False Pretenses (12 page)

Slowly she smoothed out the page again and stared down at it. It was a grainy photo with a caption beneath from a small Boston rag called the
Tattler.
It had been sent to her anonymously, just as that first note she'd gotten. She still had no idea who it was, her unknown champion—at least she assumed it was someone on the bandwagon for her. That someone, must know that she was still seeing Rowe after that night at Laurette Carleton's mansion. And that someone wanted her to stop. That realization was a bit chilling, and she looked around her briefly, perhaps expecting to see that someone lurking somewhere, watching her.

She looked down again. Despite the flaws in the photo, Rowen Chalmers looked handsome, debonair, beautifully dressed in a black dinner jacket, as did the young woman pressed close to him. “Rowen Chalmers escorts Amanda Montgomery to Democratic fund-raiser.” His hand was cupping her elbow and she was looking up at him. The look on Rowe's face was anger, toward the photographer, she supposed, and protectiveness for his companion. She simply looked at the photo, her expression unchanging. Finally she folded it into a small square and dropped it into her shoulder bag. Her thought at that moment was: Rowen must be very stupid or very sure of himself to squire another woman about, even in Boston.

Rowe was in New York. She would see him this evening. Oh, yes, she would see him all right.

She'd used him long enough.

She'd gotten even.

Now it was time to save herself.

 

Elizabeth dismissed Kogi after dinner that evening. Rowe smiled at that, a smug male smile, Elizabeth thought, watching him through her lashes. He thinks I can't wait to jump into bed with him.

She gave him an enticing smile.

But Rowe was in no hurry. “How about a brandy, Elizabeth?”

“Okay,” she said.

She watched him pour the brandy from the Waterford decanter into two snifters.

“You're beautiful,” he said, and raised his glass to hers. “God, I'm tired.”

He sat down on the sofa and patted the spot next to him. “Come talk to me, sweetheart. How are you doing with your jock executive assistant?”

My God, are they after Adrian?

“He's a bit peeved with me at the moment,” she said, which was certainly the truth. She eased down beside him and felt his arm come around her shoulders, pulling her against him.

“Impossible or the man's an idiot.”

“Ah, well, you see, I approved a contract that he disapproved of. It made perfect sense to me, but Adrian was spouting about this and that, and loop-holes and tax problems and various assorted other headaches.”

“What kind of deal was it?”

Elizabeth smiled into her goblet of brandy, swishing it about a little. “Would you believe a contract on Brad Carleton?”

He grinned at her. “That fellow giving you more trouble?”

“Nothing I can't handle.”

“My money's on you, Elizabeth.” He downed the rest of his brandy, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Elizabeth said nothing, merely waited. Without
changing position or opening his eyes, he asked, his voice sleepy, “Do you want or need my advice, Elizabeth?”

“Probably, but later, all right?”

He cocked an eye open. “Sounds good to me.” He uncoiled his tall body and came to his feet. He stretched out his hand toward her. “Shall we, my darling?”

She let him draw her to her feet. She felt his hands stroke down her back, cupping about her buttocks and bringing her up against his body. She felt his breathing quicken as he kissed her. She kissed him back with all the expertise he'd taught her.

“You go ahead, Rowe. I'll be with you in just a moment.”

She kissed him again, very deeply, letting her hands glide down his chest, lightly teasing his belly. She slipped her fingertips under the waistband of his pants.

He was breathing hard when she slowly stepped back. She stood quietly, the seductive smile still firmly in place.

“Don't take too long,” he said, and kissed her chin.

“No, I won't.”

Five minutes later, she heard him call out, “ Elizabeth! I'm waiting and my body's all yours.”

Indeed it is, she thought.

He'd kept only the bedside light on and the rest of the large room was in shadows. Elizabeth paused in the middle of the room, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. Rowe was lying naked atop the bedcover, his hands behind his head. He was certainly ready, she thought dispassionately, glancing over his body.

She sat down beside him. When he started to bring his arms forward, she stopped him. “No, Rowe, not just yet.”

“I'd like to take off those clothes of yours, darling.”

“Not yet,” she repeated.

“Initiate, then. I'll love it,” he said, and she saw that his eyes were heavy with desire.

“Oh, I fully intend to, Rowe.” Slowly she brought out her left hand from the folds of her wool skirt. She was holding a silver ice pick, and before he could understand, could react, the point of the ice pick was against his throat.

“Wh-what?”

“You've become a stammerer, Rowe?”

“Elizabeth, what are you doing? What . . . this is a stupid joke. Come on now, stop it.”

She pressed the sharp tip forward, just a bit, not enough to break the skin. She merely stared down at him. She saw him go from amusement to uncertainty.

His body was rigid, all physical desire dead as ashes, his eyes on her face.

“It's very sharp, isn't it?” she said quietly. “Please don't move. My hand isn't all that steady. Yes, it's very sharp. Don't you recall that I was on trial for murdering Timothy with a very fancy silver ice pick? Not this particular one, of course, I think the D.A. still has that one, but thanks to Christian Hunter, it's not in his trophy case. I had Kogi buy a new one. Of course he had to buy the complete ice bucket with it, but the cost was worth it. I wanted it to be exactly the same. It's particularly sharp, isn't it?”

He looked desperate now, but he didn't move and his voice was light, very soothing. “You don't know what you're doing, Elizabeth. Come now, sweetheart—”

“Another one of your phony endearments, and I'll try for your jugular.”

He stared at her, swallowing convulsively. “My God, why?”

“Don't you recall that the D.A. firmly believed that Timothy was going to divorce me? And I found out later, as you know, that my husband had, in fact,
betrayed me with another woman. Probably plural, but it doesn't matter.”

He knew then, and his Adam's apple bobbed. “You saw that ridiculous photo, didn't you?”

“Actually, I did, but it didn't matter, Rowe. Not one whit.”

God help him, she was jealous, despite her words to the contrary. He must reassure her, make her believe him. “Amanda means nothing to me, Elizabeth. I was her escort, that's all. There's nothing at all between us.”

The ice pick pressed inward, and his eyes went black with fear.

“You think I'm upset because I saw you with another woman, don't you?”

“Elizabeth, you know there's no one else. I wouldn't lie to you. There's no reason for me to.”

“Please don't move, Rowe. My hand really does feel kind of sweaty. Actually, I want to thank you. You have taught me many things, so many things.”

“What do you mean?” He'd stall her, he thought frantically, she hadn't half his strength. When she relaxed a bit, he could get the ice pick away from her. God Almighty, what was wrong with her? This was insane.

“With the ice pick against your throat, are you still inclined to believe that I didn't murder Timothy?”

“Of course you didn't.”

“You would stake your life on it?”

“Elizabeth—”

“No, it's time for you to listen to me, Rowe. I did indeed see the photo of you with Amanda Montgomery, as I told you. I also said that it didn't bother me. It's true, I wouldn't lie to you. You see, Rowe, I know that you betrayed me. And that betrayal was the one that hurt, really hurt. But how can one disbelieve what one sees, what one actually hears?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I do remember, though, how you told Laurette Carleton that I didn't kill Timothy, how you did defend me to that old witch. Are you still so very certain of that?” The ice pick lightly pricked his throat.

“Don't!”

“Sorry, my hand slipped. You'd best lie very still, Rowe. Now, about your certainty of my innocence.”

“Of course you didn't kill Timothy, you couldn't.”

“You did sound very certain of that when you told Laurette.”

“I . . . I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Such exquisite timing, and all the planning. Dear Elizabeth all by herself in Paris, the most romantic city in the world. Dear Elizabeth, so very vulnerable, so very alone and hurting, so fragile. I must say that you and the Carletons worked very quickly. In you, they found the perfect man for the job. It is true, Rowe, by the time we returned to New York, I was fancying myself in love with you. No, don't say anything! You'll have your chance, but not yet.

“What you will say when you do talk . . . well, we'll see. I have come to the inescapable conclusion that women who are infatuated—or all
eat up,
as a Southern friend says—are mushbrains. All their critical faculties are suspended. Since I was never in love with Timothy, in the romantic sense, I hadn't before experienced that particular aberration. But you were so very smooth, everything you did and said was so very perfect. You were my lover and my confidant. Your word, I believe. You wanted to help me, you were so noble, so kind, and so very busy with your own business. As I said, I was a mushbrain. I was thinking about children, a station wagon, a home in Connecticut. Perhaps even a shaggy dog to sit by my piano. I was thinking about finally belonging, being loved for myself.” She paused a moment, her throat clogging.

“Damn you, I want to cry. Not over you, you can be sure about that, but for that poor pitiful fool I was.
I was at Laurette's estate that Thursday night some weeks ago, standing right outside the open library windows. I saw and heard everything, Rowe. Everything.”

“Then you know they were blackmailing me.” The truth, he thought, watching her face. As much of the truth as he could manage.

“Yes, they were. I had no idea you were a gambler, Rowe.”

“It was my father, Elizabeth. He nearly wrecked the banks. I had to do something. Surely they said something about that?”

“By my reckoning, since I discovered your little scheme, you should have gotten another three million from the Carletons.”

“Only two and a half.”

“I'm sorry that there won't be more coming, Rowe. I suspect you'll just have to latch on to an heiress. Does Amanda have money?”

“Yes.”

“Actually, I'd hoped that it had cost Laurette and Michael more by now. After all, the value of your information appeared, on the surface at least, to be of good quality.”

He was silent, understanding now. “You fed me false information to pass along to them.”

“Yes, I did. I had intended to have a screaming match with you immediately, but, well, let us say that I wanted to have the awesome experience of using you. James Houston, for example. It wasn't much, but it did set things a bit cockeyed. My masterpiece, though, was the Cordie takeover. And of course, I did put a stop to all Michael's shenanigans with our steel company. Other things, of course. I'm sure you'll be able to trace everything that happened since that memorable evening.”

“I didn't want to hurt you, Elizabeth. Please, you must believe me. I care—”

The ice pick pressed deeper. “Don't say those
words, Rowe.” Her voice was shaking. She'd thought she had such control over herself. She stopped, forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths.

“You know, Rowe, if I did kill Timothy, for his supposed desire to divorce me, then it would seem that I have much greater motive to dispatch you to hell.” She saw the sweat on his forehead. He was truly afraid now. Of her. What a novel experience to have someone actually afraid of her.

“No, Elizabeth, you've got to understand why I did it.”

“I know why you did it, Rowe. You still need two million dollars, don't you? Well, I'm sorry about that, but it appears that you'll just have to propose very quickly to Amanda. There is just one more thing, Rowe. If you say a word to the Carletons—and I will know if you do—I will ruin you. Your precious banks will cease to exist. I won't force you out, I'll destroy you and your precious family with you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

She saw the fear leave his eyes, but she no longer cared. “You know, Rowe, you're the one who should be tried for murder. You killed Elizabeth Xavier Carleton. She no longer exists. She wasn't all that bad, just a lonely, very insecure woman who'd just gone through the most awful experience a person could have. What you did to her! She was clay in your hands, so malleable, so very trusting. I do wonder if it's true that most women will do whatever a man wants, if, of course, they believe they're in love with him. It's amazing, truly amazing. Another thing, Rowe, you will never, never try to cross me in the future. Make up whatever story you like to feed to Laurette and Michael, I really could care less how you extricate yourself from their net. Just always remember that my net is larger and more deadly. Now, you look quite foolish lying there sweating like a pig.”

She moved off the bed very quickly and strode toward the bedroom door. She whirled about, wondering if he were enraged, if he would come after her. But he was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her, not moving.

“I want you out of my house in ten minutes,” she said, and closed the bedroom door behind her.

 

She was on the point of having the piano removed. She wanted no reminders of that other Elizabeth. But there was Christian, and he delighted in hearing her play, and he had saved her life.