False Pretenses (11 page)

“She doesn't seem to pick her men carefully, I hear.”

“How in heaven's name do you know so much, Christian?”

He said slowly, “You didn't read about Chad Walters?”

“Who's that?”

“A real stud to the ladies, in vulgar terms, especially rich ladies, and a dealer. He's dead, supposedly killed by one of his connections. A thoroughly nasty business.”

“Was he the man with Catherine that evening at the restaurant?”

“Yes, he was.”

“And he's dead.”

“Yes. No great loss to society.”

Elizabeth felt a chill run from her neck to her toes. “It seems very propitious—his death, I mean.”

“His line of work was particularly risky.”

“And Catherine had an alibi?”

“Certainly. She was, as I heard, vacationing briefly in Nassau when it happened.”

Both of them were silent a moment, each with very different thoughts. Christian said finally, “Would you play for me, Elizabeth?”

“I will, certainly, if you tell me why you did it.”

“I did tell you.”

“No, you gave me a string of very unlikely character tags. Why, Christian? I'm entitled to know.”

“I've lost all my money and intend to blackmail you for the next fifty years.”

She tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. “Well, that at least I could understand.” She waited, but he said no more.

She rose and walked to her piano, but didn't sit down on the bench. She ran her fingers over the shiny ebony very slowly, with great concentration.

“Elizabeth,” he said from behind her. “Haven't you ever trusted someone—completely, irrevocably?
Believed in someone, despite everything to the contrary?”

“Yes, I did, but the
contrary
part was rather overwhelming. I was a fool, a mushbrain—well, you certainly aren't interested in that.” Oh, yes, she'd believed in Rowe, trusted him implicitly. She shuddered, pain rippling through her, making her stomach knot.
I'd get even.

Well, that's what she was doing. She forced her shoulders back and sat down. She played the Pathétique sonata, filling the room with Beethoven's fury and pain and grandeur.

She was midway through the second movement when her fingers would no longer obey her. It wasn't that the pages were sad or depressing or hit her between the eyes, it was just . . . She replayed the same measure, then very softly lowered her head and began to sob.

Christian stayed where he was. The second movement always touched him, but he didn't believe that the heavy, tragic sounds that melt a stone had moved her to tears. He said nothing, merely waited.

“Would you like a Kleenex?”

She gave a small laugh. “No, thank you. I don't wear mascara so I don't have to worry about black streaks on my cheeks.”

“Go to the third movement.”

“Yes, I will. Had I done that in front of an audience, they would have thrown tomatoes, then carted me off.”

He watched her exert control over herself, and admired her immensely in that moment. She played the third movement with verve and panache. But without emotion. When she finished, she was breathing hard. She said, smiling toward him, “When I was ten years old, and would practice that sonata, my father would yell at me, telling me that he would rename it the Pathetic sonata. He'd spent the past six months trying
to make me understand the concept of pathos. I never really got it, but ‘pathetic' I understood very well. It took me years to play the sonata through without blundering.”

“Now, I think no one would question your understanding. Thank you, Elizabeth. That was magnificent. You've given me great pleasure. Now, it's late. May I see you Monday evening? Andre Galreau is playing Mozart at Lincoln Center. I should very much like to share it with you.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, rising. “I should like that. Galreau is a fine artist.”

 

Adrian switched on the tape player, and Elizabeth and Rod listened to Brad speaking to his uncle, Michael Carleton.

“It makes no sense!” Brad said.

“I know. It appears that James Houston is a loss. A mistake. It's a pity that we simply didn't allow dear Elizabeth to hire him.”

“Well, I shouldn't be using the office phone, it's not smart. I just wanted to fill you in.”

“We'll speak more fully on Thursday night. Your grandmother's house. Same time, Brad.”

“All right.”

“One other thing, Brad. This girl you're supposed to marry.”

Brad's voice, mocking, a bit bitter: “She's a senator's daughter and, according to Grandmother, has quite the appearance of a good breeder. Unfortunately I met her at a political dinner in Washington and began squiring her about.”

“I hope you know what you're doing.”

“Oh, I know, Uncle, I know.”

Silence. The sound of the line being disconnected.

There was a long silence. Rod said, a small, very cruel smile playing about his mouth, “I wonder what that's all about. Uncle Michael worried about Bradley
marrying a senator's daughter? Seems like what Laurette would want.”

“I'll find out,” Elizabeth said.

“How?” asked Adrian, sitting forward, folding his beefy hands.

“Trust me,” she said. “I have ways.”

“There's still a leak, obviously, but it has to be lower down.”

“Yes,” said Adrian. “That business about James Houston. In this instance, the leak backfired.”

“I trust Brad isn't taping our conversations?”

“No, not anymore, Elizabeth. Talk about dog eat dog, or in this case, bug eat bug.”

 

She hated it, the acting, the lying, the sheer misery of pretending. Faking an orgasm was perhaps the most difficult. She did, then waited for Rowe to climax. She forced herself to hold him close, forced herself to kiss his shoulder.

Christian was wrong, she thought. I could kill another human being. I could, but then I'd have to do myself in.

“Elizabeth, what's wrong?”

Smile, pretend. “Nothing, Rowe. I just have a lot on my mind, that's all.” She felt him pull away from her, and her entire body relaxed, finally freed of its betrayer.

He said nothing.

“What do you think about Brad Carleton and his romance with this senator's daughter?” she finally asked.

“I could care less.”

“No, seriously, Rowe, I heard this rumor that Brad really didn't want to get together with the lady, indeed that Michael Carleton is quite concerned about it.”

“I wouldn't know,” Rowe said. He lay on his back, lightly scratching his belly.

“Come now, you were telling me how old money
sticks together, how one's dirty laundry is always washed in private.”

“You want a rumor? Another one that isn't very nice? Well, old Brad is reputed to be queer. I haven't the faintest idea if that's true or not, but there it is.”

It fit, Elizabeth thought. Oh, yes, it fit. But what to do with a tidbit like that?

“How's the banking business, Rowe?”

He turned on his side to face her. “There, alive, well, and all that. I'm thinking of hanging a lot of it up, as a matter of fact.”

You mean you'd take the Carleton millions you've earned and skip the country?

“Then again, I'm just spouting off.” He sighed. “Forgive me. I'm just tired, that's all. How's your business coming along?”

“Funny you should ask. Actually, there's a pretty important bit of news that came to my ears just today. I need to give Adrian my decision on it very soon. It's about an Army defense contract on a new jet fighter, the G108. I think it's a good idea to go for it, and most of my associates agree. And it seems that we've got the inside track, what with important contacts and all that. Without the new contract, I'm afraid we'd have to make some pretty substantial cutbacks in the military division of Cragon-Matthews. What do you think?”

“That's a tough one. Why don't I ask around and get back to you?”

“Friends in equally high places, huh?”

“Not really. Just some men who are bright as hell and love to give their opinions, usually unsolicited.”

“All right. I'd appreciate it, Rowe. Can you let me know their collective opinion by . . . Friday afternoon?”

T
he article was there two days later, on the front page of
The Wall Street Journal,
and rumors were flying. The Army was steadfastly denying everything, but still people talked and speculated. After all, there were
reliable sources
involved.

Adrian looked grim. “You knew about this, Elizabeth, don't try to deny it. God, it sounds like a new car about to roll out of Japan. The G108? Where the devil did that come from?”

“I think that's a nice name for a new jet fighter,” she said. “Don't forget that you did mention something about a new Army contract to me and the situation with our military division at Cragon-Matthews.”

Adrian sipped on his very hot, very strong black coffee. “Yes, but from the inside information we'd gotten, the best thing to do was pass. You knew that, and you also knew that it was a new land-based missile. Now this.” He pointed a finger to the article.

Elizabeth said, “Odd, isn't it? Why are you so exercised about it, Adrian?”

He had no chance to reply, for Coy Siverston was announced and came in. He was smiling, something
of a malicious smile, and Elizabeth could see his big shiny gold tooth. He was carrying
The Wall Street Journal.

He said to Adrian, “I got a kick out of this. Oh, hello, Elizabeth,” he added as something of an afterthought. “This is Michael Carleton's doing. I scent his style, as will many other people. He does look like a complete ass, doesn't he? His credibility will go down the tubes, at least for a while, until it blows over.” He paused a moment, frowning over his glasses. “I also have this inescapable feeling that he was set up.”

“Do sit down, Coy,” Elizabeth said.

“Yeah,” said Adrian, “that's what I think. I also think Elizabeth set him up, but she won't tell me how she did it.”

“Trade secret, gentlemen.”

Coy stared at her. He thought her a charming young woman, a young woman very much over her head. No, Adrian had to be wrong. Elizabeth Carleton was a figurehead, nothing more. He slowly removed his glasses and slipped them into his vest pocket, his mind working with its usual speed and methodology. He'd always thought of himself as the Sherlock Holmes of big business. He said at last, “There are no trade secrets, Elizabeth. Now, do tell us what you know about all this, if anything.”

Under Adrian's fascinated gaze, her eyes grew very cold, hard, her lips tightened. My God, he thought, what is going on here? He nearly jumped when she said, “I have no intention of telling you anything, Coy. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen . . .”

She left the office, leaving Adrian and Coy to stare at each other. Adrian said slowly, thoughtfully, “She's changed. It's scary as hell.”

“Nonsense,” said Coy, who, if he didn't understand something, dismissed it without further thought as being inconsequential. “She's being coy, eh? She
doesn't know a thing. How could she? She's a musician, for heaven's sake.”

“As I recall, Coy, you were wrong about something last June 14. Maybe this is your error for this year. She's changing, Coy, changing and learning at an alarming rate. But what's worse is that she's become secretive. Oh, why do I bother with explaining things to you?”

“Because, dear boy, I am your senior by a number of years that I don't choose to disclose, and you owe me proper deference and respect.”

“Bull,” said Adrian. “Are you going hunting this weekend with Bruno?”

“No, poor old fellow's at the vet's. He's got a urinary problem, damn and blast.”

“Before you take off, Coy, there's something else. Something else Elizabeth told me. Make of it what you will. Brad Carleton is evidently thinking of marrying a senator's daughter. The rumor is that Brad is also gay.”

“Probably bisexual. Pretty common nowadays,” said Coy unemotionally. “It doesn't appeal to me, but . . .” He shrugged.

“Yeah, if you could screw your dog, Bruno, you'd probably consider that equally as common.”

“Getting pretty big for your boots, aren't you, Adman?”

“Still a size twelve.”

Coy grinned. “I'm shoving off now, my boy. While you sit on your behind trying to come up with new fairy tales, I work.” Coy paused at the doorway and said with absolute conviction, “You're wrong about Elizabeth. There's no way she could have had anything to do with this military nonsense.”

“Blind idiot,” Adrian said under his breath as Coy left the office.

 

Elizabeth sat on the bench in Central Park, unaware
of the brilliant display of multicolored leaves around her. It was early September, but the East Coast was having a freak cold spell. She was wearing gloves and in her right hand she was clutching a rumpled newspaper page. She watched several children playing tag, screaming out, laughing, arguing. Just like adults, she thought, except that they don't play for keeps.