False Pretenses by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online

were blazing from the two-story brick house, and there were at least a dozen cars parked about the grounds. Oh, no, she thought, and considered slipping away. I could call them and plead a headache, she thought, but she wasn’t fast enough. Marthe herself, dressed in a black silk tent, appeared under the lights at the front door and called to her.
    Elizabeth paid the taxi driver and in the next moment found herself engulfed in Marthe’s massive bosom. French endearments flooded her and she was squeezed until her ribs creaked.
    â€œJust a little party for you,” Marthe told her, patted her cheek, and drew her inside. Martha helped her out of her wool coat; then she was passed into Claude’s embrace, then released to see a living room filled with people.
    â€œYou will not worry, my dear,” said Claude, seeing her dismay. “None of them will disaccommodate you,I swear it. If they tried, I should break their untalented fingers or twist off their tone-deaf ears.” He laughed a bit at that, and Elizabeth imagined that he was quite serious. “But musicians, my dear, their minds never stray into the real world. Now, had you butchered a Mozart sonata, that would be another matter.”
    Butchered. With a silver ice pick. Elizabeth tried not to flinch, because Claude was beaming at her. She managed a smile, but it was weak and uncertain. To her surprise, she was introduced as Madame Elizabeth Xavier, the very talented pianist from America.
    She saw recognition in most of their eyes, and watched their faces sharpen with speculation. Not all of the guests were French, of course. Claude prided himself on reeling in “cretin” talent from all over the world. The last person Marthe directed her to was an American, and Elizabeth knew he was American before he even opened his mouth. He had the look of a successful American businessman, his air of confidence palpable.
    She felt herself pulling away, wanting desperately to leave, but Marthe had a killing hold on her arm.
    â€œThis, my dear Elizabeth, is Rowen Chalmers, a banker from Boston. A man of the real world.”
    Elizabeth waited for recognition, a sneering disgust, that avid look that she hadn’t managed to handle with a show of indifference, but he merely smiled at her and took her hand.
    â€œA pleasure,” he said, his voice deep. “I have heard you play, of course. A great pleasure.”
    â€œYes,” Elizabeth said, still wary. “Thank you. What are you doing here, Mr. Chalmers? Are you also a pianist?”
    She realized that he was attractive, but no more than that until he smiled at her abrupt question. He had lovely teeth and a dimple in his left cheek. “My only talent is in admiration. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
    She nodded. And waited. Marthe gave her another beaming smile and left her to her countryman.
    He handed her a glass of champagne and deftly moved her a bit to the side. “Please call me Rowe,” he said.
    But she didn’t want to call him anything. She wanted to leave.
    â€œThat is a lovely dress. Did you get it here in Paris?”
    â€œNo, Givenchy exports to New York, you know.” The beige cashmere was conservative, high-necked, long-skirted. It also reeked of elegance, and Timothy, having recognized elegance always, insisted she buy it.
    She sipped at her champagne, her eyes on the tiny bubbles floating upward in the glass.
    His deep voice cut into her thoughts. “I suppose that Marthe and Claude didn’t inform you of their little party in your honor.”
    â€œNo,” she said.
    â€œIt is a pity, of course, but you can’t hide forever, you know.”
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Chalmers,” she said. She’d taken two steps when she felt his hand close over her arm.
    â€œForgive me, Mrs. Carleton. I meant no insult. I knew Timothy and I know also that you didn’t kill him. Now, may we begin again?”
    But Elizabeth felt a spurt