“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.”
Midge forced herself to rise from her chair. “If you’ll be seated for a moment.” She quietly opened the door to Jonathan’s office and slipped in, closing the door behind her.
“She did come,” Midge said. “She’s got two men with her.”
He looked so tired, she thought, waiting patiently for him to say something.
Jonathan rose from his chair, automatically straightening his tie. He managed to give Midge a crooked smile. “Please don’t spit on her Gucci shoes. You might as well send them in.”
She was beautiful, he admitted, but otherwise she appeared just as he had believed she would. Cold, hard, dressed severely in a light gray wool suit, the jacket buttoned over a pale blue silk blouse. She looked very self-possessed. Hard to believe that she’d been a musician such a short time ago. He couldn’t imagine her seated at a piano, belting out Mozart.
“Mr. Harley,” Elizabeth said, nodding her head only slightly before accepting his outstretched hand.
“Mrs. Carleton,” he said, releasing her expensively gloved hand very quickly.
“This is Adrian Marsh and Coy Siverston.”
The men greeted each other, if not warmly, at least civilly.
Jonathan waved toward the circular conference table. “Please sit down. Midge, could we have some coffee?”
“Sure thing,” Midge said.
Elizabeth’s eyes followed Midge, unconsciously assessing her. Her eyes were intelligent. She looked to be in her mid-forties, was very pretty, and obviously loyal to Jonathan Harley. She finally turned her attention to Jonathan Harley. He and Coy were discussing golf, and she waited patiently for the man talk that seemed to begin every meeting to run its course. But no, they had to have a couple of minutes to discuss the wretched season the Steelers had endured, and their chances for next season.
Midge came back in carrying a beautiful silver tray with fine china cups and a silver coffeepot.
Am I supposed to pour, Elizabeth wondered, while the men continue with their important sports talk? But Midge did that job, quietly and quickly. Elizabeth saw the woman look a bit furtively toward her boss, and wondered if they were lovers. The woman’s eyes held concern and worry. Elizabeth realized she was applying a male standard, and felt ashamed. Perhaps Adrian looked at her that way—with concern and worry.
Elizabeth took a sip of her coffee, then rattled her cup just a bit back onto its saucer. She said, her voice cool, very contained, “Gentlemen, shall we begin?”
Jonathan had been aware of her every expression as he put in his mandatory two cents about football. He realized with a spurt of anger that she was amused at their talk, as if they were little boys eager to impress each other. Hell, how else to keep the room from being utterly silent while each person was casing the others? He’d sometimes thought that God had created sports just for this purpose.
He sat back in his chair, automatically assuming his most powerful pose, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, his arms crossing his chest. “Begin with what, precisely, ma’am?”
Elizabeth knew he hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with ACI, but his obvious attempt to intimidate made her angry. “You agreed to meet with me, with us, Mr. Ha
rley. Do you normally conduct meetings when you don’t know the objective?”
“I would imagine, ma’am, that our objectives are diametrically opposed.”
“Actually, Mr. Harley,” Coy said quickly, wondering at Elizabeth’s unwarranted attack, “we’re pleased that you agreed to see us. We’ve been very impressed with your handling of NetFrame—”
Jonathan interrupted him smoothly. “My handling, Silverston? You make it sound like I’m some bright president put in charge by a board of directors. This is my company, I designed and developed my system, and my handling of my company is impressive because it’s mine.”
“Not entirely, Mr. Harley,” Elizabeth said.
“Ah, yes, I know that Rose sold you some stock. But not enough, ma’am. Not enough.”
Adrian entered the fray, sitting forward, his face intense. “Mr. Harley, as you know, ACI is a tremendously profitable company—”
“Don’t you mean conglomerate? Innumerable holding companies? So many swallowed companies—merged or just plain acquired—that you don’t even know the extent of them?”
“I assure you, Mr. Harley,” Elizabeth said, her voice like ice, “that we know and manage and provide support and capital to each and every one of our companies. ACI isn’t a monster swallowing up the world. Under our aegis, your company will not only expand, you will realize more profits than you could possibly imagine.”
“No way, lady,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Also,” Elizabeth continued, ignoring him, “you must realize that we would like to buy your company outright.”
“No way, lady,” he said again, this time because he wanted to. He saw her lips purse, and it pleased him.
“Of course, if you didn’t wish to give up your company outright, I’m certain we could work out a very advantageous contract with you. As Mr. Marsh said, we’re impressed with your—”
“No way, lady,” he said, interrupting her. He liked the refrain. It was making her mad as hell. People said things when they were angry, made mistakes.
“Don’t you wish to know what our offer is?”
“No.”
“Mr. Harley,” Coy said, “if you don’t wish to sell outright, perhaps we can convince you that a . . . ah, coming-together with ACI really is in your best interests. Please allow me to enumerate the advantages.”
FALSE PRETENSES Page 16
