False Pretenses (5 page)

“Who are they? Perhaps I know them.”

“They wish to be anonymous. I, on the other hand, love to hand over their money and take all the credit for their good deed. Are you a patron?”

She smiled. “Yes, I am. For three years now.”

“I am also here in Paris alone, for another two or so weeks. I'm divorced. I haven't any children. I don't rape women, abuse animals, or belch after a good meal. I am entirely harmless. Would you spend the day with me tomorrow? I'd like to roller-skate through the Louvre. A slower pace would take at least three days.”

Elizabeth turned her head slightly to look at him. His profile was toward her, his face in shadow. He was handsome, she supposed objectively. Probably in his mid-thirties. His hair was a light brown, thick, well
cut and styled, his brown eyes intelligent. She'd already looked at his hands, a habit of long standing. Large hands, well-shaped long fingers, the nails clipped short and buffed, just like hers. Why not? she thought. It would be nice just to be with another person, to talk about nonsense, anything but the past.

“All right,” she said finally. He turned his head at that moment and gave her a relieved smile.

“Thank you. I was sure you would say no. I was beginning to think that I had lost my touch.”

She stiffened just a bit, but his smile was warm, with no hint of smugness.

“Or perhaps I had some of Marthe's spinach soufflé between my front teeth.”

“No, your teeth are fine,” she said. “Where does one rent roller skates?”

 

Elizabeth awoke with a smile, with no sense of the heaviness that had become a part of her during the past months. She hummed as she coaxed the faucet to give her some rusty hot water. She dressed in Lagerfeld black wool slacks and matching turtleneck sweater. She fashioned her hair in a chignon and topped it with a black hat, then slipped on the long bright red Lagerfeld cashmere coat and black gloves. She felt jaunty. She felt young and carefree. It was an odd feeling.

Actually, Rowen Chalmers was staying at the Bristol Hotel, and it was there he took her to breakfast. He was wearing gray wool slacks, a white shirt, and a matching gray cashmere sport coat. He looked very fit and very American. He was tall, she realized, taller than she'd thought. He seemed to sense her renewed wariness and made no push to speak of anything in particular over breakfast except the gray and overcast day.

They took a taxi to the Louvre, and Elizabeth felt her uncertainty, her shyness in the presence of a man who was not Timothy, fading as they mapped out their
strategy. She wanted to see
La Gioconda,
he,
Winged Victory.
And the impressionists, of course.

“There are so few women,” Elizabeth said absently as they wandered through the vast rooms.

“Berthe Morisot and Mary Cassatt,” he said when they reached the impressionists. “Actually, I've been trying to buy a Cassatt, but I doubt I'll succeed—unless I have it stolen, of course.”

She blinked at him, certain he was joking, but he looked perfectly serious. “If you stole it, then people like me wouldn't be able to see it,” she said finally.

“People like you, Elizabeth, could also have it stolen.”

Timothy's money, she thought. So much of it. She simply shook her head.

“I'd like to visit Napoleon's tomb,” she said. And they did. It seemed natural to have dinner that evening, and Rowe, as if sensing her dislike of any place where she might be recognized, suggested a small restaurant near Montmartre.

Elizabeth loved oysters and did justice to a full dozen. “I grew up in the Midwest,” she said, licking her fingers. “Oysters were considered somehow sinful. Claude introduced me to them when I came here to study with him. Now when I see an oyster, greed clouds my eyes.”

Rowe looked up from his veal. “I grew up in Boston,” he said, “and every time I see a pot of Texas chili, both greed and tears cloud my eyes.”

“Do you still live in Boston?”

“About half the time. My parents are there, of course, doing their best to keep the developers out of Back Bay. I live in New York the other half of the time. I have an apartment there.”

“I see,” said Elizabeth. She spoke brightly of the Tuileries.

He left her at her hotel after setting an outing for the next day. His kiss was cool and undemanding. She liked him. He made her forget.

They went on a dinner cruise the following evening
on the Seine. The night was clear, the temperature in the upper forties, the stars brilliant.

There weren't many tourists, not in early February, but of those there, she recognized several honeymooners. While they stood at the railing, Rowen took her gloved hand.

“I know about your father, of course. I regret never having heard him play.”

“He was of the old school,” Elizabeth said, carefully keeping her voice neutral. “And immensely talented. He was quite taken aback when I wasn't the boy he expected. But he accustomed himself to my sex by the time I was three years old. And my life's work was decided.”

“When did he die?”

“He and my mother were both killed seven years ago, in a car accident caused by a drunk driver.”

“You have no brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head, a slight smile touching her lips.

They talked about her years at Juilliard, her years of study with Claude, but Rowen always stopping short of her marriage to Timothy.

He, she learned, was also an only child, and came from old Boston money. “I run the family business—banking, as a matter of fact—and according to my mother, it keeps me out of trouble. A gorgon, my mother. A look from her would send the oysters scurrying off their half-shells.”

They shared a bottle of Aloxe-Corton at a café next door to Elizabeth's hotel. “You're very nice,” she said after a comfortable pause.

He arched an eyebrow. “I wish you wouldn't sound so surprised,” he said, and toasted her.

“And undemanding,” she added, studying the checked tablecloth.

He laughed at that. “Oh, I would very much like to take you to bed, Elizabeth, but some things are more important.”

She cocked her head at him, saying nothing. She
was shocked at his easy mention of sex, but she didn't want him to know it. She was, after all, twenty-eight years old. She had been married . . . and there had been the other experience as well. She shivered a bit, firmly repressing the memory.

“Like trust,” he continued, his voice more serious. “Shared interests, friendship.”

“An odd thing for a man to say, isn't it?”

“No. At least I don't think so. What will you do, Elizabeth, when you return home?”

“I'm not yet completely certain. My . . . lawyer doesn't believe I should go back on the concert circuit yet.” She stopped, her eyes glazing a bit.

“He's probably right. But the public is fickle. Perhaps in a year or so. You owe it to that same fickle public. Your talent is something to be shared, not hidden away.”

“Thank you for saying that,” she said.

“Not at all. Perhaps you're considering staying here? To study?”

“No. There is Timothy's empire to consider now.”

“Surely that's his family's concern. What has it to do with you?” He saw her face tighten, her eyes grow dim, and said quickly, “I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry or upset you.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and he accepted her silence on the subject with a slight nod.

They drove along the Loire the next day, then stopped to visit Fontainebleau. That evening he took her to the Moulin Rouge.

That night she returned with him to the Bristol for a brandy. She knew what she was doing. When they reached his suite, he turned from the closed door to face her. “You don't have to sleep with me, Elizabeth.”

She felt ridiculously shy, her confidence as a desirable woman very close to zero.

“I think you're a very beautiful woman. I want to make love with you, but I won't pressure you.”

“I know,” she said, her voice faint and faraway.

He came no closer, watched her fiddle with the bracelet on her left wrist. It wasn't an expensive bracelet, he saw, rather an antique she probably had bought at a flea market before she met Timothy. She said suddenly, “I haven't slept with anyone since Timothy . . . since long before he died.”

He pictured her in bed with that old man and flinched. He said calmly, “Musicians are odd ducks, aren't they? Alone with their pianos or violins or whatever. No real time for relationships. Perhaps it's time you joined the common herd, Elizabeth. It's got things going for it, I think.”

Why not? she thought. She was in Paris. Rowe was a kind man, a man whose company she enjoyed immensely. He made her laugh, made her forget. He seemed to understand. And she had lived in a sheltered, regimented environment most of her life. The three years with Timothy had made her even more isolated. Yes, she thought, she was a grown woman and she had a right to do whatever she wished. And she was free. She wondered what it would be like to feel again. She realized at that moment that he was also well built and really quite sexy. She saw the arousal in his eyes.

“Perhaps you're right,” she said, and tried to smile confidently at him. It was a pitiful effort, but he ignored it, saying, “Are you wearing one of those sexy teddy things?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I am. It's . . . well, it's kind of lavender.”

“With lace?”

“Yes, with lace.”

“I should very much like to see it,” he said, and walked toward her.

 

“P
ractice makes perfect,” he said, amusement in his deep voice. He nibbled her earlobe. “You've heard that all your life, haven't you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “I have, but not in this particular context.” She forced her eyes open, wondering if all men wanted to talk after sex. Timothy had always wanted to, had always seemed pleased when he felt he'd performed up to par. She had never been quite sure what par was for him. She was so sleepy. Her body felt drained, and muscles she hadn't been aware she had were aching. It was then that she realized he was surprised at her words, his pupils larger in the dim light, showing that surprise. She heard herself say in a false, indifferent voice, “It seems you believed the district attorney's oft-repeated tale that I was sleeping with every man in New York.”

He smiled, relieved at her show of humor. “Well, I suppose, looking at you, knowing you, I can't imagine men keeping their hands off you.” He stroked his hand down her side, bringing it to rest on her hip.

“You suppose too, Rowe, that I can't keep my hands off men? What a stupid thing to say. I just had sex with
you, didn't I?” She suddenly wanted to cry. It wasn't just sex. It was . . . She closed her eyes again. It was being close, so very close to another person, and caring.

“I've hurt you with my big mouth, haven't I?”

She said nothing.

“Elizabeth, forgive me. You're very special. I suppose I simply thought that a woman of your age would know a bit more than the basics.”

“I told you I hadn't slept with anyone since Timothy.” She hadn't
slept
with anyone before Timothy either. She clamped down on that other memory. She had to forget it. Sooner or later she would.

She felt him shrug. “Yes, you did, and I'm a damned fool.” He moved away from her, onto his back, his arms cradling his head. “You've rather thrown me, Elizabeth,” he said after a moment, staring up at the ceiling. “I've never met a woman like you. I suppose I wanted you to fit into some sort of pattern that I can easily understand. But you don't. Fit into any pattern, I mean. It's rather alarming for a man of my age to get it between the eyes.”

She smiled at that, feeling the tension ease. “You're forgiven,” she said, and snuggled next to him.

“I don't suppose you're up for more practice?”

“All right,” she said, and she was surprised at the shudder that went through his body at her words. And pleased.

 

They drank Tattinger and nibbled on Brie. And they practiced. Rowe seemed to be insatiable and Elizabeth was willing enough. She savored the closeness, the feeling that he cared about her, cared about what she thought and what she felt. She told him late one night in their small hotel room in Rheims, “You have a beautiful body. I really never realized . . .”

He said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Timothy was sixty-four. I don't imagine that any of us look
particularly marvelous at that age. He was a lucky man, Elizabeth. I hope he realized it.”

“Perhaps at first he was pleased with me. Rod Samuels, my lawyer, told me that he was having an affair with a younger woman, an artist, a few months before his death.”

He stiffened, his arms tightening about her ribs until she squeaked.

She made light of it. It was, after all, rather pathetic. Poor Timothy, who didn't want to be mortal, who didn't want to believe he was sixty-four. “She was twenty-five, not my advanced twenty-eight. New and exciting, I suppose. And I would imagine that she was very talented. Timothy was drawn to talent, evidently not just of the musical variety.”

Rowe said after a moment, “I would have thought that the D.A. would have had saliva dripping down his chin at such a find.”

“Mr. Moretti didn't know about her,” Elizabeth said.

“Thank God for good lawyers.”

“Well, it's over. I probably shouldn't have even mentioned it. Poor Timothy.”

“No, poor Elizabeth. But now you're free.” And he began kissing her.

Elizabeth didn't realize how happy she was until it was time for them to fly back to New York. They were eating dinner in Rowe's suite at the Bristol. She didn't like the caviar, but didn't say so.
It's beluga, Elizabeth! Eat up, and forget you're from wherever you grew up.

“You're very quiet, darling,” he said, reaching over to clasp her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “I don't want to go back.”

“I hope I'm a big part of that.”

“You are, Rowe.”

“This isn't just a fling, Elizabeth, not for me in any case.”

“But when we get back, you'll be very busy. Your business responsibilities, the banks in Boston—”

“I spend equal amounts of time in Boston and New York. I have good people working for me. When I'm in New York, I don't have to worry that my vice-presidents are stealing from the coffers.”

“Or when you're in Paris?”

“Exactly. My father was a workaholic. I try hard not to be.” He took another bite of caviar and Elizabeth could see the black fish roe on his tongue. She liked his tongue. “I'll be flying to New York with you. I have a condominium on Park near Sixty-seventh, as I told you. I think you'll like it.”

“Yes,” she said, “I probably will.”

“There are good things waiting for you—your music, preparing for concerts again.”

She felt him studying her closely, and was warmed by his concern. “No, not yet. My lawyer is right. I'd risk dreadful publicity if I went back now. I'll wait.”

“And practice for a year? Perhaps with Claude?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, I've made a commitment. I'm going to do my best to take over Timothy's many business interests.”

“You can't mean it.”

She cocked her head at him, a faint smile on her lips. “I'm afraid I do. Not that I want to, Rowe. I told Rod I was a musician, that I know nothing about business.”

“Then why? Why not give the family their due? Not to mention Timothy's sons.”

“I almost did,” she said quietly.

“What happened?”

She felt herself tensing at the memory of that dreadful meeting in Timothy's boardroom. “Do you know Laurette Carleton?”

“I've never met the matriarch, but I've certainly heard of her. She must be old as the hills by now.”

“Perhaps, but she's as sharp as she ever was, which
is occasionally terrifying. Truly, I'd intended to renounce all of it . . . until Catherine.”

“What did she do?”

He saw that she didn't want to go into it, and quickly added, “Some more champagne, Elizabeth? Forget all of it, if you wish.”

“No,” she said, giving him a quick smile. “You're very kind, Rowe. Do you know Catherine?”

“I met her once, yes. She's the prototype spoiled little rich bitch.”

Elizabeth considered that, and nodded. “Probably true, but she does have great reason to hate me, which she does, quite verbally, at least at that last meeting. She made me so angry that I would have taken over the space program had that been an option.”

“That bad, huh?”

“It was dreadful,” she said quietly.

“So cut Catherine out and leave all the business to Trent and Brad.”

“It sounds like you know the Carletons as well as I do.”

“The Carletons and the Chalmerses go back a long way. Old money, I guess you'd say. Newport in the summers, at least in the bygone days. Now it's the Aegean and St. Moritz. Brad and I went to Harvard together, as a matter of fact. I had a couple of years on him, but since he was a Carleton . . .” He shrugged.

Elizabeth played with a bread stick. She said finally, “I don't really understand, Rowe. You've been very nice to me, when someone from your background would usually consider me an upstart, a greedy nonentity.”

“I should have added that I consider most of the Carletons utter bastards.”

She heard the ring of truth in his voice and relaxed.

“I don't care if you screw them royally.”

“There's nothing royal about any of it.”

“I'll help you, Elizabeth, if you're set on this course.”

It was an immense offer, one that Rowe had to know would consume a great deal of his time, if he were serious.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'll think about it. If I'm not to run the businesses into the ground, I'll need all the help I can get.”

“And people you can trust.”

“Yes,” she said. She grinned. “Do you know that I have no idea what the modern businesswoman wears to work?”

“Christian Dior suits, undoubtedly. Or de la Renta.”

“You're sounding like Timothy. I was trying on a non-designer dress once and I thought he would have a fit on the spot.”

“You haven't learned to be a snob yet, Elizabeth. Your jewelry, for example, isn't from Cartier or Tiffany's.”

She stared down a moment at her bare third finger. The huge diamond ring was in the Carleton vault.

“Let's go to bed, Elizabeth.”

She lay in bed, a sheet pulled over her, watching Rowe pull on a condom. He'd taken responsibility without even asking her. She appreciated it, for she'd wondered, in those few moments after he'd asked her to sleep with him what she was going to do.

“I've been off the pill for about a year now,” she said.

“Stay off it if you want to,” he said, and walked to the bed.

“My dentist wears gloves now, and she tells her women patients she's getting them used to the feel of condoms in their mouth.”

“What's this lady's address?”

 

Elizabeth faced Rod Samuels across his special table at the Quilted Giraffe. A quiet table, but one where one could be seen. He'd just waved the waiter away, his eyes wandering about the restaurant, noting who of importance was there.

He brought his attention back to her, his voice gentle as he said, “You look marvelous, my dear. And a true CEO in that outfit.”

“It's a Karan, Rod, expensive enough for Timothy to approve of, and actually quite comfortable.” She fingered the white sleeve. “This, I was told, is cavalry twill.”

“Here's to the army.” He raised his glass of Perrier in salute.

“Now, what's going on here?”

“Very well, Elizabeth. After lunch, you and I will meet the management team that I've assembled. Brad knows nothing about it yet. I want everything in motion before he discovers he no longer holds the reins. That way . . .” He shrugged.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I understand what you mean.”

He raised his glass of Perrier again. “To the new CEO of ACI.”

Elizabeth grinned. “I'll never get used to all these crazy acronyms.”

“Get used to CEO, my dear, because that's what you are now.” He clicked his glass to hers. “Another thing, Elizabeth, even though Laurette and Michael are on the board of directors, you've nothing to worry about. All the others are in your pocket, so to speak. You'll get no guff.”

She fiddled a moment with the tiny shrimp on her plate. “Have the Carletons calmed down yet?”

“It seems so to me, but as you know, none of us are on the best of terms now. I do hope, though, that I get to see the look on Brad Carleton's face when he's confronted with the battalion of dynamos I've assembled. Their salaries, benefits, and profit sharings are immense, Elizabeth, but it will be worth it, not just to you, but to all the areas of responsibility under their aegis. Now, my dear, we have a few more
minutes before you assume your new role. Tell me about Paris.”

Elizabeth found that she didn't want to say anything about Rowe Chalmers, not yet. It was all too new, too fragile. She would see Rowe this evening. She settled by saying she found Claude the same as ever and Paris as interesting as it was before.

“Fascinating, actually,” she admitted finally, and Rod wondered at the small smile that reached her eyes, making them luminous. A man, he thought. She met a man and had a holiday fling. He wanted to tell her: Bully for you, Elizabeth. But he said nothing. Instead, after he handed the waiter his credit card, he asked in a lowered voice, “Anything from our Christian Hunter yet?”

“I was out of the country. There were no messages from him, if that's what you mean.”

“You will tell me, Elizabeth, if he contacts you?”

“Probably.”

“Are you ready?”

She nodded and rose. As she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she saw Catherine Carleton at a far table, across from a man she'd never seen. They stared at each other, and to her shock, Catherine smiled and gave her a small wave.

Elizabeth felt a frisson of fear. Don't be a fool, she told herself. She can't hurt you, not now, not ever again.

Still, Rod wondered why she walked so stiffly from the restaurant.

 

“That's the dragon lady?” Chad Walters asked, following Elizabeth Carleton with his eyes as she walked gracefully between the tables.