False Pretenses (17 page)

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. Harley. 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.”

Coy pulled a bound notebook from his briefcase and proceeded to enumerate, very completely, very thoroughly. Jonathan Harley appeared to listen to him carefully, but his face was an expressionless mask, his body perfectly still.

Elizabeth watched his eyes for some clue to his thoughts. She saw nothing. He was rude, she thought, rude and crude and hard as nails. And he disliked her personally. She wasn't stupid, and it wasn't just because he didn't want to sell to ACI. It was probably because he hadn't ever had to deal with a woman before and he believed it beneath him.
Or because he believes you are a murderess.

Or a combination of the two.

She shook her head and tried to pay attention to Coy.

Her eyes kept straying back to Jonathan Harley. The man appeared to be carved in stone, she thought. He was large—she hadn't realized how large a man he was until he'd shaken her hand and she'd had to crane her neck upward to his face. She imagined that intimidation was one of his favorite tactics and he did it well. She had met several high-powered executives who used their size to their advantage. Except they had treated her like a delicate little doll, their subtle condescension making her grit her teeth. Of course, she had been
their
boss.

She didn't know if she preferred outright rudeness to condescension.

Coy wound to a halt. Still Jonathan Harley said not
a word. Adrian immediately filled the gap, only to be interrupted finally by Harley. “I should like some more coffee, I think. All that talk has made me thirsty. Ma'am?”

Elizabeth stared at him and at his outstretched coffee cup. The silver tray wasn't within easy reach, and he expected her to serve him. She drew on the control she'd learned over the past months. “Adrian,” she said politely, “Coy, would you two please leave us alone for a moment?”

Adrian shot her a concerned frown, but Coy merely nodded. Both men left the office.

Elizabeth waited until they'd closed the office door behind them. “I am not a servant, Mr. Harley,” she said.

He said very deliberately, “You're a woman, aren't you?” He watched her eyes narrow with anger. He'd scored a big point, but he wasn't pleased with his approach. Still, he guessed it was the way to keep her off balance.

“I suggest, Mr. Harley, that if you wish more coffee, you buzz for your own private servant.”

“Midge isn't a servant, private or otherwise.”

She'd shaken him just a bit, she thought. His voice was clipped, cold, but his expression was still impassive.

“No, perhaps she isn't. She is probably too bright to do more than she has to with her boss.”

“Look, lady—”

“My name is Elizabeth Carleton.”

“Yes, I know. Elizabeth X.”

She flinched, hearing the awful label the media had pinned on her. He saw it and she saw that he saw it. He sat back in his chair again, fully in control of the situation. She wanted to scream at him, but knew she couldn't. She managed to say calmly, “Do you normally resort to out-moded sexism when confronted with women, Mr. Harley?”

“I don't deal with women,” he said, and there was disdain in his voice.

“I see. They have no place in the business world?”

“You got it, lady . . . Mrs. Carleton. As I understand it, you didn't know how to balance a checkbook before your husband's untimely death.” If he'd been in her shoes, he'd have killed anyone for that remark. He waited, seeing what she'd do, what she'd say.

“He was murdered, Mr. Harley. You needn't be sarcastic. I find your behavior quite inappropriate.”

“Tough shit. You're playing in the big league now. Get used to it.”

Elizabeth said very softly, “Mr. Harley, you haven't any idea of what the big league is. Your company is nothing more than a goldfish, and the tank you're swimming about in doesn't compare favorably to the ocean, which is ACI.”

“Your simile sucks,” Jonathan said.

“And your language is fit for the streets.”

“I'm certain you heard much worse during your trial.”

She jerked back, and he saw the wasteland of pain. in her eyes. For the first time, she was human, and it bothered him. He couldn't weaken, wouldn't weaken. She was the barracuda in her damned ocean. He said with deliberate cruelty, “I also understand that you have been seeing a great deal of Dr. Christian Hunter—after a suitable amount of time since the trial had elapsed, of course.”

“You know nothing about anything, Mr. Harley.”

He disliked the quivering in her voice, but he was swift to move in on the kill. He'd found a major weakness and he had to take full advantage of it. “Of course,” he continued, his voice bland, “no one can figure out just how you managed to bribe the good millionaire doctor. Did you promise to be his lover? It would appear to be the case now. I trust you're
excellent in bed, ma'am, for he took an awful risk in saving your hide.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes a moment. Why was she so surprised at his tactics? It was the big league, hardball, only this was the first time that it wasn't
her
big league and her rules. Damn him. He was nothing.

She heard him continue, his voice taunting now and very soft, “Of course you had to wait a goodly amount of time, didn't you?” He sat forward. “As I recall, you hopped into bed with Rowen Chalmers immediately. Marriage to an old man for three years must have left you pretty horny. Unable to wait it out, Mrs. Carleton?”

I mustn't let him continue. I mustn't let him do this to me.

“Mr. Harley,” she said, pleased at the smoothness of her voice, “I am here to conduct business with you, not to listen to your stupid, senseless insults. Now, I am prepared to pay you two hundred million for your company.”

“No way, lady.”

“Your refrain is becoming as boring as your insults, Mr. Harley.”

“You're right,” he said, smiling, a cruel, cold smile. “Nor is my refrain at all accurate. Let me try again: No way, bitch.”

Elizabeth rose slowly from her chair, leaned forward, pressing her palms against the tabletop. “I will ruin you, Mr. Harley. I will take your company and I will personally see you in the gutter.”

He didn't move, and his smile widened. “Ah, you plan to murder me as well, ma'am?”

She couldn't help herself. She picked up her cup of coffee and flung it at him. Unfortunately, she thought blankly as she watched the coffee splash onto his neck and the front of his suit, it wasn't hot enough.

He calmly picked up a napkin and began to mop himself off. “This is one reason I don't deal with
women,” he said, not bothering to look at her. “So emotional, so little control.”

“You would drive all control from the devil himself!”

“You've dealt with the devil,” he said, looking at her now, “so I guess you would know. What, ma'am, you can't find anything else to throw at me? Good, now, may I escort you out of
my
office?”

Oddly enough, in that moment Elizabeth realized what she'd done and how he'd outflanked her. She even smiled at him, and was pleased to see him start in surprise. She said very softly, “No, Mr. Harley, you needn't show me out. I know the way. I fancy that when I have your office refurnished, I'll leave the coffee stains in the carpet. They look almost as satisfying on the carpet as they do on your shirt.”

She picked up her purse and walked to the door. She turned at the door. “I'll see you ruined, Mr. Harley. As you so accurately pointed out, this is the big league. Good day. Perhaps it will be your last.”

“I doubt that,” he called after her. “Two can play the same game, though I doubt it'll be much sport with a woman.”

He'd vanquished her. Laid her flat. He felt really good for about ten minutes.

Surely there was no way to bring him down. Surely. No matter how powerful she was.

 

E
lizabeth said nothing, merely nodded to Adrian and Coy. They left the office in silence.

Adrian cleared his throat to speak once they were in the limousine.

“We'll go home,” Elizabeth said, forestalling him, her voice clipped.

“Yes,” said Coy. “I suppose we should.”

An hour later Elizabeth watched Philadelphia fade away below them.

“Elizabeth.”

Unfastening her seat belt, she turned to face Adrian.

“Would you like to tell us what happened?”

“Mr. Harley plays hardball, that's all. He plays with great panache and cruelty.”

“Oh,” said Coy.

“You shouldn't have sent us out,” said Adrian.

“I have the feeling it wouldn't have mattered to Mr. Harley one way or the other. Now, gentlemen, how do we get hold of his company and ruin him in the bargain?”

Adrian said, “He owns, as you know, Elizabeth,
fifty-one percent of the stock. He has a completely free hand with his board. No matter how much we buy, we can't change that. We can force a seat on his board, hassle him somewhat, but that's about it.”

Elizabeth fell into deep thought. She said finally, just as they were nearing New York, “I want a thorough analysis on all Mr. Harley's financial dealings. As both of you have taught me, we need leverage. Find it for me.”

“Elizabeth,” Coy said, leaning forward, “why can't we just forget him and his damned company? There are others, perhaps not as profitable, not as stable, but who cares? We can bring in our own management team and solve any problems. Harley's little. He doesn't matter.”

A
goldfish.
“No,” she said, “I want Harley's company. No other.”

Coy and Adrian exchanged glances.

 

Catherine didn't see the proverbial couch in Dr. Christian Hunter's plush office. She sat down again in the brown leather chair that faced his desk.

“Miss Elliott,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?” He was leaning slightly forward, all his professional attention focused on her. He wasn't at all stupid. But then again, she would tell him the truth; there was no reason not to.

“Awful,” she said.

“You had difficulty sleeping last night?”

She nodded.

“Tell me about the man who was arrested, the man you were close to.”

Well, most of the truth.
“His name's not important. He's a pretty small-time drug dealer, as I understand it. Actually, he was using me. I was paying his way and he provided me with first-class coke.”

Christian noticed that her nose was running. She sniffed often.

“How do you feel about that? About being used by him?”

Catherine paused, feeling hurt and confusion wash over her. “I didn't mind, not at first.”

“Do you have a photo of this man?”

“Why, yes, I do.” Catherine rummaged through her wallet and extracted a small photo of Chad. His picture had never been in the papers. Thank God she wasn't in the picture. She handed it to Dr. Hunter.

A stud, Christian thought, silently studying the photo. An arrogant, free-meal-ticket stud. “Did your family know about him, Miss Elliott?”

“No, I don't think so. I'm not really sure.”

She was lying; Christian knew it. But he gave no indication. It would take time for her to trust him. He still wasn't certain that he wanted to give her that time. He handed her the photo, but she shook her head. He arched an eyebrow in question, and she looked at the wastebasket. Christian slowly shredded the photo and tossed the pieces away.

“A good start. Now, let's talk about your family, Miss Elliott. Tell me about your father.”

“He's dead.”

“I see. How long ago did he die?”

“A long time ago.”

Lying again. “And your mother?”

“She's living in London. At least the last time I heard, she was.”

“You aren't close to your mother?”

“No. My father divorced her and paid her off. She left me.”

“The family money is all on your father's side?”

“Yes.”

“Were you hooked on cocaine before you met your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Why him? You are a lovely young woman, Miss Elliott. Why, understanding this man as you obviously
do, did you allow yourself to become involved with him?”

A good question, Catherine thought. Too good. She thought about it honestly. “I was bored and I wanted my fa . . . I wanted to experience new things.”

She tried not to show her chagrin at her near-slip. Dr. Hunter appeared not to have noticed. He left the subject of the boyfriend and asked questions about her childhood. Those weren't difficult, and she wasn't aware that Christian Hunter was busily storing away the subtle information she was unaware of providing him.

He seemed to have no particular direction in mind, and the fifty minutes passed quickly, too quickly for Catherine. She realized as she stood and shook his hand that she wanted to see him again, soon. She was appalled at herself. After all, this was the man who had gotten Elizabeth off. This was the man who, for whatever reason, had saved her father's murderess.

“Next Tuesday, Miss Elliott?”

“Yes, yes, that's fine,” Catherine said. Tuesday, she thought. Then she would begin to ask him questions, learn about him. She'd catch him out; she knew she could do it.

Christian watched her walk from his office, and again he frowned. Something so familiar about her walk, her carriage. He prided himself on his memory, on his ability to perceive details that escaped others.

The fifty minutes had been interesting, once he'd realized he was following her through a maze of lies. He pulled his notebook toward him and began to write.

 

Laurette studied her granddaughter. She seemed less jumpy, less gaunt. There was a new purpose about her, but Laurette knew it wasn't a healthy purpose.

She said without preamble, “Why are you seeing Dr. Christian Hunter?”

Catherine's jaw dropped. “H-how do you know about that?”

“I've been worried about you, my dear, and—”

“Ha! You're afraid I'll try to buy coke, aren't you? My God, you've had me followed.”

Laurette was unruffled. “That's right. It's for your own good. Now, tell me why you're seeing Christian Hunter, and in a black wig.”

Catherine's chin went up. “I need professional help and he's one of the best in the city.”

“You're a terrible liar, my dear. Leave it, Catherine. Keep away from the man. He's not stupid. He will reveal nothing to you. Surely you must realize that?”

Catherine rose from her chair and walked to the fireplace. There were only glowing embers now and she felt the mild warmth flush her face. It was thirty degrees outside, the sky full of snow. She leaned down and added more logs.

“Catherine?”

She rose, dusted off her hands, then turned slowly to face her grandmother. “I'll find out the truth from him, Grandmother. He may not be stupid, but then again, neither am I.”

“Of course you know that he is now seeing Elizabeth?”

“I do read the society page.”

“That is the answer, of course. He's in love with her, and that's the reason he lied for her in court.”

“Then he's a fool,” Catherine said, her voice shrill.

“Hush, my dear. Ah, here are Jennifer and Brad. Come in. We'll have tea now.”

Jennifer felt shy and tongue-tied around the Carleton matriarch, as her father called Mrs. Carleton. Nonetheless, she walked forward and planted a kiss on the old lady's parchment cheek.

“You're looking lovely, Jennifer. My grandson still amuses you?”

“Oh, yes,” Jenny blurted out. She looked at Brad, flushing.

“Hello, brother,” Catherine said.

“Catherine.”

“How's your father, Jenny?” Catherine asked to fill the silence.

Brad's eyes flew to his grandmother's face, but her expression of benign affection never wavered.

“He's fine, just fine. Very busy, of course.”

“Senator Henkle is a very intelligent man,” said Laurette.

If Jenny noticed the oddness of Mrs. Carleton's remark, she didn't show it. Indeed, she was too eager to please this awesome old lady. She slipped her hand into Brad's and sighed with relief when he squeezed her fingers.

“Jenny and I are off to the Nelsons',” Brad said with ill-disguised boredom. “A party, of course.”

“If you'd rather not go, Brad . . .” Jenny said, her voice tentative, and Catherine wanted to snort in disgust. Jennifer Henkle was a damned wimp. Brad was already walking all over her.

“No, we must go, Jenny.”

“Whatever you wish, Brad,” she said, her glowing eyes resting on his face.

Lord, it was nauseating, Catherine thought. Brad and Jenny left soon and she was once again alone with her grandmother.

“The girl will be a fine addition to the family,” Laurette said complacently.

“She's a weak-willed bore.”

Laurette briefly thought of those photographs of Jenny and Brad in bed, then unconsciously shook her head to clear away the images.

“She suits Brad just fine. Now, my dear, back to you. I want you to stop seeing Christian Hunter.”

“Will you continue to have me followed if I do?”

“Yes,” Laurette said, “yes, I will.”

Catherine looked at her for a long moment, then shook her head. “I hope you're not paying your detectives too much, Grandmother. I will keep seeing Christian Hunter.”

“You're a fool, Catherine. What will happen, do you think, when he discovers who you really are? And he will, my dear. Indeed, he will.”

Catherine shrugged. “If he does find out, what does it matter? All he can do is kick me out of his office.”

“Perhaps I should call him myself. Tell him about his patient. I imagine that would put an end to it.”

Catherine's jaw tightened in anger. Before she could say anything, Laurette sighed. “My dear, you're so very stubborn. You get that from me, I suppose.”

Catherine recognized the olive branch and said, “Very well, Grandmother, I'll think about it, I promise.”

 

“Well, Elizabeth, here's your leverage.”

She'd just walked into Adrian's office, and she stopped cold. “So soon, Adrian?”

“It wasn't at all difficult, so I can't take much credit. Harley borrowed ten million dollars not long ago. It's a three-month loan with a thirty-day call-in, but there's every reason to assume that he can get as many extensions as he wants or needs.”

She felt a rush of triumph. “That's excellent!”

“He's using the money to buy up more stock, bringing him near to sixty percent, and of course, for his expansion plans.”

“Get the loan, Adrian.”

“Ah, there's the rub. His banker is a longtime personal friend.”

“I'm learning,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that money tends to neutralize friendship. What would we have to offer to get hold of it?”

“I don't know. Ben Hallimer is the one who knows
everything about banks. I'll have to discuss it with him.”

“You do that, Adrian,” she said, and gave him a dazzling smile.

In fact, it was Christian Hunter who told her how to go about it, that evening when they were sitting in a small bar near Lincoln Center. She'd asked him merely a hypothetical question.

But Christian wasn't fooled. At least she'd begun to really trust him, he thought. That was an excellent sign, given what Rowe Chalmers had done to her.

“. . . So you see, Elizabeth, all you have to do is hook up with the chairman of the board at the Philadelphia bank. You did say Philadelphia, didn't you? It's very probable that he is one of the close-knit business group. Probably on the ACI board, if he's big enough. There's always tremendous crossover, of course. He can have the board agree to sell the loan, at a reasonable profit, of course. It's not done often, usually because it doesn't come up. But the purpose of banks is not to help people, Elizabeth. Their purpose is like anybody else's—to make money.”

Elizabeth was so excited she couldn't sleep. She remembered every cruel thing Jonathan Harley had said to her. Everything. Now he would learn that she was indeed a barracuda.

“I know, Elizabeth,” Christian said into the phone the following morning, “that the question you asked me was purely hypothetical. However, if this Philadelphia bank just happens to be the First People's Bank, the chairman of the board is Rory Cox, a mean old curmudgeon whose son just happened to marry my first cousin. It also just so happens,” he continued smoothly, “that I'm on his board of directors.”

She couldn't believe it. She expelled a deep sigh of triumph. “Christian, thank you. I don't—”

“Would you like me to do any more, Elizabeth?”

She thought furiously, memories of Rowe making
her cold and wary. But Christian was different. If anyone was using anyone else, it was she using him. No, that was ridiculous. If he were like Rowe, he could bring down the whole deal. “I need to think about it, Christian.”