False Pretenses by Catherine Coulter Page A

wrong. I can smell it.”
    â€œIt appears you smelled wrong, Rod. Perhaps Brad isn’t what you thought. Perhaps—”
    â€œBullshit.”
    She said nothing for a moment. “What do you wish to do now?”
    â€œFind out who spilled the beans to that little snake.”
    â€œEven if someone did, what difference does it make? It seems to me that we should forge ahead now, and not try to pin someone, a someone who probably isn’t very important anyway. Loyalties are funny things, Rod. Incidentally, I’ve read the three business books you gave me, studied them until my eyes were red. I feel like the stupidest person alive. It’s like a different language, and even though I understand the words, they don’t have the same meaning. Like ‘return on investment,’ ‘earnings-price ratio,’ ‘cash flow.’ It’s amazing. I’d never even heard of the SEC. All the rules and regulations.”
    He smiled into the phone. “You needn’t worry about it. You don’t have to understand everything, Elizabeth, not for a good while yet. I’ve arranged a formal PR release to the press, a meeting with the board, a meeting with all company presidents. You will be calm, charming. Timothy’s—or rather your—speech writers are preparing drafts of what you’re to say to all these disparate groups. I myself will be present at the meeting between you and your headquarters executives.”
    This is insanity, Elizabeth thought. But she’d come too far now to say no, even though she knew she should. She said instead, “I don’t understand how you’ve kept everything secret, Rod.”
    â€œThe Carletons haven’t wanted it to get out that they no longer control ACI. You see, Elizabeth, they’re waiting for you to throw in the towel.”
    Was that a strategy or a tactic? she wondered.
    â€œHave you studied the organizational charts?”
    â€œYes, for what that’s worth,” she said, thankful that he couldn’t see her grimace.
    â€œGood. Just try to learn which name goes with which function, all right? And don’t worry, Elizabeth.”
    â€œWill Brad be there?”
    â€œCertainly. As will Michael. As for William Carleton, he’s now in Australia, and couldn’t be bothered. Laurette will be there, of course.”
    She swallowed.
    â€œElizabeth? The press will go bananas on this. Prepare yourself. It will all blow over within a month. Turn down all requests for interviews. Be firm—you don’t know how persuasive Fortune reporters can be. All right?”
    What could she say? The words “No comment” were second nature to her. “When is the first meeting?”
    â€œI’ll send your new executive assistant to you this afternoon and he’ll review everything with you.”
    â€œThat’s Adrian Marsh, right?”
    â€œYes. Harvard Business School. He started out in investment banking, then came on board with ACI five years ago. He’s married, two children, and smart as the dickens. As I told you, a wunderkind. His impressions of people are appallingly to the point and accurate, and he knows all the operations.” He paused a moment, then said, “If you don’t get along with him, just let me know.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll be a saint.”
    â€œAnother thing, Elizabeth. Adrian’s loyal to his bones. We’ll weed out the traitors in time.”
    Traitors, she thought blankly. She felt like a foreign country.
    â€œOh yes, I also told Adrian if he succeeds in this assignment, he’s got the corporate vice-presidency for strategic planning.”
    Adrian Marsh, Elizabeth thought that afternoon when he arrived at her home, looked more like a bodyguard than an executive assistant. He was heavy, not fat, just so muscled that he looked bulky. He was olive-complexioned, his eyes dark, and his jaw square.And he spoke slowly, in