things very quickly. There were very few women in positions of responsibility and power. She'd met a woman in Atlanta who was vastly talented and who hadn't a prayer of becoming anything more than the sales manager. Elizabeth smiled. She would take care of Melissa Graves. She couldn't wait to send the president packing, the condescending fool.

Suddenly she no longer felt tired. She walked purposefully into her study. Yes, she thought, gazing about, it was hers now. All traces of Timothy were long gone. She'd had the entire room redecorated, made it utterly feminine, knowing deep down with each change she approved that Timothy would have hated it, scorned it and her, calling her a useless idiot.

She sat behind the beautiful Louis XVI desk and picked up the phone. She dialed the special number, waited a moment, then began dictating.

When she'd finished, she sat back in her chair and grew thoughtful. Melissa Graves would realize her hard work and her dreams.
All because of me, a woman with power.

She thought of the stream of women she'd seen at the three companies, secretaries mostly, fetching coffee for the men, looking pretty, watching her as if she were some sort of alien. A woman they couldn't possibly understand. And she'd thought that the women's movement had accomplished something, that women could do anything they had the talent to do. It was a new millennium.

She'd realized it wasn't a question of male versus female. It was a matter of power, and very few of the women had any.

She did.

She fell asleep, her mind filled with plans.

The following Wednesday morning at precisely ten o'clock, she was sitting at the circular conference table in her office, Coy and Adrian facing her. She'd made her announcement some fifteen minutes into the meeting.

“Come, Elizabeth, surely, you can't mean to . . .”

Elizabeth merely looked at Coy patiently, wanting now to hear his opinions. “Yes?” she prodded.

“Look, Elizabeth, this woman, what's her name? Graves? She doesn't know what to do, she hasn't the ability to see beyond the next meal for her husband, for God's sake.”

“But isn't she the sales manager?” Elizabeth asked, her voice mild.

“Yes, but what with appearances, Pierson couldn't leave her where she belonged.”

“And where was that?”

“A sales rep! Sure, she did just fine. From the looks
of it, she's doing passably well as sales manager, but to promote her to vice-president of sales. It's ludicrous.”

Elizabeth smiled at him. What poor Coy didn't know. She'd flown Melissa Graves to New York and met with her privately. What an earful she'd gotten after the woman had finally realized she could trust her. “I agree, Coy.”

“Good. Now, we can go on to other matters. This situation at the Paris headquarters—”

“Actually,” Elizabeth interrupted him smoothly, “I do agree that a vice-presidency for Melissa Graves isn't at all appropriate. Adrian, please check into Pierson's contract. I want him out by the end of the month. Melissa Graves will take his place.”

Coy stared at her. His mouth worked, but nothing came out.

Elizabeth said very gently, “Coy, the woman is so talented it's frightening. She's been kept down because of that good-ole-boy network that's so alive and well, particularly in the South.”

“You can't do that.”

Elizabeth merely smiled at him, then said very pleasantly, “I beg your pardon, Coy, but I can do just as I please. Don't you understand that yet?”

He didn't, obviously, and he shot an agonized look toward Adrian.

Adrian, wisely, just shrugged.

“Why don't you study her personnel file, Coy. I think you'll be quite surprised when you do, if, that is, you're willing to look at it objectively. And study Pierson's performance for the past year. I believe it was you who said the man was about as innovative as a cabbage. You said that to Adrian, but I overheard you say it. Then come back and give me your opinion.”

Coy rose a bit unsteadily. He couldn't meet her eyes; he was too stunned, or perhaps he was too angry.

“I'll read the personnel files,” he said, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the office door.

“Do also study the productivity records, Coy.”

Adrian whistled, then waited silently until Coy was out of the office.

“Coy's older, Elizabeth. He's been, shall we say, insulated from everyday workings and progress. He's unused to dealing with women in business.”

“Except for secretaries who bring him his coffee?”

“Don't be so rough on him. You've thrown him.”

“I should hate to lose him, Adrian.”

“I don't think it will come to that. And now, Elizabeth, would you like to go over the organization charts for the three companies we visited? See what level the women are at?”

“Yes, I would.”

 

Jonathan Harley stared hard at his lawyer and longtime friend, Josh Simpson. “They want a meeting,” he said.

“No harm in hearing what they have to say,” Josh said.

“It's not really a
they,
” Jonathan said, bitterness filling his voice. “It's a damned woman. Elizabeth Carleton. The one who murdered her husband.”

“I recall she was acquitted, nearly a year ago, in fact.”

Jonathan snorted.

“That means not guilty, Jonathan, decided by twelve men and women. Jury trial and all that.”

“I don't care if she killed ten men. I just don't want her killing what's mine.”

“You could lose everything,” Josh said gently. “Have you any idea of the wealth and power of ACI?”

“Yes. This woman—what is her role, exactly? I've heard rumors that she's well-ensconced.”

“Did you read the article about a woman down in
one of their Atlanta companies who will be promoted to the presidency? It seems that Elizabeth Carleton kicked out the man who was running things and put the woman in his place. She has plans for the women in the other ACI companies as well, from the scuttlebutt I've heard.”

“The place will fold in six months,” said Jonathan.

“Jonathan, you're only thirty-five years old. For heaven's sake, my boy, you were born during the women's movement. You went to Yale with women. You shouldn't be spouting neolithic attitudes. We're in a new millennium for God's sake.”

Jonathan set down his coffee cup. He felt so angry he wanted to hurl the cup against the wall. “I know,” he said finally. “I don't really mean it. What I don't know is why they're coming after me.”

“I can answer that easily enough. You're a success. They want to buy you out and keep you on as president. If that is your wish. You'll make so much money from the sale—if you decide to sell, that is—you could even go to California and start up another computer company.”

“No.”

Josh thumped his pencil up and down on the desk. “All right, then. I would recommend that at this initial meeting, you keep your anger to yourself. You know as well as I do that a poker face is more important in business than it is at five-card stud. The pot's much bigger.”

“Do you think that woman will come?”

“Could be. You'd best play it very cool, Jonathan.”

Jonathan cursed.

“Best moderate your language, old son.”

 

C
atherine Carleton pushed the buzzer. Her hands were sweaty.

On the second buzz, the door opened and an older woman, dressed in severe black, looked out at her.

“Yes, miss?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Chalmers.”

“He's working out in that gym of his,” said Mrs. O'Brien. “He never sees anybody when he's working out.”

“It's very important,” said Catherine, her chin up, her tone patrician. “I don't care to wait.” It worked. Mrs. O'Brien quickly stepped back.

“Just tell me where he is and I'll announce myself.”

Mrs. O'Brien pointed down a long corridor off the living room.

Catherine heard him grunting as he counted. She peered into the small gym, as well-fitted-out as her Uncle Michael's. Rowe Chalmers was flat on his back, on a bench, lifting weights. He was wearing nothing but a pair of blue gym shorts, and Catherine realized that he was very well-built.

“Mr. Chalmers,” she said in a clear voice once he had reached the count of fifty.

Rowe sat up slowly, his eyes fixed on Catherine. He reached for a towel and wiped the perspiration from his face. He continued looking at her as he wiped off his chest. What did she want? He'd taken all he was going to take from the Carletons.

“Well?” His voice was cold.

Catherine stood her ground. “I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Chalmers.”

“ ‘Mr. Chalmers' is it? How polite you are. No more ‘stud' or any of your other complimentary names?”

“That's correct,” Catherine said calmly.

“Talk, then. I can't very well throw out a Carleton, now, can I? At least for five minutes, and that's all you've got, lady.”

She stood in the doorway of his gym, feeling wary, even frightened. But I have to know, she kept telling herself over and over. “May I sit down?”

“Sure.” He waved toward a hard-backed chair some ten feet away from him.

Catherine walked to the chair and sat down, legs together, her hands folded over her purse on her lap.

“Well?”

She blurted out, “I understand you're getting married in a couple of weeks.”

Rowe arched a dark eyebrow. “So, you can even read. Amazing. Maybe you didn't buy your way through Harvard after all.”

She felt a flush of anger course over her cheeks. “I understand she's something of an heiress.”

Rowe laughed. “If you're here representing your family's interests, Miss Carleton, I suggest that you leave right now. If you want to threaten to blackmail me with my fiancée, well, go ahead. I can't stop you. But Amanda knows all about my relationship with Elizabeth Carleton. Not the reasons for it, but certainly that I was sleeping with her.”

“No,” Catherine said. “I'm not here representing my family. In fact, I really didn't come to talk about your getting married. It just came out. Forgive me for being clumsy.”

“What game is this?” Rowe rose, slung the towel over his shoulders, and walked toward Catherine.

“No game.”

“Then what the hell do you want?”

“You don't have to be so rude!”

“Rude? To you, a blood-sucking Carleton? Why, bless my boots, I've offended a
lady.
”

Catherine sucked in her breath, and with it, the scent of him, his sweat. “I'm here to talk about Elizabeth.”

“You must know that I haven't seen Elizabeth in some time.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You were also at the family conclave when I told them it was all over between us.”

“Do you know yet how she found out about you and your activities with us?”

“No, I don't. And frankly, I don't care, not anymore. In fact, I'm glad she found out. My life wasn't particularly pleasant during that time.”

“You were making love to her, weren't you? Wasn't that pleasant?”

“Ah, now some cattiness from you.” He shrugged. “You were making me wonder there for a while, with your Little Miss Sweetness and Humility act. Now you're back to being a selfish little bitch.”

“Stop it!” Catherine jumped up from her chair. “You jerk, you got over three million dollars from us!”

“Yeah, and it wasn't enough.”

“And that's why you're marrying this heiress.”

“Right again. Now, are you through?”

Catherine shook her head. She'd failed, she hadn't handled him right, not at all. He hated her and all
her family, and she supposed she couldn't blame him. “Please,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Elizabeth.”

Rowe looked down at the white hand and its beautifully sculptured fingernails. “I have nothing to say about Elizabeth.”

“Only one question, please.”

He just looked at her.

“I remember once when you were at my grandmother's house, you said you believed Elizabeth was innocent. You believed that she hadn't killed my father. I must know, Mr. Chalmers—Rowe—did you truly believe what you said? Do you truly believe she didn't kill my father?”

He continued to look at her, no expression on his face. She saw a rivulet of sweat streak down his left cheek.

“
I've got to know!
”

Rowe said very quietly, “Yes, that's what I told you. That's what I truly believed.”

“But now?” Catherine held her breath.

“Now,” he said slowly, “now I don't know. I truly don't know.”

“Why?”

He laughed, and strode away from her. He pointed to the door of the gym. “That, Miss Carleton, is none of your business. You're leaving now. Your five minutes are up.”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “I'm leaving. Thank you.”

Rowe stared after her, not moving. Without meaning to, he lightly rubbed his fingers over his throat.

 

“A new patient, Dr. Hunter. A Miss Sarah Elliott. She wouldn't tell me why she wanted to see you.”

“She's here?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Christian frowned at the intercom. “All right, I'll speak to her. Send her in, Mrs. Hightower.”

But just for a moment, he decided. He didn't want any more patients. He was frankly growing bored with their problems. The door opened and Mrs. Hightower ushered in a slender young woman of medium height. She wore tinted glasses and her hair was short, black, and curly.

He rose. “Miss Elliott?”

“Yes.” That single word sounded soft and helpless.

“Please sit down.”

Catherine sat down in the comfortable brown leather chair across from his desk. She searched his face for signs for recognition, but there weren't any. The black wig was obviously a good idea. He looked quite professional and his expression held just the right blend of detachment and concern.

“What may I do for you, Miss Elliott?”

“I used cocaine for some months and am having difficulty breaking away.”

Christian said, his voice very cold, “I don't deal, Miss Elliott.”

“No,” she said quickly, leaning forward in the chair, “I know. I'm here for help. I haven't used coke for some time now, but I still have something of . . . well, I guess I'd call it a psychological addiction. Can you help me?”

Her clothes were rich, her accent declaring old money and lots of it. She was quite pretty, but too thin, the result of the coke, no doubt. Christian was perceptive about people, and rarely wrong. She was telling the truth about the cocaine. Rich little girl hooked on coke. He wondered how to get her out of his office.

“Look, Miss Elliott. I have more patients now than I can handle. However, I can send you to one of my colleagues, a very thorough and conscientious man. I think—” He broke off suddenly, staring at her face. It had crumpled, and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Miss Elliott, I . . . Here.” He gave her his handkerchief.

She removed her glasses and he saw that her mascara was running. It was somehow endearing, and pathetic. No, he told himself firmly, you don't need this. Send her to Matthews.

Catherine blotted at her eyes, and saw the black on his handkerchief. She said, “I'm sorry. I can have it washed and will bring it back to you.”

“It's no problem, I assure you. Keep it.”

“It has your initials on it.”

“Yes.”

“Please don't make me leave, Dr. Hunter. I was told that you were the very best person in New York. Please, I need help.”

Catherine nearly choked on the plea. Pleading with the man who had gotten Elizabeth off. Merciful heavens, she hated him.

Christian sat back in his chair, his fingers playing with a pencil. He watched her sniff just as a child would. She was younger than he'd originally thought. In her early twenties, he guessed.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he said. For an instant she looked utterly stricken; then he watched her dab his handkerchief at her nose. “It will stop in a couple of months.” At least it should, he thought. He had no idea of the magnitude of her addiction.

“I've ruined your handkerchief.”

“It doesn't matter. Look, Miss Elliott, I really don't know what I could do for you. Truly, you already know the symptoms of quitting coke. Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

She nodded, and he saw the circles beneath her eyes.

“I wouldn't prescribe anything to help you sleep, you know. It's something you've got to do on your own. Basically, you've just got to hang in, and no more
snorting. There are, of course, outpatient clinics for drug abuse.”

“I know, it's just that I . . .”

“Yes?”

“My boyfriend was mur . . . arrested some weeks ago for dealing. I just don't know what to do.” She kept her head down. She'd nearly blown it. Surely Dr. Christian Hunter had read about Chad.

My God, he thought, eyeing the pitiful young woman. He said matter-of-factly, “He was supplying you with the coke, I take it.”

She nodded.

Christian sighed. “Very well, Miss Elliott. I agree that you need someone to talk to.” He looked down at his appointment book. “Can you come in, say, tomorrow at ten o'clock?”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “I can come.” She rose at the same time he did. They shook hands. “Thank you, Dr. Hunter.”

He watched her walk from his office. A brief frown marred his features. Her walk was somehow familiar to him. But no, that wasn't possible. He'd never seen her in his life. And now he'd taken her on. He didn't think she would need much, just someone to listen. His role would be that of a priest, but he wouldn't have her kneeling in a church for hours as penance. He'd just charge her an immense fee for his time.

His intercom buzzed, and he picked up the phone. His heart began beating faster. It was Elizabeth on the line.

“I just wanted to tell you that I would be a bit late this evening, Christian.”

“More long hours?”

He heard her sigh. “Yes, most of the time I love it, except when it interferes with other things I like equally well.”

Like, not love. Well, he had to give her time. Her experience with Rowe Chalmers, coming so close on
the heels of the trial had made her especially vulnerable and wary at the same time. But she had changed; he wasn't at all blind to it. She tried to keep the new and sometimes terrifying hardness from him, but it came through.

“Shall I pick you up at nine o'clock, then?”

“That would be just fine. Thank you, Christian, for being so understanding.”

“My pleasure, Elizabeth.” He hung up the phone. He should call Susan and tell her he would be late. He prayed that she wouldn't play “When You Wish Upon a Star” for him again. It was in the key of F, just one flat, and she never could remember it.

 

Elizabeth flew with Adrian and Coy to Philadelphia early on a Friday morning. Her private jet was met by a black limousine. She said nothing on their thirty-minute drive to Jonathan Harley's offices in downtown Philadelphia. She was reviewing in her mind what she knew of the man. He was recently divorced. It had been a very acrimonious divorce. He'd grown up poor, attended Yale on an athletic scholarship, married a very wealthy Philadelphia socialite, the daughter of Andrew Pillson, and made his millions in the subsequent years. He was smart, ruthless, cunning, and in his mid-thirties. She'd seen a photo of him. He looked hard as nails. Perhaps it was because he was so dark. His hair was as black as her onyx ring. Looking at that photo, she'd felt some pity for his wife.

Elizabeth couldn't wait to meet him.

Midge looked up at the trio coming into the executive offices. She was angry and nervous and her eyes went immediately to the woman flanked by the two men. Elizabeth Carleton. The woman who had so much money she couldn't begin to throw it away, the woman who wanted to destroy Jonathan and all he'd built.

She forced herself to say politely, “Yes?”

Elizabeth said, “I'm Elizabeth Carleton, here to see Mr. Harley.”