FALSE PRETENSES

by Catherine Coulter

  He groaned again and stepped away. “I guess all my appetites will have to be saved for Kogi’s dinner.”

  “That’s the idea,” Elizabeth said.

  Kogi served them a Caesar salad followed by a pork roast with potatoes au gratin and green peas.

  “I think I’ll try to steal Kogi from you, Elizabeth. Delicious, as usual.”

  “Yes, and he’s made strawberry tarts for dessert.”

  “I don’t know how you stay so thin.”

  “He only serves this kind of food when I have company. I usually rate only a broiled chicken breast and a little rice. And I walk a lot, you know.”

  “When you’re not practicing.”

  “Or now, when I’ll be involved in top-level business talks.”

  He forked down a bite of potato. “Who are you considering to take Avery’s spot?”

  “There is one man we’re particularly interested in. His name is James Houston, and oddly enough, he does now live in Houston, Texas. He’s brilliant in marketing, and with enough inducement, I just bet we can get him here to New York.”

  “Never heard of him,” Rowe said. “Who is he with now?”

  “He’s ready to leave the top marketing position with Brammerson Oil. Even though oil prices aren’t as depressed as they were, he’s still reviewing his options, as the business folk say.”

  “Sounds pretty smart to me,” said Rowe. He sat back in his chair and patted his flat stomach. “Call me stuffed. I just wish I could work off the calories in bed, Elizabeth.”

  He took her hand in his and gently squeezed her fingers. “Are these talented hands insured?”

  “Yes, by Lloyds, as a matter of fact. Timothy insisted, three years ago. It seems rather silly to me, but he acted like he was giving me a special present.”

  Kogi served them espresso, and with a nod from Elizabeth, cleared the table and left them alone. Elizabeth took her coffee with her to the living room and sat down in a chair, not on the sofa.

  “Will you feel well enough to give me my own private concert tonight?”

  She nodded.

  Rowe set down his coffee cup and put his feet up on the glass coffee table. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. You haven’t run into any obnoxious press, have you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Not the press, though. The district attorney, Anthony Moretti. In front of Bloomingdale’s.”

  Rowe sat forward, his entire body tensing with anger. “What did the bastard say to you?”

  “Nothing more than he’s said at great length in the past. That I am a murderess and rich and thus could buy off anyone I pleased. That I am a slut and my lovers should watch their backs in case I tired of them and wanted them out of the way.”

  “You could sue him, you know.”

  “The media would go bananas with glee if I did.” Her eyes glittered. “I’d probably beat out any political scandals in the newspaper. Perhaps you, as my lover, should take heed, Rowe.”

  “Stop it, Elizabeth.”

  “You’re right, I’ll cease this moment.” She jumped to her feet and walked swiftly to the piano. Unexpectedly, she played jazz, and very well. He’d never heard her improvise before.

  Later, when he held her in his arms in bed, she in a long flannel nightgown, she told him about their proposed target computer business.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “What did you say, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth started, realizing she’d spoken aloud. “Oh, nothing, Adrian. Just thinking with my mouth open. Tell me about the Cordie stock.”

  “Weirdest thing about that,” he mused, leaning back in his chair. “The stock’s gone haywire with the rumors of a takeover.”

  “Any speculation on who’s doing the taking over?”

  “Sure. It’s the Laufferson Group.”

  She said very softly, “What is the relationship between the Laufferson top people and Michael Carleton?”

  His chair came forward with a sharp thud. “Why, Elizabeth? What aren’t you telling me? How did you know about this?”

  “Just answer my question, Adrian.”

  “None that I know of,” he said. “Now, why don’t you tell me—”

  She raised her hand and her voice was cold. “No, Adrian. There’s a tie-in, I’m sure of it. Please put someone or several someones on it and get back to me this afternoon.”

  He nodded; he had no choice in the matter. She was acting differently, very differently. She tended to be reserved, aloof, but now there was something else about her, something more . . . determined. She was keeping something from him, most definitely. But what could she possibly know about Cordie? He knew that she wouldn’t speak frankly to him, at least at the present time. She’d made that clear enough. He said, “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  “This afternoon, Adman,” she said.

  She gave him a semblance of a smile and headed toward the door of his office. She turned and said, “Incidentally, you know that man who left Brammerson Oil? Mr. Houston?”

  “Sure, what about him?”

  “Find out who just hired him.”

  He stared at her, but she was gone. James Houston. He’d turned out to be a real flake, upon very close scrutiny by one of their top investigators, a man who had little imagination beyond selling barrels of oil. And he used his staff mercilessly, stealing their ideas, giving them no credit.

  At three o’clock that afternoon Adrian and Rod Samuels were admitted to the Carleton home by Liam Gallagher.

  Elizabeth was dressed in a leotard, doing exercises to an Elunda workout tape. She smiled as they entered, and wiped the sweat off her forehead. “In force, I see,” she said as she turned off the VCR. She shook their hands. “Hello, Rod. I gather you have the information I requested, Adrian. You could have phoned, you know.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” Adrian said slowly.

  “Elizabeth, what the hell is going on here?”

  “Do sit down, Rod, Adrian.” She sat on the floor, crossing her legs in lotus fashion. “Talk, please.”

  Adrian shot a look toward Rod, drew a deep breath, and said, “You wanted to know if there was any connection between the Laufferson Group and Michael Carleton. There is. The chairman of the board of Laufferson is a personal friend of Michael’s. As a matter of fact, Michael bailed him out of a financial bind some five years ago. He owes Michael, big.”

  “And Laufferson is going to buy Cordie,” Elizabeth said.

  “So it would appear,” said Rod. “How did you know, Elizabeth?”

  “Next answer, please, Adrian,” she said, and Rod frowned. She looked like a shapely kid sitting there on the floor in her pink leotard, her blond hair pulled back in a ratty ponytail. But her voice was sharp, hard, as were her eyes.

  “Very well. James Houston was hired just yesterday by a textile company based in Atlanta. They offered him the sky.”

  “Can I assume that this textile company is some sort of division of MAI?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Elizabeth smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  Rod sat forward on the sofa. “Please, Elizabeth, you know something.”

  Elizabeth uncurled her legs and rose, slinging the towel about her neck. “Well, there it is. Now, gentlemen, I would like to make a recommendation. We’ve been having all sorts of shipping problems with Millsom Steel. The manager there is pulling out his hair and we’re losing money and credibility with clients. Hire some private detectives, Adrian. I believe they’ll quickly discover that these problems have nothing to do with incompetence or Murphy’s Law or gremlins. The Carletons are paying people to wreak havoc. Find out who those men are, Adrian, and take care of them.”

  “It sounds to me as if you have a tap on Michael Carleton’s phone.” Adrian meant it as a joke, albeit a weak one, but Elizabeth appeared to give it serious thought.

  “You could say that I do. Incidentally, let’s do put a tap on Brad’s office phone. Oh, and, Adrian, do have a weekly check to
see that our phones aren’t bugged.” She smiled a real smile this time, adding, “I enjoy watching Law and Order on TV. I learned on that show all about bugging and debugging. It is done, isn’t it?”

  “We do a check monthly, Elizabeth,” Adrian said.

  “Now do it weekly. And I hope you can trust the guys doing the checking?”

  “I . . . I suppose so.”

  “Please be certain, Adrian.” She gave them both a bright smile. “I guess that will be all. I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning bright and early.”

  “Why?” Rod asked, standing.

  “It’s time I look my responsibilities more seriously, don’t you think? I have so much to learn.”

  No more rumors. Not a one. Jonathan Harley smiled as he ran past Betsy Ross’s house. He was safe. NetFrame was safe.

  The divorce would soon be final, and ah, there was the rub. He had to get his hands on enough money to buy out Rose’s stock. He quickened his pace. Who to get the money from?

  Would Rose sell the stock, or hang on to it and hassle him endlessly? She was already seeing another man, a wealthy physician, a man old enough to be her father. Perhaps she did see him as a father. Andrew Pillson was a powerful figure in her life. Jonathan shrugged as he ran. It was no longer his concern. Next week he would be free. Finally.

  He’d found himself several times during the past months driving home from the office, only to realize that it was no longer his home, but Rose’s. He hadn’t moved out yet. Rose was in Italy with her wealthy physician. He wondered if he shouldn’t get on the ball and find himself a condo. He didn’t know when she would be home, but if she arrived and he was there, it would give her the greatest pleasure to boot him out. He passed another runner, a young woman, who gave him a marvelous smile, nodding as she went by him.

  He was indeed free. Never before in his thirty-five years had he even considered recreational sex. Now he had several very lovely young women to thank for his education. Tonight he would see Cynthia MacBain, no socialite, but a jazzercise teacher at a local health club. It was a good thing, he thought, that he’d kept himself in shape. If he were older and flabby, he’d probably have intense performance anxiety. That or an early heart attack. She had probably consulted on different positions for the karma sutra.

  Jonathan slowed to a walk, rather like a racehorse, he thought to himself, cooling down. He felt full of energy, full of renewed life. He couldn’t wait to get to the office and hassle Midge.

  “Well, boss,” Midge said brightly as he strolled through the glass doors, “you’ve got lots of calls already.”

  “Business or social?”

  She grinned at him. “You devil, you. A bit of both. Put them in order, and I’ll pour you some coffee.”

  Life, he thought, as he picked up his phone to speak to his production manager, was improving at a fine rate.

  And he knew where he’d get the money he needed. No problem at all.

  “I don’t understand it,” Michael Carleton said, a deep frown furrowing his forehead. “I just don’t understand it.”

  Laurette carefully laid down her soup spoon and nodded to Lydia, the maid, to leave the dining room.

  “What is the problem?” she asked.

  “The men I hired to . . . well, see to the problems at Millsom Steel. They’re gone, disappeared. Not a word, nothing.”

  “When did you discover this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I had a meeting scheduled with my contact.”

  “He didn’t see you, then?”

  “No, not a word, as I said.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about it just yet, my dear,” she said, and picked up her soup spoon again. It was fresh turtle soup, her favorite, and she didn’t want it to get cold.

  Michael hated turtle soup. He watched his mother eat, and fiddled with a bread stick. “It’s not just that,” he said at last.

  “Oh?” Laurette’s soup spoon paused midway between her bowl and her mouth.

  “That man James Houston. According to my vice-president of marketing, the man’s not nearly as sharp as he originally appeared to be. I can’t believe that the men at ACI wouldn’t know that. But, they were going to hire him.”

  “It’s early days yet, I think. He must have something. The men running ACI aren’t fools, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know,” said Michael. He felt the now familiar burning pain in his belly. Damned ulcer. He forced a smile. “At least the Cordie buy-out is proceeding nicely. That has to strike a big blow.”

  “Elizabeth’s strategic planning group must be furious,” said Laurette placidly. She lifted the small bell beside her left hand and rang it. Lydia appeared swiftly and silently to serve the next course.

  Michael liked lamb chops, particularly the way his mother’s chef prepared them, with rosemary and just a nip of garlic.

  Laurette watched him eat, saying nothing for several minutes. Then, “I spoke at length with Catherine. I have no control over her any longer, Michael. Now that she’s gotten hold of her father’s money, she’s gone wild.”

  “I know. It’s that Chad Walters who’s responsible. I hate to tell you this, Mother, but he’s a dealer, from what I hear, and Catherine is probably hooked on cocaine.”

  Laurette said very slowly and very precisely, “I suggest you get rid of Mr. Walters. I will take care of Catherine.”

  Michael didn’t understand the shiver that ran through his body at her words. She was nearly eight-four years old. And yet . . . and yet . . .

  “Yes, Mother,” he said. “I think the best approach would be—”

  “I don’t wish to hear the details, Michael. Just get rid of him. There will be no more scandals in this family.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Bradley is thinking of marriage.”

  That was a surprise. “Who?” Michael asked blankly.

  “A girl I approve of,” said Laurette. “Her name is Jennifer Henkle, and her father is Senator Charles Henkle of Alabama.”

  “But, for God’s sake, why?”

  Laurette frowned at him.

  Michael stalled. How to tell his mother that the rumor was that her eldest grandson preferred men to women? Sometimes he wished he were a shepherd living in the Pyrenees with the Basques. Surely he wouldn’t have an ulcer there.

  “In any case,” Laurette continued after a moment, “this weekend, Jennifer will be here to meet all the family. I think you will also approve of her. She’s very quiet, pretty, and from good, solid stock.”

  “She’s not a musician, huh?”

  “You are not at all amusing, Michael.”

  “No,” he said on a sigh, “I suppose not.”

  “Timothy was always very strong, you know.”

  Yes, Michael knew. He’d hated his brother for it, many times. He remembered the times Timothy had called him a soddy little wimp. Well, Timothy was gone now.

  Laurette continued, her voice a bit dreamy, “I used to be furious with him when he would disagree with me on something. He’d just give me that special smile of his and tell me to take up knitting. Yes, he was a strong man, a strong son.”

  “Now you have me, Mother,” Michael said.

  Laurette gently patted his cheek. “Yes, I do, don’t I? We are doing well, Michael. Very well.”

  When he kissed her parchment cheek upon leaving that evening, he felt the bond between them, not as strong as the one she’d had with Timothy, but it didn’t matter. He felt her fragility, and was frightened, until she said quite clearly, “Do see to Chad Walters, my dear.”

  9

  Christian Hunter looked at Liam Gallagher, saw the appalled recognition in the doorman’s eyes, and nodded. “She’s expecting me. At seven.”

  “Yes, sir, Dr. Hunter,” Liam said, “I know, sir.” He quickly buzzed upstairs.

  “Dr. Hunter is here, Kogi. Yes, that’s right.”

  Christian fingered the gold leaf in the ancient elevator, grabbing the railing when the cage lurched between floors. Affectation
is still affectation, he thought, no matter its guise. He grinned at that and tried to admire the damned elevator.

  He was greeted by a Japanese houseman who couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds even in lead-soled shoes. His age was impossible to tell. Thirty? Fifty? Like the doorman, there was recognition in Kogi’s eyes, and something else it took him a moment to identify. It was wariness, Christian realized, concern that he, Christian, would hurt Mrs. Carleton. He found himself shaking his head in response to that look.

  Kogi took Christian’s coat and his leather gloves, but said only, “Dr. Hunter. Good evening, sir.”

  Christian nodded, then looked up and went still. He couldn’t believe that he was finally seeing her, was finally in the same room with her. Alone, or very nearly.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Carleton,” he said. He walked toward her, and took her hand. He didn’t shake her hand, as she expected, he kissed her wrist. He breathed in the scent of her before releasing her hand. Elizabeth looked at his bent head, felt his cool fingers still holding her hand. She gently pulled away.

  “How was Vienna?”

  Vienna? “Oh, it was very charming, as usual,” he said.

  “Were you there for pleasure or for a medical convention?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “You would like something to drink, Dr. Hunter?”

  “Please, call me Christian, and yes, I’d like a glass of white wine. I’m quite easy to please, just so long as it is white and very dry.”

  She smiled a bit at that. “Me too. White and dry, that is.”

  Elizabeth nodded to Kogi and gestured to the sofa.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Carleton.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “It was my husband’s, you know.”

  The phone rang loudly.

  Elizabeth stared toward the phone, praying that it wasn’t Rowe. She’d put him off this evening, telling him that she had a business appointment. She heard Kogi pick it up, murmur something, and that was that.

  “You were expecting a call, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Please, do sit down, Dr. Hun . . . Christian. And call me Elizabeth.” She looked at him squarely and added, “Since you saved my life, I would think that last names are a bit ridiculous.”