FALSE PRETENSES

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes, certainly. I’ve watched over you, Elizabeth. There’s that other man, the one I saw bringing you home that night. Who is he?”

  “No one of any importance at all.”

  “Elizabeth, I’m trained to know when someone is lying. Who is he?”

  She suddenly felt afraid. Something in his eyes alarmed her. Jealousy, she thought, it had to be jealousy.

  She tried to smile. “Just an acquaintance, Christian. Someone I’ve locked horns with in business, that’s all. Now, please, be my friend. Can’t we—”

  He grasped her upper arms and pulled her upright. Two cavemen in one day was her last thought before he bent his head and kissed her, hard.

  21

  He forced his tongue into her mouth; his hands tightened about her face to hold her still. Elizabeth began to struggle. He was hurting her.

  “Hold still, Elizabeth.”

  She arched her back, pressing with all her strength against his chest. She managed to pull her head back. “Christian, stop it! What’s the matter with you? Stop it.”

  As quickly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go. He dropped her arms and stepped back.

  “Marry me,” he said. His breath was coming hard.

  She shook her head, feeling numb.

  “You have to.”

  Anger shot through her. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. Now, I think you’d better leave, Christian.”

  He realized at that instant how much he’d blown it. He’d scared her, then made her angry. He’d lost his head. “You won’t marry anyone else, Elizabeth. You can’t.”

  “That,” she said, her eyes glittering, “is very probably true.”

  “This man, the other one—”

  “Would you just stop it? Please, leave. Christian, I just can’t take any more right now.”

  He looked at her, really looked at her. She’d changed. He felt it. Changed irrevocably toward him. It wasn’t that he’d scared her. He’d lost her. He closed his eyes a moment. He’d gotten so close, moved so slowly and carefully, and now . . . A wife couldn’t testify against her husband. The damned watch . . . would she remember? What would she do?

  “I’m going,” he said.

  She watched him pull on his jacket, stuff his pipe, the English tobacco, into his pocket.

  “Christian . . .”

  He turned to face her.

  “I’m sorry, truly.”

  He said nothing.

  “You damned bitch, you betrayed me! Bitch!”

  Susan moaned. He was hurting her, really hurting her. He was biting her mouth, and she tasted her own blood.

  “You deserve what I give you now.”

  She felt him shudder, finally, felt his body go slack. He was lying on top of her, dead sweating weight on her. She was having trouble breathing.

  “You betrayed me,” he said.

  “Oh, no, Christian,” she gasped. “I’d never betray you.”

  The fury, the red haze that had gripped him, began to fall away. “Elizabeth,” he said.

  Then he opened his eyes, reared back onto his hands, and stared down into Susan’s white face. No, no, it wasn’t Susan.

  “Bitch,” he said again softly. He struck her, the flat of his palm against her white cheek. He felt her struggle beneath him, heard her cry out, and struck her again. He watched the red imprint of his fingers on her cheek. She made a small bleating sound and he stopped cold.

  He pulled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. Susan huddled beneath the sheet, saying nothing. He’d struck her once before, not hard, and she’d thought it was just his way of being playful. This wasn’t play, this was something that was mixed up, something frightful.

  Christian finally rose, and began to dress. He didn’t look at Susan, just said coldly, “Your rent is paid for the next month. Then I want you out.”

  “I can’t get out fast enough,” she said, and wished she’d kept her mouth shut when he whirled around, his face tight with rage. His hands were clenched, and she was suddenly very afraid.

  “None of you is worth anything,” he said, flinging himself down on a chair to put his socks and shoes on. “You’re all deceitful, ungrateful bitches.”

  Susan was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. She thought of all the piano lessons, her endless hours of practice. And for what? To play the part of another woman, and now Christian hated that woman, hated Elizabeth Carleton. So she’d betrayed him, had she? Smart lady. And Christian had taken it out on Susan. She heard him mutter more obscenities, and that shook her. Never before had she heard him curse, yet the ugly words were spewing from his mouth.

  Finally he fell silent. Susan prayed he would just leave. He did. She spent twenty minutes in the shower and the next hour packing her things. She dragged her suitcases off the bed, then looked at the wrinkled covers, the drying patches of dampness. She shuddered, her hand unconsciously going to her cheek where he’d struck her. She walked from the bedroom, into the living room, past the piano.

  She paused at the front door. The beautiful apartment looked suddenly like a prison, but now she was free.

  * * *

  “I want you to show Jenny the photos, Grandmother.”

  Laurette felt her breathing grow shallow. Then she got hold of herself. “Brad, what is all this about?” She watched him, saw him standing tall and straight, defying her. She waited. He was confused, that was all. Someone had spoken to him, made him uncertain about what was best for him.

  “I will not marry Jenny. You can let me break it off, or you can show her the photos and let her do it. And there will be no more blackmail, Grandmother.”

  “Your wedding is next month.”

  “No way. It’s all your brainchild, Grandmother. I want nothing more to do with it.”

  “You will not speak in such a way to me, Bradley. How dare you, you stupid boy.”

  “I may be stupid, but I am no longer a boy, Grandmother. I’m a man. How dare you try to control my life? Catherine was right, she said—”

  “Ah.” Laurette sat back in her chair. So it was Catherine he’d listened to. “So you went whining to your sister.”

  “No, actually Catherine saw the photos, quite by accident, of course. She, at least, cares about me. She came to me.”

  Laurette felt a sharp pain in her left shoulder, then a numbing sensation down her arm. “Brad, I care about you, I know what’s best for you. You must do what I tell you. You’re not a man, not yet. Not until you marry Jenny, until you give me a great-grandchild. Then you’ll be a man, then you can do—”

  The pain grew suddenly sharp, unbearable, and she clutched at her breast. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “No, not yet, there’s so much, so much—”

  “Grandmother!”

  Brad watched her slump forward, her head striking the desktop.

  * * *

  Catherine listened to Rowe singing in the shower. She grinned. She felt good—no, she felt marvelous. Then she heard the doorbell ringing insistently downstairs.

  She wondered what to do. Rowe hadn’t heard a thing. She slipped out of bed and pulled on his velvet bathrobe.

  “Who is it?” she called out as she skipped down the stairs.

  There was a moment of silence; then, “It’s Amanda Montgomery. Come, Mrs. Grady, let me in.”

  Who was Mrs. Grady? Rowe’s housekeeper, probably. She made up her mind in that moment, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.

  The two women stared at each other, Catherine with a slight smile on her mouth, Amanda so stunned she couldn’t move, much less talk.

  “You!”

  “Hello, Amanda. Are you certain you wish to come in? As for Mrs. Grady, perhaps today is her day off.”

  “You damned slut. Get out of my way.”

  Amanda wanted to kill. She shoved Catherine out of her way and walked into the entranceway. She looked up and saw Rowe striding onto the upper landing. He had a towel knotted at his waist, nothing else.

  Rowe had the su
dden image of himself walking onto the stage of a very bad comedy. Catherine was wrapped in his bathrobe, her hair tousled. And Amanda was staring at him. He realized that she didn’t understand, that she was incapable of believing what was right in front of her. She was used to getting what she wanted, and in this case she’d wanted him, and had him, until now.

  “Amanda,” he said. He didn’t move. He wasn’t that big a fool.

  Quick as a striking snake, Amanda turned and slapped Catherine hard, so hard that her head snapped back.

  “You rich, conceited, miserable—” Catherine saw red and dived for her, feeling the exquisite silk sleeve rip between her fingers. She felt Amanda’s long fingers grab at her hair, and she felt the pain in her scalp. Then they were on the floor, yelling, gasping, kicking.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Rowe said, and bolted down the stairs. “Stop it, both of you!”

  He tried to pull Amanda off, and got a fist in his stomach. A bloody cat fight, the like of which he’d seen only at the movies.

  He finally grabbed Amanda under the armpits and yanked upward. She tried to kick him, all the while screaming at Catherine.

  He shook her. “Stop it!” He saw Catherine scramble to her feet, but she didn’t attack, merely stood there, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening herself.

  “Amanda,” he said again, not releasing her.

  “You bastard,” she said. “Let me go.”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  She jerked her arm forward, then back, her elbow connecting with his abdomen. He let her go.

  And backed up quickly.

  Mascara was smeared beneath her eyes. Her blouse was ripped at the shoulder and torn out of the waistband of her slacks. Amanda looked from Rowe to Catherine. “You deserve each other,” she said, and pulled off the engagement ring. She flung it across the floor, and it was the loudest sound in the room.

  “I’ll ruin you for this, Rowe Chalmers.”

  “God, I’ve heard that before,” he said. “Look, Amanda, I’m sorry about this, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “You’re right. You don’t deserve to be saddled with a bastard like me. Good luck, Amanda.”

  She slammed out.

  Rowe and Catherine just looked at each other.

  She said at last, “She thought I was Mrs. Grady.”

  “Hellfire,” said Rowe, raking his fingers through his wet hair.

  “Your towel is slipping.”

  “Catherine, you should be beaten senseless. Why did you open that door?”

  “At least you’re not going to have to spend your life with that horrible woman. She’s not a nice person, Rowe.”

  “And you are? And I am?”

  “We’re a couple of winners, yeah, you’re right.”

  “What now, Catherine?”

  “Let’s go upstairs and discuss it.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what we’ll do if we go upstairs.”

  “Your towel is slipping.”

  He laughed. He realized that he hadn’t laughed in so very long. It felt good. He felt free.

  Elizabeth felt the warmth of the pastrami sandwich through the paper bag. It was Kogi’s night off, and she’d gotten this craving. She was salivating, just thinking about that beautiful rye bread covered with mustard. Not the spicy French sort, but good old American mustard.

  She’d walked to the deli on Madison near Eighty-fourth, and now, with the wonderful smell of the sandwich filling her nostrils, and the soft evening air ruffling her hair, she began to feel human again. It was growing dark, and she automatically quickened her pace.

  Things could be worse. She’d made an appointment with Laurette Carleton for tomorrow. She would try to reason with the old woman. At least she was doing something positive. She was taking action.

  She started humming a song from My Fair Lady. She looked down the street, then began to walk across.

  The whooshing sound of the car didn’t penetrate her consciousness until she heard someone shout. She jerked around and saw a large dark blue sedan bearing down on her. It was accelerating, madly, right at her.

  She stood frozen until a rush of adrenaline shot through her. She leapt a distance she would normally have believed impossible, then twisted, landing on her back between two cars. She felt the heat of the car envelop her as it roared by. She became aware of pain in her back. The cars were practically touching, and she’d struck against the bumper of one, then bounced off the front grille of the other.

  “Lady, are you all right?”

  She looked up to see an older man staring down at her. He had a beer belly, and the stomach button of his shirt was missing. He was balding.

  “My pastrami sandwich got crushed,” she said.

  He helped her up. “You all right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “That maniac! He could have killed you.”

  “My sandwich,” she said again, looking down at the crushed bag on the street.

  He shook his head. Shock, most likely. “Let me call an ambulance, all right?”

  “No . . . oh, no, I’m all right. I live just in the next block.”

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  He fell in beside her, ready to catch her if she fell.

  “You’re missing a button,” Elizabeth said.

  He blinked. “Yeah, the missus, it’s her way of getting back at me for being fat. She won’t sew it back on until I lose ten pounds. That’s her offer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gallagher jumped up and ran forward. “What the hell—?”

  “A guy nearly ran her down. My name’s Foggerty. You’d better see to the lady here.”

  Foggerty left her in Gallagher’s shaking hands, wondering what the hell the world was coming to. Well, it was New York, and full of crazies.

  “I’m all right, Liam,” Elizabeth said. “Truly.”

  He kept a firm grip on her hands. “Tell me what happened, Mrs. Carleton.”

  “A man in a big car . . . he tried to run me down, just like Mr. Foggerty said.”

  “I’m taking you upstairs, then I’m calling the cops.”

  She shook her head, but Gallagher ignored her.

  He took her up in the elevator, sat her down, and went to the phone. He automatically asked for Lieutenant Draper.

  Thirty minutes later, Gallagher let the lieutenant in. He hadn’t seen him since . . . since that awful time when Mr. Carleton had been murdered and the lieutenant had questioned and questioned Mrs. Carleton. He realized suddenly that he probably shouldn’t have called Draper. But he was here now.

  “What’s going on here, Gallagher? It is Gallagher, isn’t it?”

  Liam nodded.

  Lenny Draper strode into the magnificent living room. A long time, he thought, a very long time, and she’d gotten off and was still living high off the hog. He motioned to the patrolman to stand by the door.

  “It’s Mrs. Carleton, Lieutenant. Some man tried to run her down.”

  “Her deeds finally catching up with her, huh?” Draper said.

  “See here . . .” Gallagher said, his face turning red.

  “Don’t give yourself an ulcer. I’ll speak to her, all right?”

  Draper saw her sitting still as a stone, on a sofa that would have paid his salary for a year. Her face was utterly white.

  “Mrs. Carleton,” he said, sitting across from her. He pulled a pad out of his jacket pocket. “What happened?”

  Elizabeth looked over at him. She shuddered unconsciously, remembering his endless stream of questions, his scorn, his contempt and disbelief at her answers. And finally that day when he’d read her her rights. Why had Liam called him, of all people?

  “What happened?” Draper repeated, seeing the shock now.

  Elizabeth moistened her lips. “Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant?”

  “No. Would you like a doctor?”

  She shook her head and her fingers began pleating the afghan Gallagher had put over he
r lap. “A man,” she said finally. “I know it was a man, and he was alone. He was driving a big car, dark blue I think. I was crossing the street and he revved the engine, speeded up, on purpose, you know, and he tried to kill me, to run me down.”

  “How did you escape the car?”

  “I jumped. Just like a broad jump in the Olympics. I landed between two cars and he kept going. He was probably afraid to stop because of . . . Foggerty.”

  “Foggerty?”

  “An older man who had a button missing on his shirt,” she said, and for the first time, she raised her eyes to his face.

  She was in shock, Draper saw. His face tightened. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her.

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No.”

  “License plate? Anything, Mrs. Carleton?”

  “No. It was too fast. I was afraid.”

  “Where does this Foggerty live?”

  Elizabeth just looked at him. Gallagher came forward, running his fingers through his hair. “I forgot to ask him. I know he lives close, say, a block down.”

  Draper got to his feet. “All right, then. I’ll find this Foggerty and see what he has to say. You should see a doctor, Mrs. Carleton.”

  He left her still seated on the sofa pleating that useless afghan.

  As they exited the town house, the patrolman asked in a low, excited voice, “It’s her, isn’t it, Lieutenant? The woman who killed her husband?”

  “Yes, and she was acquitted,” said Draper.

  “God, did you see that house?”

  “I saw. I’ve seen it many times before. Find this fellow Foggerty. Evidently he saw the whole thing.”

  It was close to ten o’clock that evening when Moretti walked in. Gallagher just stared at him.

  “Hear you had a bit of excitement,” Moretti said, and his big face split with a smile.

  “I’d say it was for the police, not the D.A.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, Gallagher. Oh, yeah, buddy, I remember your name. The lady upstairs in her castle?”

  “The doctor came and gave her a sedative. She’s probably asleep.”