FALSE PRETENSES

by Catherine Coulter

  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?”

  “Of course.”

  Jenny’s strong suit wasn’t brains. Charles had long accepted that. She was guileless, easily led, malleable, and what the Carletons were doing to her, and to him, was disgusting. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I thought you liked Brad.”

  She sounded bewildered, uncertain, like a child.

  He saw the photos again in his mind’s eye. No, she wasn’t a child, at least her body wasn’t a child’s, nor the silent scream on her lips when she’d reached orgasm.

  “I just want you to be happy,” he said finally. He wished he had the guts to expose the whole mess, and damn the consequences, or to have Brad Carleton killed. Just like his stepmother had killed his father. And she’d gotten off. Charles shook his head. God, what was he thinking? He pictured the headline and gave a ghastly smile. “Senior senator murders gay son-in-law.”

  “I’m happy,” Jenny said. “I promise you.” She rushed to him and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Daddy.”

  He wanted desperately at that moment to show her the negatives of Brad and his lover, and her with Brad. To show her the kind of people the Carletons really were. His hand fluttered for an instant over the locked desk drawer. Slowly he withdrew his hand. “Go about your business, Jenny. I’ve really got lots of work to do.”

  She left him, her happiness only momentarily dimmed. Perhaps, she thought, he just didn’t want to let her go to another man. She’d been his
baby for such a long time. She liked that notion. She was important to him.

  Catherine was trembling, she couldn’t help it. But she couldn’t believe her eyes, literally. She was standing in her grandmother’s study, a sheaf of photographs in her hand. She hadn’t purposely intended to snoop, but she’d seen the normally locked desk drawer slightly ajar. Her grandmother had gone upstairs for a moment, and Catherine had decided to wait for her here. And she’d seen the interesting-looking manila envelope and eased it out of the drawer.

  And opened it.

  Brad and another man. Copulating? Or was it sodomizing? Slowly she lifted the top photo and looked at the next one. More of the same, only from a different angle.

  Oh, God. Of course she’d heard rumors, who hadn’t? But she’d never believed them.

  More photos. Jenny and Brad. Definitely copulating. Attached to the top of one of those photos was a phone number with a Washington, D.C., area code.

  What did it mean? She heard her grandmother’s voice coming from the corridor and hastily slipped the photos back into the envelope and the envelope back into the drawer. She was careful to leave the drawer slightly open. Her grandmother had eagle eyes. She never missed a thing.

  Oh, Jenny. That poor little Milquetoast.

  What did it mean? What should she do?

  She watched her grandmother walk slowly into the study, her carriage erect, as usual, her white hair pristine, as usual. She looked so damned regal, so Victorian. And yet, the photos. Catherine shuddered again.

  “Hello, my dear,” Laurette said, giving Catherine her special smile. “What brings you here this morning?”

  What to say? Catherine felt color creep over her cheeks. “I . . . I just wanted to tell you that I don’t have nosebleeds anymore.”

  “That’s good,” said Laurette, and Catherine felt her grandmother’s searching gaze on her face. Studying her like an insect under glass.

  “That was all, really. And I’m no longer seeing Dr. Christian Hunter.”

  “Excellent. I’m delighted you took my advice. Just one other thing, my dear. What about Rowe Chalmers?”

  Catherine’s eyes fell. “I won’t see him again either.” That was probably a lie, she knew. But all she wanted to do now was escape, and think.

  “I’m pleased, Catherine. Will you be staying for lunch?”

  Catherine felt frantic. She knew she hadn’t the courage or the ability to withstand her grandmother’s inevitable inquisition.

  “No, I’m sorry, Grandmother, but I have an appointment in the city.”

  “What kind of appointment?”

  “With a dentist. One of my fillings came out the other day.”

  Laurette said nothing for a moment. She was wondering what was wrong with Catherine and why she was lying to her. Well, she had too much on her mind to probe, at least for the moment. Maybe she wasn’t lying after all. “All right, then, my dear. Tonight, dinner. You know Jenny is coming up for the weekend today. I think a family gathering is appropriate. A welcome for Jenny. The wedding is in five weeks, you know.”

  Catherine wanted to puke.

  “I’ll try, Grandmother,” she said, and escaped.

  Christian stopped short and stared into the jeweler’s window at the display of expensive watches. He felt a surge of panic and took a step backward, bumping into a woman loaded down with shopping bags. She glared at him, and he apologized.

  My God, he thought, how could he have been so stupid? He got a hold of himself. So he’d remarked on Timothy Carleton’s watch being on Kogi’s wrist. So what?

  Elizabeth had said she’d given the watch to Timothy. Surely he’d worn it often, perhaps every day. And he had met Timothy in the past.

  It had been a minor slip. Stupid, but not important.

  He resumed his walk down Fifth Avenue.

  He had to find out when Elizabeth had given Timothy the watch.

  But very carefully, very subtly.

  He’d seen the watch only once. It had been on Timothy Carleton’s wrist the night Christian had plunged the ice pick into his chest.

  He remembered the glitter of the gold in the lamplight very clearly. He remembered thinking vaguely that the old man didn’t deserve such a lovely watch. It had reminded him of all the immensely valuable jewels found on the mummies of ancient Egypt. It had looked ridiculous on Timothy’s vein-knotted wrist.

  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He felt his palms grow sweaty.

  He must be very careful. He cursed himself softly at his fear. It was ridiculous. The whole thing was nonsense. Elizabeth had probably given Timothy that watch for a wedding present.

  He kept walking. His fear abated. He would very easily find out about the wretched watch, then everything would be fine again.

  19

  Brad Carleton stared at his sister. “You’ve got to call it off, Brad,” Catherine said again. “You’ve got to.”

  They were standing in the middle of Brad’s room at the Carleton mansion on Long Island. Jenny and her mother were due to arrive in a couple of hours.

  Brad got a hold of himself. “Listen, Cathy, you’ll forget what you saw, do you understand me?”

  “What were those photos doing in Grandmother’s desk? Whose phone number was written on the envelope?”

  “Stop it, you little fool! Let me put it this way—a deal has been cut with Jenny’s father. That’s all there is to it. The wedding will take place.”

  “Do you want to marry Jenny?” Catherine asked quietly. Her revulsion was momentarily damped by the long affection she’d had for her older brother. She’d idolized him since she was a little girl.

  Brad shrugged. He looked pale and very unhappy. “There’s nothing I can do to change anything now,” he said.

  “But it’s not fair to either of you. I know Jenny has about as much personality as a doorstop, but she’s still a human being, Brad, she’s got to have feelings.”

  “As you saw on those damned photos, she’s also wild in bed,” he said, and grimaced at the memory.

  “I saw that you were wild in bed too, in the other photos.”

  “Look, Cathy, just leave it alone, all right? Grandmother has spoken. It’s all over but the rice-throwing.”

  “It was blackmail, wasn’t it?” Catherine asked slowly, staring at her brother’s face. “Grandmother blackmailed Senator Henkle with those photos of you and Jenny.”

  “Yes.”

  “But those photos of you with that other man? I don’t understand.” But of course she did.

  “It was Elizabeth, dear bitchy Elizabeth, who sent those photos to Henkle, but she backed off when she saw the photos of me and Jenny.”

  It took several moments for that to sink in. Finally Catherine said, “Is it part of the deal that you become monogamous once you and Jenny are married?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And will you be?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Brad said. “God, I wish I could just leave the country.”

  “Me too,” said Catherine on a sigh. “Why don’t we go together. How about Katmandu? Bombay?”

  “Even Havana.” He touched her cheek. “I’m sorry about all this,” he said. “But what’s done is done.”

  “I think you should be in California, not Trent.”

  “Yeah, and old Trent is so straight it would make your hair curl.”

  “Then bring him back here and you go there. Start a new life, one that you select. You’re a grown man, an adult. It’s simple, Brad.”

  She saw a momentary flare of hope in his eyes, then the glazed acceptance. She said very quietly, “I love you, Brad, but I can’t let you do this. Not to Jenny, not to yourself.”

  “You try to stop it, and God knows what will happen.”

  Catherine gave him one long last look, saw the defeat on his face, and headed for the door. She paused, and said over her shoulder, “Another thing. Do you know, I’m not convinced anymore that Elizabeth killed our father.”

 
; Brad looked at her blankly. “Then who the hell did?”

  Catherine gave a bitter laugh. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t Grandmother. She wasn’t the one to back off, and yet Elizabeth did.”

  “No,” he said seriously. “Our father is the only one of the family she would never harm.”

  “At least not intentionally?”

  “She can’t help the way she is. And we—all of us—keep her there, on her throne.”

  “Why did Elizabeth back off? You would think she’d do anything to get back at us for what we’ve done to her.”

  “Who knows? Go away, Catherine. And keep your mouth shut.”

  Laurette watched Brad and Jenny with great complacency that evening at the dinner table. The girl would do just fine. She would do exactly what she was told. And if Brad didn’t do enough telling, she certainly would. Her eyes shifted down the table to Catherine. Something was definitely wrong there. She should probably put a man on her again to find out what she was doing.

  Catherine flinched every time Jenny opened her mouth, and it was invariably something that she deferred to Brad. Jenny’s mother looked as if she’d caught a whale in her fishing net, so pleased, so proud of her wimpy daughter for her windfall catch.

  What to do? Catherine was thinking.

  Elizabeth sent the photos of Brad and his lover to Senator Henkle. Then she backed off. Why?

  Catherine made up her mind over the medallions of veal and creamed asparagus.

  Millicent Stacy frowned as she gently eased into Elizabeth’s office.

  “Yes, Milly?”

  She didn’t quite know what to say. She stood there feeling like a fool, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “A fire? One of our companies bit the bullet? Come, what’s up? I can take it, I swear.”

  “No, Elizabeth, none of the above. Catherine Carleton is outside. She wants to see you.”

  Elizabeth blinked. Catherine?

  “Well, I suppose I have no choice but to see her. If you hear mayhem beginning, please come back, Milly. I might be strangling the girl.”

  Catherine was dressed to kill, Elizabeth thought as she walked into her office in a Valentino black-and-white wool suit. Kill. What an odd way to think of it.