False Pretenses (18 page)

“All right,” he said easily. “Just let me know. In the meantime, I'll see what else I can find out about the bank.”

“Thank you, Christian. I really appreciate it—you're a very dear friend.”

Friend.
He winced a bit at that bland word, not at all how he wanted her to think about him. Time, he thought again; it would simply take time. He was a patient man, he always had been, but it was becoming more and more difficult.

 

On Tuesday morning Jonathan Harley faced his friend in his sterile office at the First People's Bank.

“What's cooking, Del? Why all the urgency?”

Delbert wouldn't meet his eyes. “It's about your loan, Jonathan.”

“What about it? I've another month or so to go on it before we renegotiate. Probably I'll want another six months.”

Delbert Frazier felt like shit. He didn't know whose feathers Jonathan had ruffled, but they were undoubtedly very powerful feathers, and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't think of a way to soften the blow, so he said, “The bank sold your loan.”

Jonathan grew very still. “You don't mean it,” he said, staring vaguely at the marble paperweight on Del's desk.

“I'm afraid I do mean it. The terms are the same, of course, but as for any renegotiations . . .” He shrugged. He could have easily added, “But I wouldn't count on it, good buddy.”

“Who?” Jonathan asked, but he knew. God, he knew. It had been less than a week. Big-league, hell.
He suddenly pictured the coffee stain on his carpet. He wanted to kill Elizabeth Carleton.

“It's kind of weird, really,” Del said, frowning slightly. “There was lots of pressure, but in the end, an Elizabeth Carleton personally bought the loan. Look, Jonathan, I would have warned you, but I didn't know, not until this morning, when old man Cox called me himself.”

“I know,” said Jonathan. He forced a smile at his old friend. “I know.”

“If there's anything I can do, Jonathan . . .”

His mind felt like a vast wasteland with nothing at all in it.

“There are other banks, you know. It's possible that you could fix up another loan and pay this one off to this Carleton woman when it comes due.”

“Yes, it's possible.” But she could find out who and buy that one too. He had to think of something.

“What are you going to do?”

Jonathan rose from the soft, cracked leather chair. “I'm going to New York,” he said.

Jonathan left the bank, returned home, and changed into his running clothes. He ran until he was too exhausted to move. He made it to his office at one in the afternoon.

“You want me to
what?
”

Midge's horrified voice made him smile. He repeated, “Call Elizabeth Carleton. Make me an appointment with her as soon as possible.”

Millicent Stacy poked her head into Elizabeth's office. “A quick question, Elizabeth. Would you like to see a Jonathan Harley of Philadelphia tomorrow?”

Elizabeth didn't realize how much she'd been waiting for him to get in touch with her. Well, he'd only just found out. He wasn't a man to mull about for hours and hours. “No, Mrs. Stacy. Not tomorrow. I will see him on Friday, here at . . . let's say ten o'clock.”

Let the cruel jerk sweat, she thought, and broke her pencil neatly into two pieces. She'd force him to mull.

“Not until Friday, boss,” Midge said.

Jonathan didn't say a word for many moments. Finally, “I suppose I'd do the same thing to her. It's all right, Midge. Please make reservations for me.”

 

“So,” Elizabeth said to Christian, curling her legs beneath her on the sofa and turning to face him, “tell me about any new patients you have. Anything horrifying? Anything truly marvelous?”

“Not really. I've got a new patient—a young woman who was hooked on drugs—but she's not all that interesting. She's a liar, but that aspect just keeps me on my toes. It also made me make another appointment with her.”

“Why does she lie to you? That seems like a waste of money to me. Why lie to your shrink?”

“You've got me. She'll come clean soon, though, I think. Most patients do. Now, my dear, do tell me what happened with that Philadelphia bank business of yours.”

Elizabeth was silent for a moment, and Christian saw her expression change subtly, her eyes narrow a bit, her lips thin. He didn't like it, but didn't know what he could do about it.

“Everything is going just as I want it to,” she said finally, and smiled.

“Then, I wonder, will you be ready for a well-deserved vacation?”

“Ah, a good question. Actually, I'm having so much . . . well, not fun precisely, but I'm learning so much, and the power, Christian, the power of it all.” She unconsciously touched her hand to his arm in her excitement. “I promoted another woman, a real find, in a shoe company of all places. In the Midwest, Cleveland to be exact. She's loaded with talent and
drive. If she does well there, I'm thinking of bringing her to New York.”

“What do all your gentlemen think about your own private women's movement?”

“They just sigh now, no more arguments, no more fighting. But local management . . . well, the good ole boys hate it, as you can imagine.”

“And you love to rub their noses in it.”

She looked up at him, her expression sharp. “You're being a shrink, Christian.”

“Sorry, my dear.” His eyes fell a moment to her breasts, cleanly outlined against the softness of her dress. He wanted her so much it hurt.

“Rowe Chalmers is getting married in less than two weeks,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, I read about it,” he said easily, but he was watching her closely. “It promises to be quite a shindig.”

Elizabeth was wondering what the Carletons thought about it. She wondered if Laurette or Michael still had anything on Rowe. It would be their style to blow the whistle at the last moment. He deserved anything he got, she thought. She'd been tempted to send his very rich fiancée a letter, but didn't, of course.

 

J
onathan was exhausted, both physically and mentally. He'd been working out like a crazy man, then thinking just as hard. He stared out of the taxi window as the cabbie weaved in and out of haphazard traffic down Park Avenue. It was a damp, drizzily day, cold as hell, and it reflected his mood, unfortunately.

He had to do it just right. There was no more room for error. He admitted to himself, finally, that he'd made a gross mistake treating Elizabeth Carleton as he had. He'd hit her weaknesses sure enough, but in the process, he'd earned her revenge. Now he had to find just the right approach, the middle ground. Somehow.

He paid the cabdriver and got out. He found himself staring up at the impressive Abercrombie-Carleton Building and counting all those columns. He made his way through the lobby to the executive elevator, which went straight to the top floor.

The elevator doors opened directly onto an immense reception hall decorated with a melange of antiques and furnishings so modern that it should have looked bizarre. But it didn't. It looked rich, so rich
that for a moment he felt tremendous doubt. He felt like the goldfish who just got dropped into the ocean.

A smiling young woman took his name, checked it against a list, then directed him down a plush corridor. He came finally into a large office at the end of the hall. An older woman, whose wooden name plate read “Millicent Stacy,” rose to greet him.

“Mr. Harley?”

Her voice was smooth and kind. So, he thought, Elizabeth Carleton hadn't told her about him, the male asshole from Philadelphia. He wondered a moment if he was being redundant.

“Yes. I'm here to see Mrs. Carleton.”

Millicent knew who he was, of course. She recognized the dazed look in his eyes—she'd seen it many times before when a man from one of the ACI companies paid his first visit here. Intimidation, pure and simple. The seat of power. The seat of unbelievable power.

“Please sit down a moment, Mr. Harley. I'll tell Mrs. Carleton you're here.”

He sat down on what he thought was an antique French chair, praying that it would hold his weight. It did. He didn't know there were steel braces ensuring that no one could wreck the valuable chair. He picked up an annual report of ACI from beside him. No, he thought after thumbing through a few very glossy, well-designed pages, I won't look at it.

I've got to do it right this time.

Millicent reappeared after a moment. She gave him her motherly smile. “Won't you please go in, Mr. Harley? I'll bring you coffee and Danish. Will that be all right?”

He nodded, his mind racing ahead. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into Elizabeth Carleton's office. It took him but a moment to realize that three of his offices could fit into this one. It was like an immaculate throne room. God, the sheer
cost. His shoes made no sound as he strode across the carpeting so thick he was an inch shorter.

“Mr. Harley.”

He met Elizabeth Carleton's eyes, and nodded. She looked more severe, more formal even than she had in Philadelphia, in an unrelieved blue wool suit. Her blond hair was drawn back from her fine-boned face into a tight chignon. Especially for him? She wanted to erase any thought he might have that she was a woman? He wanted to tell her that despite her man-tailored suit, she looked very much a woman, but too thin.

“Hello, Mrs. Carleton,” he said. She motioned him to an oversize leather chair and seated herself at the table opposite him.

“Was your flight pleasant, Mr. Harley?”

No golf or football talk, he thought, and smiled just a bit. “Quite pleasant, Mrs. Carleton.”

“Unfortunately, our winter weather is in perfect form today.”

“It's the same in Philadelphia.”

“Ah, here's our coffee.”

“Black, please,” Jonathan said to Millicent Stacy. He shook his head at the offer of a Danish.

Millicent gave him a very understanding look, and he wished he'd taken three Danishes.

He sipped the rich black coffee. It was delicious. Did ACI also own a Jamaican coffee plantation?

“You're here because I now own your loan, isn't that right, Mr. Harley?”

Fine, he thought, let her gloat, let her think she was winning, that she had won.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“I believe you have seven weeks left, Mr. Harley. Then, of course, I will expect repayment. No extensions.”

“I didn't expect that there would be.”

“Then why did you come?”

He didn't answer immediately, but just continued sipping on his coffee. Elizabeth found, oddly, that she wasn't enjoying herself as much as she'd thought she would. Jonathan Harley looked exhausted. She saw a few gray hairs at his temples that she hadn't noticed at their first meeting. He was dressed beautifully, though, in a three-piece charcoal-gray suit, Savile Row, undoubtedly. His silk tie had a conservative print, setting it off nicely against a shirt of pristine white. She waited patiently for him to begin pleading with her, begging. Surely she would enjoy that.

“I came to tell you that I will sell you my company at the time my loan comes due, if, of course, I'm unable to repay the loan.”

“Ah.” He'd succumbed, completely. No wallowing in front of her.

“I agree that it's a wise course for you to take, Mr. Harley. However, I should like the sale to go through immediately.”

“I don't think so, Mrs. Carleton,” he said easily. “I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet. I assume you can understand that?”

“Yes, I can. However, it is quite clear, from looking over your financial obligations, that you won't have the money when I call in the loan. Your expansion plans are draining you. Your market hasn't expanded to the degree that you wish—”

“It will.”

“—and you're on the verge of having some union problems.”

“True. You're remarkably well-informed, ma'am.” He looked around him. If he could sell the furnishings in her damned office, he would probably be well on his way to clearing away his financial problems.

“Of course.” She wanted to keep her control, keep herself utterly calm and professional . . . well, perhaps rub it in just a little bit. He'd been way out of line, cruel, incredibly mean.

“So,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, “where do we stand now?”

“I don't think you're standing at all, Mr. Harley,” she said, allowing just a bit of malice to creep into her voice.

He felt his collar tighten, really felt it choking him. He supposed, objectively, that he deserved it. He watched her pick up a gold pen and gracefully fiddle with it. He watched her mouth as she continued, “ Actually, Mr. Harley, I'm tempted to come down quite a bit on the offer I originally made you. Made you in good faith, if you will recall.”

“I wasn't terribly polite to you. It was wrong of me.”

How odd that it didn't sound at all like an apology. His words sounded rehearsed.

“No, it wasn't right of you. May I ask the reason for your behavior, Mr. Harley? Why you attacked me personally, with such contempt?”

“I don't want to sell my company, not to anybody. It's mine, always has been. I would have been equally rude to God himself.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you do.”

“I didn't kill my husband, Mr. Harley.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, Elizabeth started, aghast at herself. She hadn't meant to say anything of the kind to this man. She felt as though she'd just received a tremendous physical blow, only this time she'd inflicted it herself.

“The jury agreed with you,” he said, shrugging. But he was looking at her closely, realizing that her words had slipped out, and wondering why. Again, briefly, she was a human being, real, too real, and he felt uncomfortable. He had to put her back in her ocean and let her assume her barracuda guise once more.

Well, Elizabeth thought, she'd begun it, she should
finish it. “No, actually the jury believed Dr. Christian Hunter. And he's not my lover.”

Again, she'd startled him. Why was she saying these things? He had no idea how to respond, except to apologize, which he did reluctantly. “Perhaps he's not. I shouldn't have attacked you in that way.” He forced a smile. “Actually, ma'am, I'm usually not the jerk chauvinist I appeared. As I said, I would have in all likelihood been cruel to God himself.”

Stop it, Elizabeth. For God's sake, finish him off. She knew a real apology when she heard it, but she ignored it. Her voice was controlled, utterly calm again. “Now, Mr. Harley, back to business. You're refusing to sell to me immediately?”

“Yes, I am.”

“My offer will go down each week that you delay.”

He shrugged. “That's your decision, ma'am.”

“There's another thing, Mr. Harley, that you must understand completely. I now have a bit of knowledge of companies that don't wish to be bought. They try to find a white knight, I believe it's called. Another buyer—”

“I understand the terminology, Mrs. Carleton.”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, what I will offer you is this: if you sign a legal agreement that if you cannot repay the loan you will sell your company to me—and no one else—in return, I will leave the original offer intact.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I assure you, Mr. Harley, that I will know every move you make. If you try to find some other company with which you can merge, for example, I'll find out about it and I'll destroy you.”

“That's very plain talking,” he said, his voice still calm, controlled. He could break her so easily, at least physically. That thought shook him a bit. Physical dominance was abhorrent to him, yet this damned woman made him want to choke her with his bare
hands. He looked at the high-neck cream blouse she was wearing and wanted to laugh at himself. He wondered briefly why she wasn't wearing any jewelry. Surely she owned enough to buy stock in Fort Knox.

“I mean it, Mr. Harley.”

“Mrs. Carleton,” he said quietly, his eyes fastened on her face, “I can assure you that I won't sell my company to anyone.”

“Else. Anyone else, Mr. Harley.”

“As you wish.” Again he shrugged.

“You will have no choice.”

He merely smiled at her. Elizabeth wanted to strike him. She realized her hands were fists, that he saw they were fists, and quickly splayed her fingers. “Then you refuse to sign the agreement?”

“Why don't you give me a copy of the agreement and I'll look it over.”

Elizabeth said very softly, “You won't be able to repay the loan, Mr. Harley. Come now, you must be reasonable about it.”

Jonathan rose smoothly, gracefully. He stared down at her for a long time. “Would you like to have lunch? You could celebrate your victory. It's just a bit premature, but I won't mind.”

She stared back at him, her eyes wide, completely nonplussed.

“You'll have to recommend the restaurant, though. I don't know any in this area.”

“You're certifiable if you think you can change my mind.”

“No, I don't think you'd change your mind if your life depended on it.”

“Then why?”

“I'll be hungry in another hour or so. I don't want to fly back home just yet. Besides, my flight isn't until three o'clock. Just think, Mrs. Carleton, I'm giving you some free time, some of my free time, and you can gloat to your heart's content.”

“I think you're crazy,” Elizabeth said. Nonetheless, she rose and walked to the phone. “Millicent, please make reservations for two in my name at the Cantina.”

“Mexican food?”

“I love it. Perhaps I can get you to change your mind about signing the agreement if I pump you with their Cadillac margaritas.”

“What the devil is that?”

“A margarita with a shot of Grand Marnier. It's a killer.”

Elizabeth shook her head at herself. They were talking like friends, she thought blankly. She immediately straightened, resuming her aloofness. “My assistant, Mrs. Stacy, will give you the directions to the restaurant, Mr. Harley. I will meet you there at—”

“I think I'd like to see your headquarters if it's all right with you, Mrs. Carleton.”

Again she felt nonplussed. She frowned at him. “Very well. Why don't you return to my office at noon. Meanwhile, I'll have one of my people come up to show you around.”

“Thank you.”

So far, so good, Jonathan thought. He shook the woman's hand, and took himself off. He had a difficult time restraining his smile when he came face-to-face with Millicent Stacy, whose face was a study in confusion. So he had truly caught the Carleton woman off guard. Score one small point for him.

As he dutifully followed a young man about the various ACI departments, he paid attention to not a word, his thoughts on his upcoming lunch. Should he treat her like a woman? Compliment her?