False Pretenses (21 page)

“Actually I was thinking of the gates of heaven and all that,” he said, clicking his wineglass to hers.

“I don't understand,” she said, cocking her head to one side.

“Sex, ma'am.”

She still didn't understand, but she didn't want to push for an explanation. “It's difficult to converse with you. Most topics are off limits.”

And so she said, “Tell me about your college days at Yale.”

He did. “My coup in my senior year was winning the Yale chess championship. The final play-off was held between two of the colleges, the chessboard drawn on the common, the chess pieces, classmates. My opponent and I were seated in a tower above the common with a bullhorn. Each chess piece was most dramatic when he or she got knocked off. You know, clutching one's breast, flailing one's arms and weaving about, and finally falling dead, arms and legs spread.”

She laughed. “And they were in costume?”

“Outrageous costumes. Medieval. My first year at Yale was the fifteen-year anniversary that women had been there. Since I didn't know any different, I thought it was great. My costumed chess queen had a victory march when the opposing king resigned. I might also add that she ignored her king.”

“It sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, it was.”

At ten o'clock, after polishing off a second bottle of wine, Elizabeth was feeling no pain. She was giggling at his story about how one of his roommates finally lost his virginity through the intense planning of his friends. “Complete to a bottle of wine hanging out the suite window. Bless Susie. She didn't need any wine at all, but poor Brick did. His real name was Nathan, but his nickname was Brick. We named that memorable occasion ‘The Night Brick Got Laid.”'

It should have raised her hackles, but it didn't.

“What happened to Susie?”

“She's a big-time lawyer in San Francisco, the last I heard. As for Brick, he's the mayor of a small town in Georgia. Funny how things turn out, isn't it?”

She told him about her first recital at age seven. “I'll never forget my father standing at attention at the back of the hall. He was more nervous than I was. I went through my Mozart like a good little trooper, only to have my masterpiece, a Chopin etude, go right out of my head. I thought my father would expire on the spot. He didn't forgive me for six months. To this day, whenever I try that particular etude, I blank out.”

He laughed, but it wasn't funny. He had the urge to go choke her damned father. I'm drunk, he thought. She must be too—she's turning human.

Elizabeth asked abruptly, “Why did you want to have dinner with me, Mr. Harley? Come on, the real reason.”

Jonathan said truthfully, “I was thinking of the ultimate revenge of taking you to bed, of using you as a man sometimes uses a woman. Power, Mrs. Carleton, and ruthlessness. To punish you, to shame you, to dominate you, for however short a period of time. And then walk away laughing.”

Elizabeth wished she hadn't drunk all that wine. Her mind wasn't as sharp as it needed to be. She found that she was staring at him, going over his words in her mind.

“I told you the truth because I knew I couldn't do it, no matter how drunk you got, or how willing.”

“The reason being, of course,” she said, “that if I did sleep with you and you did what you described, I would destroy you.”

“No, but that would doubtless be the outcome. Don't get me wrong, Elizabeth, I would very much
like to hurt you, to make you back off and leave me and my company the hell alone, but not with sex. Sex should be fun in itself, not a means to an end—in this case, some kind of twisted revenge.”

“I would never go to bed with you, Mr. Harley. I've learned, you see, that men who appear to care for me just for myself, who appear so honest and forthright, aren't at all, and . . .” She broke off, the pain of Rowe's betrayal flowing through her body, making her shudder. It's the blasted wine that's doing this to me, she thought.

At that moment he felt tremendous desire for her, mixed with an equal amount of compassion. Who had hurt her so badly? Her husband? “Let me take you home, now,” he said abruptly, and rose.

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose that's a good idea. We can do a club some other time.”

He left her in her private doorman's capable hands. He didn't want to see her home, he didn't want her any closer. Because she was going to lose, fair and square.

“Good night, Elizabeth,” he said, and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Take three aspirin before you go to bed. It never fails.”

She nodded, feeling as though an earthquake were beginning under her feet. It was the first time she'd been three sheets to the wind in over six months.

She realized just before she fell asleep that he'd been calling her Elizabeth. She couldn't remember when he'd begun that. Probably after the second bottle of wine.

 

“I expected you back yesterday, boss,” Midge said when Jonathan strolled into his office late the following morning.

“I should have called you. Sorry, Midge. I had more business in New York.” Business, hell, he thought,
thoroughly irritated with himself. I was going to seduce that woman and she did me in. Or he'd allowed himself to be done in. He wasn't certain who had done what to whom.

“You've got a call from Zurich,” Midge said, lowering her voice. “Monsieur Flaucon wants you to call back immediately.”

“Good,” said Jonathan, and disappeared into his office.

Fifteen minutes later, he gently set the phone down and sat back in his chair. Midge appeared in the doorway. “Your ladies have also been calling. You want their numbers?”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Give me Christine's.” She was blond, slender, and if he closed his eyes, just maybe . . .

He cursed and Midge laughed.

 

Christian Hunter didn't want to see Sarah Elliott, and she was sitting in his waiting room. He didn't want to see anyone except Elizabeth. He'd been parked in his car across the street from her house last night when that man had brought her home. At least the bastard hadn't gone upstairs with her. He couldn't have stood that.

The man was just a business acquaintance, that was all. But Elizabeth had been tipsy, he knew the signs. Christian realized he was being an idiot. He'd see Elizabeth tonight and simply ask her what she'd done the night before. He leaned forward to buzz. “Send in Miss Elliott,” he said.

He forced himself to concentrate on the young woman coming into his office. Again he felt that nagging sense of familiarity with the way she moved, walked. Very odd. He must be getting old. She also looked a bit tense, with ill-suppressed excitement. Coke again?

They got through the amenities, with Christian carefully studying her as she spoke. She told him she'd been out of town, but not where. Then he sat back in his chair, fiddling with his ever-present pen, and said, “What's his name, Miss Elliott?”

Catherine stopped cold in her tracks.

“The new man in your life. Who is he? Not the criminal sort, I hope.”

“How did you know?”

“It was either coke or a man. You told me you were off coke, so that didn't leave much for me to think about.”

“You believed me?”

“Of course. Is there any reason why I shouldn't?”

“No,” she said sharply.

“Then you won't be requiring my services any longer, will you?”

Catherine closed her eyes a moment. “He, the man, he's married.”

Another lie, and so poorly executed.

“I see. And he has at least four children?”

“Very well, so he's not married. He is engaged to another woman and the wedding is to come off in under two weeks!”

“Well, the truth at last.”

The words poured out of her mouth, all her hatred and distrust of Dr. Hunter buried for the moment, under an avalanche of feeling she herself couldn't understand. “I don't like him, not really. I wanted to know things from him, but it isn't turning out right. He's not an honorable man, not really, and I know it. He's dishonest, an opportunist, a louse, but . . .”

“You've slept with him?”

“No!”

“But you want to.”

Sleep with the same man who was Elizabeth's lover? My stepmother? For profit? Oh, God, no.
That evening
she'd spent with him at Barney's in Boston, at first they'd been like two sparring partners, each wary of the other, but it had changed.

“The weather's cold,” Catherine had said, sipping on another whiskey, neat.

“Bullshit,” said Rowe. “Only this evening, Catherine, then never again.”

She'd leaned toward him, for the noise level in Barney's was ear-splitting. “She murdered my father, Rowe. I know it.”

He gazed down into his whiskey glass. “It doesn't matter, not anymore, Catherine,” he said finally. God, he was so sick of the whole thing, and his despicable part in it. “Even if she did, she can't be tried again. So what do you want to prove? That Christian Hunter lied? You won't, you know. He's got more brains and is slicker than any man I've ever seen. Do you think Elizabeth will suddenly collapse under the weight of her guilt and scream to the media that she truly did murder Timothy? You're being a fool, Catherine.”

He saw the tears shimmering in her eyes. Unconsciously he reached his hand out and grasped hers. “Come on, sweetheart, just let it go. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Get on with it Catherine.”

“I've got nothing,” she said.

“You're the oddest girl,” he said, then realized he was holding her hand and quickly released it. “You're beautiful, you're rich, and it seems to me that you're also shedding your spoiled skin.”

He'd said the latter in a light, amused voice, but Catherine had responded to it. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” he said. “I really think so.”

She'd leaned ever closer to hear his words, and he kissed her. He hadn't meant to. He drew back, but not before his tongue slid over her lower lip.

“I'm sorry, Catherine,” he said, and his voice was
a bit shaky. “I didn't mean to do that. Now, just listen to me another minute. I honestly don't know if Elizabeth killed your father. I swear it to you. She never made any great confessions to me. I can't help you. Let me add that I feel rotten about my part in the entire affair. I wish it could be undone, but of course it can't. It might surprise you to know, Catherine, but Elizabeth, until the end, always appeared to me to be loving, very caring, and brave. No, don't pull away from me just because you don't like what I'm saying. You must understand, Elizabeth has changed from what I've heard. She's become ruthless, hard, if you will. But it was because of what I did to her. She's not a mercenary bitch, Catherine. Your father's money was never important to her.”

“Then why did she marry an old man?”

He smiled at that. “You want to know something? I don't think even Elizabeth really understands why she married Timothy, or at least she'd never talk about it. But she didn't marry him for the Carleton name or the Carleton wealth. Believe it. I think it all had to do with her relationship with her own father, a cold, dictatorial bastard, from the small things she let slip. Perhaps she wanted a father who really loved her, who wanted to take care of her—not financially, but emotionally. God, now I'm sounding like a shrink. And I could just as easily be wrong about all of it. Maybe she knows exactly why she married your father, and just refuses to talk about it. I don't know, really.”

“I don't like this, Rowe.”

“Probably not.” The uncertainty, the weariness in her eyes got to him, and he kissed her again.

They stared at each other.

“Don't ever see Christian Hunter again.”

“But who killed my father?”

“Your father probably had at least a hundred
enemies, men who hated his guts. That's not counting other women.”

“Women! That's ridiculous!”

“Not at all. He was human, Catherine, not some sort of divine being with no faults. There were other women when he was married to all three of his wives, Elizabeth included.”

“But—”

“No more, Catherine. Now, I'm leaving. If I stay, I'll kiss you again, and I don't want that. I've been enough of a jerk in the near past. No longer.”

“But she's a bitch!”

“Elizabeth—”

“No, your Amanda Montgomery.”

He didn't take offense. “Look, Catherine,” he said at last, “life is a series of compromises. If we decide on a certain course of action, we must be prepared to accept the consequences of any decision we make. I know what I'm doing. I know the consequences. Now, go home. Do something with your life.”

He'd pulled out his money clip, tossed a twenty on the small circular table, and left.

Catherine heard Dr. Hunter say something to her, and she started, pulled from her memories.

“As I said, Miss Elliott, I no longer believe myself to be of any use to you.”

Catherine sat back in her chair, carefully folding her hands, to gain time. She said at last, “I saw you in the courtroom when you testified for Elizabeth Carleton.”

Every muscle tensed, every sense was alerted, but nothing appeared on his face. He was much too good, was far too experienced, to allow any surprise to show.

“I thought you looked familiar,” he remarked. “What were you doing at the trial? You have a ghoulish tendency?”

“No, not at all. I thought you were very good. But I knew you were lying.”

“Perhaps you're the D.A.'s daughter? Ah, a reporter? That's it, isn't it?”

Christian was watching her closely, judging her expressions, trying to place her in his mind's eye. Who was she?

 

“T
he jury didn't believe I lied, Miss Elliott—or whatever your name is,” Christian said, his voice mild, detached.

“No, they didn't. They were fools. I've just found myself wondering why you did lie, Dr. Hunter. Since it came out that you're very rich, it couldn't have been for money. So I think it's because you're in love with Elizabeth Carleton, or maybe she found a skeleton in your past and blackmailed you.”

“You've a very imaginative girl,” Christian said as he rose. “I believe you know the way out.”

Catherine rose, uncertain, knowing that she'd made a monumental mistake.

“You're a damned hypocritical liar. You let a guilty woman go free.”

“The door,” said Christian, pointing.

“I hate you.” Without thought, Catherine pulled off the black wig and flung it at him.

Christian wasn't too surprised, not now. “How do you do, Miss Carleton.” He tossed the wig back at her and she caught it.

“Please,” Catherine said, placing her hands
palm-down on his desktop, “please tell me why you lied for her.”

Christian merely looked at her appraisingly. “So, the man you've been seeing is none other than Rowe Chalmers. You'd best steer clear of him, Miss Carleton. You may go now.”

“But how could you possibly know?”

“You said you wanted him to tell you things, that he wasn't honorable. Rowe Chalmers is the only man I know of who could have told you about Elizabeth Carleton, the only man to fit the bill, so to speak.”

“Please, you must tell me the truth.”

“Very well, Miss Carleton. I can assure you that I didn't lie. Elizabeth Carleton did not kill your father.”

She found herself being convinced in that instant. His voice was intense, sincere, so very believable. She shook herself, and said in some disgust, “I really blew it, didn't I?” She started laughing as she turned on her heel and marched out of his office.

Christian stood silently for many minutes. The damned little bitch was trying her best to hurt Elizabeth. He couldn't allow that. No, he
wouldn't
allow that.

 

That evening, over Kogi's sushi dinner, Christian told Elizabeth about his fake patient. “She admitted everything to me, finally. Incidentally, she's been to see Rowe Chalmers. If she gives you any more trouble, Elizabeth, I want you to promise me you'll let me know.”

Elizabeth was appalled. “Oh, dear,” she said, and forgot about her dinner. “Yes, of course I'll tell you. How awful for you, Christian.”

He shrugged. “I can handle little tarts like her. But she's got a malicious mouth. I don't like it. I don't know whether she'll let it go now. I do know that she's taken with Chalmers, even though she denied going to bed with him. Interesting, isn't it?”

Catherine and Rowe? And Amanda Montgomery . . .

Elizabeth shuddered, unaware that Christian was watching her closely. She was wondering with a sinking feeling if Rowe had told Catherine about the ice pick she'd held to his throat, how she'd mocked him, and how frightened he'd been.

Kogi appeared at Elizabeth's shoulder, carrying a small silver tray with two cognacs.

“Delicious dinner,” Christian said. “A beautiful watch. I believe I recognize it. Didn't it belong to Mr. Carleton?”

Kogi beamed, his slender fingers caressing the solid gold band. “Yes, Mrs. Carleton gave to me.”

Elizabeth came out of her fog at that moment. “Kogi adored that watch. I wanted him to have a memento, and since I'd given the watch to Timothy, I felt I could give it again.”

“I take off only when I shower or clean.”

“I don't blame you,” said Christian.

“I didn't realize you'd ever met Timothy.” Elizabeth shook her head. “How strange, but I simply hadn't thought about it before.”

“I met him several times, the last time quite a good while before his death. I didn't mention it. I didn't really think it was important.”

When they were alone again, Christian sipped his cognac, still watching her face, and said finally, “I just happened to see you last evening, Elizabeth. Who was that fellow you were with?”

Elizabeth started. “Oh, goodness, Christian, what a coincidence. That fellow was a business acquaintance. Actually, thinking about it now, I don't know why I did agree to have dinner with him. But he's back home now, long gone. I keep thinking about Catherine. I'd just like to forget it, Christian, all of it. Let her do her worst.”

“I don't trust Rowe Chalmers.”

“I just hope for Catherine's sake that he leaves her alone.”

Christian said, his voice dry, “My impression is that our Catherine is the one interested, not Mr. Chalmers.”

“I can assure you that Laurette Carleton would scotch anything along that line in an instant. Now, before you ask, Christian, what would you like me to play for you?”

Christian sat back on the sofa, his eyes closed, listening as the beautiful Mendelssohn flowed through him. When she was in the middle of a third piece, he opened his eyes to look at her. Her expression made him frown. Her face was cold, emotionless, as if her fingers weren't part of her, as if the music had nothing to do with her. She was like an excellent performing automaton.

He walked quietly up behind her and gently began to knead her shoulders. She was tense, her muscles knotted. He leaned down, lifted her hair, and kissed the nape of her neck. “Elizabeth,” he said softly, stifling a groan. He sat beside her on the bench and pulled her against his chest.

Elizabeth was startled and her thoughts were a tangled mess. No, she wanted to tell him, oh, no, please don't do that, Christian. Please don't expect anything from me. She felt his tongue lightly touch her closed lips, prodding a bit, and she drew back, alarm and fright in her eyes.

“Elizabeth,” he said again, but she laughed, a nervous sound, and wriggled away and off the piano bench.

She splayed her fingers in front of her. “Please, Christian, I can't. You must understand that . . .”

Christian sighed, getting a grip on himself. “I understand,” he said, and rose from the piano bench. He was expected at Susan's in an hour's time. God, he would need her tonight. At least her repertoire had
increased a bit. She'd worked up to “Nobody Does It Better.” She didn't do it well, but at least it was recognizable.

 

Laurette Carleton felt bone-tired. She was so weary of just plain living. She turned to face Michael, who was staring into his martini glass. She thought he was drinking too much these days, but now wasn't the time to speak to him about it. Later, she would straighten him out.

“Did you find out the name of the man Elizabeth was with at Pirouette?” she asked.

“Yes. Jonathan Harley. He owns a highly successful computer company in Philadelphia.”

“Why?” Words were so difficult nowadays. Stringing them together, making them make sense. How she wished Timothy were here speaking to her, not Michael. So many times in the past they could simply look at each other and understand, words were not necessary.

Michael shrugged. “I can find out. But it seems to me logical that ACI wants his company. If you'll recall, there was some mention of him months ago.”

“Will he sell to her?”

“He might have to. He's got a huge loan out from a bank in Philadelphia, at least that's what I heard. Nothing verified.”

“Buy his loan. If he sells, it will be to us.”

“Yes, Mother.”

 

Jonathan thought it was fun. In fact, he hadn't enjoyed himself so much in months. Here was the famous or infamous Michael Carleton, in the flesh, wanting to buy his company. Revenge, of course, against Elizabeth. The deal he was offering was unbelievable.

Once he'd run down, Jonathan said very honestly,
“I'm not selling to anyone, Mr. Carleton, I can promise you that.”

“But she has your loan and she will call it in. I know of your current difficulties, Mr. Harley. ACI has resources you can't even begin to imagine. They—”

“I'm not selling to anyone,” Jonathan said again. “Believe it.”

Michael had to be content with that, but something nagged at him. “Then why were you having dinner with Elizabeth in New York at Pirouette?”

Jonathan wasn't amazed, just a bit surprised. “Your network of informants is impressive, Mr. Carleton,” he said, his voice mild. “I will say it one last time: I'm not going to sell my company. As you know, I'm the majority stockholder. I'm in control and I'll stay in control.”

When Michael Carleton took his leave some five minutes later, Jonathan sat perfectly still, staring at nothing in particular. He'd made love—no, he amended—he'd had sex with both Christine and Holly since his return from New York, and he hadn't enjoyed himself. It was all her fault, that damned woman who was probably also a murderess. He sighed, and tried to get down to work. An hour later, he left his office and ran until he was ready to drop.

He wasn't at all surprised when Midge buzzed him late that afternoon, saying, “Mrs. Carleton is on line one, boss, Elizabeth Carleton, that is.”

He grinned, and lifted the phone. “Hello, Elizabeth, how's tricks?”

Elizabeth curled her hands into fists. “That's my line, Mr. Harley. I understand you had a meeting with Michael Carleton.”

“That's right.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and added, mocking her, “It appears we were seen by one of the Carleton spies at Pirouette. I guess you're going to
have to strike that restaurant off your list. Back to a diet of tacos.”

“Well?” She couldn't think of anything more to say, otherwise she'd spit.

“I assured Michael Carleton that I had no intention of selling my company to anyone, you included.”

He heard her almost unconscious sigh of relief, and his eyes narrowed. “It's the truth, you know, Elizabeth,” he added, his voice almost gentle.

“Certainly, whatever you wish to say is fine with me. I just hope you're not lying to me, Mr. Harley.”

“No, I'm not lying. How suspicious you are, Elizabeth.”

“Don't call me Elizabeth, and go to hell,” she said, and slammed down the receiver.

“Why are you whistling like you haven't a care in the world?” Midge asked, poking her head through the door. “The dragon lady is pretty fast, isn't she?”

“I believe it's called networking,” Jonathan said blandly. And he laughed.

“Their machinations are pretty awesome,” Midge said, wondering at his fit of humor.

“Yep, they are. Now, I believe I've got a meeting with Mr. Dip, or is it Mr. Drop?”

“Mr. Doone.”

“Well, I intend to iron out the last of our union problems. Nip them in the bud now. I'll make him a proposition he can't refuse. Show him in when he arrives, Midge.”

“You got it, Godfather.”

 

It was only five weeks until the wedding. Jenny was humming softly as she fingered her wedding gown, a Chanel creation of silk and lace, so exquisite she was almost afraid to touch it. She'd flown with her mother to Paris the previous week for the final fittings. And now she missed Brad. Very much. She hadn't seen him for nearly two weeks.

She gently zipped up the garment bag, and nodded to her maid. “Is my father home?”

“Yes, Miss Jennifer. He's in his study.”

Jenny tapped lightly on the study door, then quietly opened it. She saw her father sitting in his usual place behind his mahogany antique desk, but he wasn't wearing his glasses, nor was he on the phone, as was his usual habit when at home.

“Dad, are you all right?”

Senator Charles Henkle forced himself together. His sweet, innocent daughter. Ha! He felt a spasm of rage at the thought of those indecent photographs. A father shouldn't have to see his daughter, his only daughter, being fucked. And that's what it had been. Fucked by a faggot. He forced himself to say, as he watched her walk toward him, concern written so clearly on her open face, “I'm just fine, Jenny. Where's your mother?”

That was odd, Jenny thought, pausing. He rarely asked about her mother. Particularly during the day.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “I think she had some sort of charity function, a luncheon, I believe, for Greenpeace.”

“Oh,” said Senator Henkle. He cleared his throat. “Is there something you want, Jenny? I'm quite busy.”

“Well, I'm going up to Long Island this weekend, to the Carletons'. I wondered if you would have time to come with me. At least one dinner.”

“No! I mean, I don't have time, Jenny.”

“Dad, what's wrong?”

He couldn't meet her eyes. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he said, “Are you certain you wish to marry Brad Carleton?”

Jenny blinked. “Of course, Dad.”

“You . . . you love him?”