False Pretenses (22 page)

“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.

 

B
rad 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.

“Catherine,” she said, slowly rising from her chair.

“Thank you for seeing me, Elizabeth.”

Good God, what was going on? Catherine sounded absolutely benign.

“What do you want?”

“I'm beginning to think you didn't kill my father.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Well, that's something. Intelligence and objectivity in a Carleton.”

“I suppose I deserve that. But I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

“Well?”

“The photos of Brad and that other man.”

Elizabeth became very still. Finally she said, “ However did you find out about that mess?”

“By accident. I also saw the photos of Brad and
Jennifer Henkle. Brad told me it was all blackmail and you were the one who started it off.”

“True. I was an arrogant fool and I was awfully wrong.”

“But then you backed off. Why?”

Elizabeth sighed. “It's not too difficult to come to a sane conclusion, Catherine. Your grandmother told me quite clearly, not in person, of course, that if I didn't back off, she'd have the photos of your brother and Jennifer Henkle all over the media. You must know that I have nothing at all against the Henkle girl. However, the thought of her still marrying Brad turns my stomach.”

“It turns Brad's too,” said Catherine.

“But he'll go through with it, won't he, Catherine?”

“Yes. It's funny, you know, but I always thought Brad was the strong one among the three of us. But he's not. He's scared. He'll do as he's told.”

“And what about you, Catherine? Why are you really here?”

Elizabeth realized suddenly that the two of them were standing in the middle of her office, squared off like opponents in the boxing ring.

She waved her hand toward a sofa. “Oh, sit down, Catherine. Do.”

“I want to know if you can stop it, Elizabeth.”

“I? Look, Catherine, I've done my bit. It backfired, like a lot of other things I've done. Some because your family got the better of me, and most because I'm so ignorant.”

“You sent those photos of Brad to Senator Henkle as revenge?”

“No, as leverage against your brother. He hasn't endeared himself to me, Catherine. None of you have, but Brad was a major thorn in my side—and still is, occasionally.”

“Who killed my father, Elizabeth?”

“If I knew that, don't you think I'd do something
about it? God, you're a fool, Catherine. Listen, I truly am sorry about all this, particularly about poor Jennifer Henkle, but your grandmother will have her way. You know it. I know it. Now, if there's nothing else . . .”

Catherine sighed. “No, I guess not. It was stupid of me to come here. I know there's nothing you can do, and why should you?”

“Life could be simpler, that's for sure,” Elizabeth said. “Instead, things seem to multiply, blurring issues, turning enemies into noncombatants if not allies.” Elizabeth dashed her fingers through her hair, loosening the chignon. “Oh, Catherine, I'll try to think of something, but I can almost guarantee you that anything I came up with wouldn't work. Why don't you confront your grandmother?”

“I wanted to but I'm afraid.”

“I don't blame you, but think about it.”

“I suppose you know I was seeing Christian Hunter.”

“Yes.”

“And Rowe Chalmers.”

“Yes.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“Most of the time, I don't either.”

Millicent Stacy appeared in the doorway. “There's an urgent call for you, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you for talking to me, Elizabeth. I know I've acted a bitch toward you—”

“Yes, but not anymore, I trust. You've surprised me more than I can say. I will try to think of something. Good-bye, Catherine, and good luck.”

Elizabeth waited until Catherine had left her office. She stared thoughtfully after her, then shook her head, bemused. Nothing ever stayed the same, and if it did, it was usually the bad things, the awful things. Catherine coming around? Catherine being nice? It was almost too much to take in. She'd forced herself not to
think about Jennifer Henkle. Now the senator's daughter was back with a vengeance. What could she do? She was a fool to have promised Catherine that she'd try to come up with a solution.

She walked back to her desk and picked up the phone. “Yes? Elizabeth Carleton.”

“Hi, Liz. Jonathan Harley.”

Liz?
“Yes?” Her voice was as forbidding as she could make it.

“I think it's time, dear lady, that you and I got together again.”

“I don't.”

“Let me put it this way: you've got to see me. If you refuse, you'll be very upset with yourself.”

“Then tell me, now.”

“Nope. In person. I'll see you at your Mexican restaurant this evening. Seven okay by you?”

Elizabeth frowned at the phone. What did the damned man want now?

“Oh, very well. But, Mr. Harley, this had better be good.”

There was a slight pause; then, “You can count on it, Liz. I promise you that.”

“Don't call me Liz.”

“At least I'm calling you. That should count for something.”

“Don't push your luck, Mr. Harley. This evening at seven.”

“You got it, kiddo.”

There was a click in her ear. What was he up to? What she'd said to Catherine was right: every time she tried to simplify things, those things just got messier.

 

Jonathan Harley was waiting for her. He wasn't wearing a suit this time. He was casually dressed in brown cords and a light brown turtleneck sweater, with a tweed sport coat. He looked like a businessman on vacation, a handsome jock businessman.

He smiled up at her when she reached the table, but didn't rise. “Hello there,” he said, and waved an expansive hand to the chair opposite him.

The waiter pulled her chair back for her.

“Don't you ever get tired of this place? Haven't you found another safe house?”

She shook her head.

“You can't keep hiding forever, Elizabeth.”

“What do you want?”

“You want to try for a higher-level drunk tonight?”

“I was rather hoping that your plane wouldn't make it. Dining alone has its benefits, you know.”

“Come now, Elizabeth, I didn't take you to bed. I left your virtue intact. Nary a whimper out of me.” She looked tired, he thought, and preoccupied. Worried. Well, he was going to set the seal on her evening. He hoped he would feel better about it. Still, he probably would be dancing on the table, grinning in her face by the time he was through.

“Cut the garbage, Mr. Harley.” She turned to the hovering waiter and ordered a Perrier.

Jonathan nodded in agreement.

“You're not trying for much of a drunk with the Perrier, Mr. Harley.”

“It's still a celebration drink, Elizabeth.”

“You've discovered I have a terminal illness?”

“No, your insides as well as your outsides are well-nigh perfect. In perfect condition, that is.”

She said nothing.

“I've thought about you quite a bit. In fact, I thought about you when I was making love to other women. It was very disconcerting.”

She just gave him a weary look, refusing to rise to the bait.

“You're a barrel of laughs this evening, aren't you?”

“No, I'm tired and hassled and I'm a complete bore. Now, what is it you want?”

He started to tell her, to see the shock on her face, but he decided to hold off. “What's happened,” he asked abruptly, “since the last time I saw you?”