False Pretenses by Catherine Coulter

was one. And dangerous, very dangerous.
    Jonathan forced himself to calm down. He pulled out a yellow notepad from his top desk drawer and methodically began to write down questions. He’d get the answers he needed by the end of the week. His handwriting was crisp, his lines straight.
    Man really in charge?
    Weaknesses?
    Jonathan paused. He could write down a hundredmore questions that needed answers, but first he had to know who was now running things. It always boiled down to one man and how skilled that one man was in maneuvering; his tactics, his strategy, his resources. But when he began to write his list again, it was issues that would face him in a divorce action. He felt his headache returning with a vengeance. He felt even sicker when he realized that there was no child-support question on his list. His three-month-old son, Alex, had died in his crib. One morning he was dead, no illness, nothing. Nothing to understand. Sudden infant death syndrome they called it. Acceptance was beyond him for a very long time. Rose—then Rosie—hadn’t wanted any more kids, and at the time he couldn’t blame her for that. But now, after three years, it was too late.
    He wouldn’t lose control of his company. He couldn’t. He’d do anything to anyone before he’d let that happen.
    Anything.
    Â 
    Brad Carleton sat behind his father’s desk and sipped at his coffee in its delicate Wedgwood cup. No one had said a word when he’d moved. And he intended to stay. That bitch wouldn’t get him out, not a chance.
    When his personal secretary, Nan Bridges, rang to tell him two gentlemen were here to see him, he told her to have them wait. Slowly, very slowly, he straightened the papers on his desk, put his feet up, and buzzed Nan.
    He smiled at the two gentlemen who entered his office, and waited a good minute before he rose.
    â€œMr. Carleton,” the taller of the two said. He didn’t extend his hand. “I’m Coy Siverston and this is Adrian Marsh. We are here, sir, at the behest of the CEO of ACI, Elizabeth Carleton. We request your controller’s assistance in an immediate audit of your personal business expenses.”
    Brad nodded to the men and said, “I see. Anything else, gentlemen?”
    Coy cleared his throat, and Brad saw the big gold tooth near the front of his mouth. “The Carleton Textile Company, the Brammer-Carleton Lumber Company, and the Morrissey-Carleton Food Company.”
    â€œIn short, the three companies over which I exercised autonomous control before the death of my father.”
    â€œThat is correct.”
    â€œI assume you have contacted my company presidents?”
    â€œYes, we have. This morning.”
    Brad merely smiled at them. “Have at it,” he said, and waved a dismissing hand.
    Coy gave him a startled look, and felt the same surprise from Adrian. From what they’d heard, Brad Carleton should be screaming and cursing them at this point, not smiling.
    â€œVery well,” said Coy, and they went out.
    Their teams were into the three different company books within the hour.
    On Thursday evening, three days later, Rod Samuels called Elizabeth.
    â€œWell, it’s over,” he said.
    â€œAnd?” Elizabeth asked.
    â€œTip-top shape. The books, that is. It appears old Brad has only lost some money, but no hanky-panky. I would have sworn—”
    â€œYou should be pleased, Rod. A son stealing from his father isn’t something one can readily accept.”
    There was silence on Rod’s end and Elizabeth shifted the telephone to her other ear.
    â€œBut I knew, Elizabeth, I knew he was on the take. Coy told me that Brad was so calm and mellow that it was like he was a California surfer with nothing more to concern him than how high the waves were. And Brad isn’t like that. He’s the most uncontrolled, the most emotional of the Carletons when he’s crossed. There’s something