FALSE PRETENSES

by Catherine Coulter

  “In short, the three companies over which I exercised autonomous control before the death of my father.”

  “That is correct.”

  “I assume you have contacted my company presidents?”

  “Yes, we have. This morning.”

  Brad merely smiled at them. “Have at it,” he said, and waved a dismissing hand.

  Coy gave him a startled look, and felt the same surprise from Adrian. From what they’d heard, Brad Carleton should be screaming and cursing them at this point, not smiling.

  “Very well,” said Coy, and they went out.

  Their teams were into the three different company books within the hour.

  On Thursday evening, three days later, Rod Samuels called Elizabeth.

  “Well, it’s over,” he said.

  “And?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Tip-top shape. The books, that is. It appears old Brad has only lost some money, but no hanky-panky. I would have sworn—”

  “You should be pleased, Rod. A son stealing from his father isn’t something one can readily accept.”

  There was silence on Rod’s end and Elizabeth shifted the telephone to her other ear.

  “But I knew, Elizabeth, I knew he was on the take. Coy told me that Brad was so calm and mellow that it was like he was a California surfer with nothing more to concern him than how high the waves were. And Brad isn’t like that. He’s the most uncontrolled, the most emotional of the Carletons when he’s crossed. There’s something wrong. I can smell it.”

  “It appears you smelled wrong, Rod. Perhaps Brad isn’t what you thought. Perhaps—”

  “Bullshit.”

  She said nothing for a moment. “What do you wish to do now?”

  “Find out who spilled the beans to that little snake.”

  “Even if someone did, what difference does it make? It seems to me that we should forge ahead now, and not try to pin someone, a someone who probably isn’t very important anyway. Loyalties are funny things, Rod. Incidentally, I’ve read the three business books you gave me, studied them until my eyes were red. I feel like the stupidest person alive. It’s like a different language, and even though I understand the words, they don’t have the same meaning. Like ‘return on investment,’ ‘earnings-price ratio,’ ‘cash flow.’ It’s amazing. I’d never even heard of the SEC. All the rules and regulations.”

  He smiled into the phone. “You needn’t worry about it. You don’t have to understand everything, Elizabeth, not for a good while yet. I’ve arranged a formal PR release to the press, a meeting with the board, a meeting with all company presidents. You will be calm, charming. Timothy’s—or rather your—speech writers are preparing drafts of what you’re to say to all these disparate groups. I myself will be present at the meeting between you and your headquarters executives.”

  This is insanity, Elizabeth thought. But she’d come too far now to say no, even though she knew she should. She said instead, “I don’t understand how you’ve kept everything secret, Rod.”

  “The Carletons haven’t wanted it to get out that they no longer control ACI. You see, Elizabeth, they’re waiting for you to throw in the towel.”

  Was that a strategy or a tactic? she wondered.

  “Have you studied the organizational charts?”

  “Yes, for what that’s worth,” she said, thankful that he couldn’t see her grimace.

  “Good. Just try to learn which name goes with which function, all right? And don’t worry, Elizabeth.”

  “Will Brad be there?”

  “Certainly. As will Michael. As for William Carleton, he’s now in Australia, and couldn’t be bothered. Laurette will be there, of course.”

  She swallowed.

  “Elizabeth? The press will go bananas on this. Prepare yourself. It will all blow over within a month. Turn down all requests for interviews. Be firm—you don’t know how persuasive Fortune reporters can be. All right?”

  What could she say? The words “No comment” were second nature to her. “When is the first meeting?”

  “I’ll send your new executive assistant to you this afternoon and he’ll review everything with you.”

  “That’s Adrian Marsh, right?”

  “Yes. Harvard Business School. He started out in investment banking, then came on board with ACI five years ago. He’s married, two children, and smart as the dickens. As I told you, a wunderkind. His impressions of people are appallingly to the point and accurate, and he knows all the operations.” He paused a moment, then said, “If you don’t get along with him, just let me know.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be a saint.”

  “Another thing, Elizabeth. Adrian’s loyal to his bones. We’ll weed out the traitors in time.”

  Traitors, she thought blankly. She felt like a foreign country.

  “Oh yes, I also told Adrian if he succeeds in this assignment, he’s got the corporate vice-presidency for strategic planning.”

  Adrian Marsh, Elizabeth thought that afternoon when he arrived at her home, looked more like a bodyguard than an executive assistant. He was heavy, not fat, just so muscled that he looked bulky. He was olive-complexioned, his eyes dark, and his jaw square. And he spoke slowly, in a gentle, very deep voice with a Southern accent. He was kind, at least he was to her.

  “I report only to you, Mrs. Carleton,” he said after shaking her hand and seating himself. “You can trust me. I realize that might be difficult for you after all the garbage you’ve gone through. I do know every operation very well. And I know the men and women. If, however, you feel uncomfortable with any of my advice, you are to say so. I know I don’t look like an Adrian. Most of my friends call me Adman. I will answer to almost anything. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like a glass of water.”

  He lumbered off to the kitchen in his slow, measured walk, leaving Elizabeth seated on the sofa, surrounded by papers and a sea of reports, to smile after him.

  At the end of a two-hour meeting, she was surprised to find herself not at all alarmed. She felt excited, more confident. She realized sometime later that it was Adrian’s doing. At no time was he at all condescending or patronizing. He had oversimplified explanations, and she appreciated it, for he had said with his slow smile that showed a crooked front tooth, “A lot of this stuff is garbage, Mrs. Carleton, prepared by paper pushers to prove that they produce something. What’s important, of course, is the paper pushers themselves. Tomorrow I understand you’ll be coming in to the office. Mine is next to yours. We’ll be spending our time on their profiles. If you know how a person thinks, Mrs. Carleton, and you study some samples of his work, you can make excellent judgments and decisions.”

  She got him to admit that he preferred Gatorade to water, the only two things he ever drank. “A long-standing habit from college football,” he’d told her. She watched his massive throat contract as he downed the entire glass in one long drink.

  “There’s just one other thing, Mrs. Carleton,” he said at the door. “Your office.”

  She looked at him rather blankly. “I don’t wish to change a thing,” she said, thinking he wanted to know if she planned to redecorate.

  “Actually, you will,” he said. “You see, Brad Carleton has moved in.”

  She felt a twist of nausea in her stomach. “Why?”

  The man’s got balls, and he knows you haven’t. “I suppose it doesn’t matter why. It’s just that you, ma’am, you in person, will have to tell him to move his carcass out.”

  Elizabeth felt her heartbeat quicken. Fear—the fear of unpleasantness, the fear of confrontation, the fear of failing and looking like a fool.

  “I’ll be right with you, Mrs. Carleton. You will simply be firm and he’ll be out by ten o’clock in the morning.”

  Adrian shook her hand and she felt his strength. There was someone for her, she thought. She slept soundly that night, even though she hadn’t seen Rowe. He was in Boston and wouldn’t be in New York until the weekend.

  “What do you want?” />
  “Good morning, Bradley,” Elizabeth said, her voice calm, controlled, a slight smile on her face. She knew he hated Bradley. Timothy had always called his son that when he was displeased. Adrian stood beside her, a solid rock in a dark blue three-piece suit.

  “I repeat, what do you want, ma’am, or should I say ‘widowed ex-stepmother’?”

  Elizabeth felt a ripple of anger, but there wasn’t an ounce of tension coming from Adrian. In fact, he looked a bit amused, not at all intimidated by Brad Carleton. She realized that Adrian wouldn’t let her fold. She swallowed and said, “This is now my office, Bradley. Please remove yourself to your former office immediately.”

  “No.”

  She shrank back, Adrian felt it. He said slowly, his Virginian drawl very pronounced, “I suggest you do as Mrs. Carleton says, Mr. Carleton. Otherwise I will be obliged to call Carleton’s security guards to assist you.”

  Brad looked at the man, looked at him closely. He knew Adrian Marsh, of course, knew the man was brilliant. He was called the Adman. But he didn’t look at all brilliant, he looked like a dumb jock. Still . . .

  Brad forced himself to smile. Slowly he turned and spit on Timothy’s desktop. He looked at Elizabeth, full in the face, picked up his briefcase, and walked out, saying not another word.

  Elizabeth was shaking.

  “Sit down a moment, ma’am,” Adrian said. He cupped her elbow in his beefy hand and led her to the sofa. “You did just fine. Just fine indeed.”

  “Did he fire Millicent Stacy, Timothy’s secretary?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Could I have her back, Adrian?”

  “Certainly. She will need her two assistants as well. Doubtless she’ll be here after lunch, no later.”

  She still looked pale, and he fetched her a glass of water. How, he wondered, could this pathetic female handle anything? She knew nothing, nor was she equipped to deal with the vast complexities of ACI. But she had the oddest effect on him. He wanted to protect her, teach her, even though when he’d accepted the position, he’d wanted to howl. But he wasn’t stupid. With any ability at all, he would be the power behind the throne. He wouldn’t hurt her. No, indeed.

  He felt like her father. He was three years older.

  “Here,” he said. “Have a drink and just gather yourself together a bit. We’ve lots to do today.”

  Elizabeth nearly burst into tears when Millicent Stacy came into her office, gave her a gentle look, and told her with a motherly pat not to worry about a thing.

  6

  Elizabeth felt the tension ease as Rowe’s strong, supple hands kneaded her back.

  “Better, sweetheart?” He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck.

  She sighed and turned over. “Much better. Thank you, Rowe. I’ve missed you.”

  “And I you,” he said, and kissed her mouth.

  He took an hour of immense enjoyment before he brought them both to orgasm.

  She smiled up at him, completely relaxed now, and strangely enough, alert. “You are a very nice man, Rowe Chalmers.”

  “I know,” he said. “You just lie still, Elizabeth. I’m getting the champagne.”

  They sat in his four-poster eighteenth-century French bed, claimed to have belonged to one of Marie Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting. Elizabeth had only laughed when Rowe told her, but he was serious, the bed had a pedigree. He settled a tray in front of them and poured her a glass of champagne, Perrier Jouet, his favorite, then offered her a cracker and cheese.

  She was wearing the royal-blue silk top to his pajamas and he was wearing the bottoms.

  “Tell me about your week,” he said, and promptly fed her a cracker. “I read all the articles about the final takeover by the late Timothy Carleton’s widow, and the rubber-stamping by the board, with the exception of the two senior Carletons, of course. At least everything is out in the open now, and all the nastiness will die down, you’ll see.”

  “That’s what the Adman says to me, almost hourly.”

  He arched an eyebrow, and she laughed. “The Adman is Adrian Marsh, my right hand.” She told him about the confrontation with Brad Carleton, and he merely laughed.

  “But he actually spit on his father’s desk.”

  “What did you expect? For him to fold his tent and stroll off into the sunset?”

  “No, but I was so scared. A piano never faces you down, not like people do, particularly people who hate your guts.”

  “This Adrian Marsh—do you trust him?”

  “Completely. He looks like a football player, talks like a Southern evangelist, has an excellent mind, and is kind.”

  “Tell me about the board meeting with dear Laurette Carleton.”

  Elizabeth drank her champagne first, her expression thoughtful. “It was odd, really. I was flanked by Adrian, Rod, Oran, Coy, Edgar, and Ben. Did I ever tell you about Coy Siverston?”

  He shook his head, but he knew all about Coy Siverston. A formidable opponent, a formidable ally, a man who rubbed elbows with international bankers and politicians. He was a management and organizational genius.

  Rowe said nothing as Elizabeth told him what he already knew. “Unfortunately, he’s with me on a short-term basis, so Rod told me. He’ll get everything in tip-top shape, then take himself off. According to Rod, he loves nothing more than a challenge. I guess he took one look at me and beheld the challenge of the century.” She grinned. “He has this huge gold tooth that blinds you when he smiles.”

  “Don’t let anything blind you, Elizabeth,” Rowe said. “Tell me about Laurette.”

  “She was regal, her usual self, but she wasn’t at all nasty. She treated me like an insect, of course, but that was about it. And the papers were right, it was a rubber stamp. At least there were no allegations from Laurette about me murdering her son.”

  “Both she and Michael Carleton knew they couldn’t stop anything. Better to bow gracefully to the inevitable, I guess she thought.”

  “Rod is certain she’s up to something,” Elizabeth said, frowning a bit. “You know, I feel sorry for her, at least I did today. It’s been all very tragic for her, you know.”

  “Stop, Elizabeth, if it distresses you. As for the old lady, she isn’t used to losing. Don’t let yourself feel sorry for her. Rod might be right. She may be up to something. I wonder what it could be. You’ve muzzled Brad.”

  She shook her head. “Aren’t you getting bored with all my war stories?”

  “Not a chance—at least not until I can get it up again. Then I’ll create my own war stories, with me the ravager and pillager.”

  “And me the fair maiden being dragged away from her musical instrument by the marauder?”

  “Yes, to mine—my instrument, that is.”

  She told him about all her meetings, in great detail, and he listened, bless him, he did listen. “Of course, Adrian and my other noble guys don’t want us to discuss any strategy with those who have loyalty to the other Carletons.”

  “What strategy is this?”

  “Goodness, where to start? Well, I learned today the difference between a merger and an acquisition and how it’s done. This SEC group and all their regulations make my head spin. My team want to acquire Bell-Haverson. The company’s not at all well-managed, they tell me, and they’re first on the list, on their list, I should say. They told me that they’ve already started buying up stock, and something about how you have to register your intentions with the SEC after procuring four-point-something in stock. And other marvelous terms like a ‘white knight’—that’s where the company doesn’t want the takeover and looks for someone else to buy and—”

  “Yes, I know about white knights and gray knights, and so forth.”

  She grinned at him. “I keep forgetting that you know all these things that are the greatest mystery to me.”

  “Do your Noble Six believe Bell-Haverson will try for a white knight?”

  “No, they’re—we’re—planning on a friendly take-over, with lots
of goodies for the executives at Bell-Haverson. Evidently we need to round out things with a computer company that can play tag with the big boys, and this one is it.”

  “Yes,” Rowe said thoughtfully. “It makes a great deal of sense. Bell-Haverson is a major government defense contractor, what with its huge mainframes. Yes, it is quite a sensible move at this point. Get ACI’s foot in yet another door.”

  “You think it’s a good idea, then?”

  He smiled at the uncertainty in her voice. He kissed her. “Yes, I think it’s a good idea. And now, sweetheart, I think it’s time for me to be the ravaging marauder again.”

  When Elizabeth thought about it, she knew that her growing confidence, her ability not to shrink when approached by the media, was because of Rod, Adrian, and Rowe.

  She was happy for the first time in so long that she couldn’t even remember. Perhaps with Timothy during that first year? Maybe. It was all growing so hazy now. She had begun to think of her group as the Nobel Seven, for Rowe, perhaps more than the others, had taken over, and she felt safe and protected. With the excellent advice she was given every hour of the day, she found herself back at her piano, practicing and practicing.

  She was a figurehead and she didn’t mind in the least. She put off meeting with presidents and general managers of the other ACI companies. She didn’t want to leave New York. She didn’t want to leave Rowe.

  On April 12 ACI stated its intentions with the SEC for a friendly takeover of Bell-Haverson. It was something called a tender offer, a term that made Elizabeth laugh and shake her head in bewilderment.

  It floated through Elizabeth’s head, making barely a ripple in her contentment.

  Until Adrian marched into her office on the fourteenth, his muscular neck mottled red with anger.

  “Read this,” he said, and pointed at a marked column of The Wall Street Journal.

  Elizabeth read the article. “I . . . I don’t understand, Adrian. You told me that Bell-Haverson was a friendly deal.”