False Pretenses by Catherine Coulter Page B

a gentle, very deep voice with a Southern accent. He was kind, at least he was to her.
    â€œI report only to you, Mrs. Carleton,” he said after shaking her hand and seating himself. “You can trust me. I realize that might be difficult for you after all the garbage you’ve gone through. I do know every operation very well. And I know the men and women. If, however, you feel uncomfortable with any of my advice, you are to say so. I know I don’t look like an Adrian. Most of my friends call me Adman. I will answer to almost anything. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like a glass of water.”
    He lumbered off to the kitchen in his slow, measured walk, leaving Elizabeth seated on the sofa, surrounded by papers and a sea of reports, to smile after him.
    At the end of a two-hour meeting, she was surprised to find herself not at all alarmed. She felt excited, more confident. She realized sometime later that it was Adrian’s doing. At no time was he at all condescending or patronizing. He had oversimplified explanations, and she appreciated it, for he had said with his slow smile that showed a crooked front tooth, “A lot of this stuff is garbage, Mrs. Carleton, prepared by paper pushers to prove that they produce something. What’s important, of course, is the paper pushers themselves. Tomorrow I understand you’ll be coming in to the office. Mine is next to yours. We’ll be spending our time on their profiles. If you know how a person thinks, Mrs. Carleton, and you study some samples of his work, you can make excellent judgments and decisions.”
    She got him to admit that he preferred Gatorade to water, the only two things he ever drank. “A long-standing habit from college football,” he’d told her. She watched his massive throat contract as he downed the entire glass in one long drink.
    â€œThere’s just one other thing, Mrs. Carleton,” he said at the door. “Your office.”
    She looked at him rather blankly. “I don’t wish to change a thing,” she said, thinking he wanted to know if she planned to redecorate.
    â€œActually, you will,” he said. “You see, Brad Carleton has moved in.”
    She felt a twist of nausea in her stomach. “Why?”
    The man’s got balls, and he knows you haven’t. “I suppose it doesn’t matter why. It’s just that you, ma’am, you in person, will have to tell him to move his carcass out.”
    Elizabeth felt her heartbeat quicken. Fear—the fear of unpleasantness, the fear of confrontation, the fear of failing and looking like a fool.
    â€œI’ll be right with you, Mrs. Carleton. You will simply be firm and he’ll be out by ten o’clock in the morning.”
    Adrian shook her hand and she felt his strength. There was someone for her, she thought. She slept soundly that night, even though she hadn’t seen Rowe. He was in Boston and wouldn’t be in New York until the weekend.
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    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œGood morning, Bradley,” Elizabeth said, her voice calm, controlled, a slight smile on her face. She knew he hated Bradley. Timothy had always called his son that when he was displeased. Adrian stood beside her, a solid rock in a dark blue three-piece suit.
    â€œI repeat, what do you want, ma’am, or should I say ‘widowed ex-stepmother’?”
    Elizabeth felt a ripple of anger, but there wasn’t an ounce of tension coming from Adrian. In fact, he looked a bit amused, not at all intimidated by Brad Carleton. She realized that Adrian wouldn’t let her fold. She swallowed and said, “This is now my office, Bradley. Please remove yourself to your former office immediately.”
    â€œNo.”
    She shrank back, Adrian felt it. He said slowly, his Virginian drawl very pronounced, “I suggest you do asMrs. Carleton says, Mr. Carleton. Otherwise I will be obliged to call Carleton’s security