False Pretenses by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page A

of meanness flow through her at his too-smooth handling. “Just why do you think I didn’t kill him?” she asked. “Wasn’t he terribly rich and rather old? The perfect target for a greedy young wife?”
    He took no offense. “You have been dreadfully hurt. I’m sorry for it, but I think it must be faced, then we can forget about it.” He saw no encouragement on her pale face, and continued, his voice deeper, “I have already forgotten. Now, will you be playing for us this evening? Some Scarlatti, perhaps?”
    She played three Scarlatti pieces after the buffet supper, and the applause warmed her. RowenChalmers stood near the grand piano, his eyes never leaving her face. She wondered who he was, and how he knew Claude, much less Timothy. Her arms were tired when she finished, and she gave a crooked smile to Claude, waiting for his inevitable criticism. He didn’t disappoint her, and she found it more warming than the applause. It was like stepping back in time, back five years, before Timothy.
    â€œYou played the trill in the third measure like one of my cretins,” Claude said. “Your technique isn’t bad, but you are sadly out of practice, my dear Elizabeth. You will come and Claude will make the fingers sing again, eh?”
    Rowen Chalmers said near her ear, “Actually, I thought you ruined the seventh measure on the second page. Too much a show of technical gymnastics, too little finesse.”
    She laughed. “You and Claude need to compare notes.”
    â€œActually, it was so moving I wanted to cry.”
    That drew her up. She said very quietly, “Thank you, Mr. Chalmers.” She saw Marthe waving her arms in typical French fashion to one of her guests. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Chalmers,” she said, and left him standing next to the old stone fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face.
    Claude was calling for a taxi when Rowen Chalmers said from behind Elizabeth, “I’m staying near your hotel. I have a rented Peugeot. It runs quite well. I would be delighted to drive you back.”
    Claude paused in his dialing, his dark eyes on Elizabeth’s face. He was being kind, she knew, but she didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone, particularly an American. An American who had known Timothy. She stood, uncertain, and watched Claude gently set the receiver back into its cradle.
    â€œYou go with your friend, eh, Elizabeth? Martheand I, we see you again, perhaps, before you go back home.”
    Elizabeth felt indecisive, a condition she hated, a quality in herself that had only grown worse over the past months. She felt confident only when she was playing.
    â€œI promise to treat you just like Claude does,” said Rowen Chalmers. “I shall insult your technique, criticize your trills endlessly, even call you a cretin if you like.”
    â€œVery well,” Elizabeth said. She felt churlish suddenly. The man was merely being polite.
    â€œIf you wish to borrow some of Claude’s music, I can wave it in front of your nose and tell you that you’re not worthy of polishing piano keys.”
    Her smile came easily now. “Thank you,” she said.
    The Peugeot rode smoothly. Elizabeth leaned her head back against the leather seat and closed her eyes. “How do you come to know Marthe and Claude?” she asked, not turning to face him.
    â€œI’m what you would call an emissary for patrons of Claude’s. They couldn’t make it over and asked me to come and see to things, with a sizable check in my hand, of course.”
    â€œWho are they? Perhaps I know them.”
    â€œThey 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.”
    â€œI am also here in Paris alone, for another two or so weeks. I’m divorced. I haven’t any