False Pretenses Read Free

years in Paris. And there were narrow black iron grille balconies at the second floor and at the fourth. From the outside, the house was unobtrusive, nearly severe save for the romance of the roof and balconies. It fit in well with its neighbors. No one would ever guess that one of the richest men in the world lived there.
    She walked silently beside Rod into the lobby. It was a lobby, she thought, and it was in a house, and there was a doorman. Gallagher looked up and smiled broadly at them.
    â€œLiam,” Rod Samuels said curtly.
    â€œI heard about the witness on the radio, Mrs. Carleton,” Liam blurted out. “I am relieved, ma’am.”
    â€œThank you, Liam.” Was he the only one who believed her innocent?
    Rod escorted her to the ornate 1920’s elevator that Timothy had installed intact from an old building he had torn down on Wall Street. It creaked and groaned as it ascended, as was proper, as Timothy had wanted. How many times had he grinned and rubbed his hands together when the thing lurched between floors? “ Makes me feel like a ten-year-old again to hear that, Elizabeth. ”
    â€œThank you, Rod.”
    He started. Those were the first words she’d spoken to him since they’d left the courthouse.
    â€œIt’s nearly over now, Elizabeth. You’ll be acquitted. Moretti can have the week postponement—he can have a month—it won’t make any difference. He won’t break Christian Hunter. This time next week, we’ll be celebrating.”
    Elizabeth flexed her fingers unconsciously in an exercise she’d done away from the piano since she was five years old.
    â€œWill we?” she said.
    The elevator slugged to a halt. Rod pulled the wrought-iron gate open, stood back, and waited for her to exit directly into the foyer.
    â€œI’m tired,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’ll sleep for a week once Moretti has thrown in the towel.”
    How odd mundane things were, she thought. She’d been selfish and inconsiderate. “Please, Rod, come in for a drink. You know you’re fond of Kogi’s martinis.”
    â€œYes, I think I will. This time next week, Elizabeth, it will be champagne.”
    She said nothing. A Japanese man, who came only to Elizabeth’s chin, burst into the living room, smiling widely. He was wearing his white coat and black slacks and his prized mustache was brushed and gleaming.
    â€œWelcome, Mrs. Elizabeth, Mr. Samuels. I am pleased.”
    â€œThank you, Kogi. I believe Mr. Samuels would like one of your famous martinis.”
    â€œCertainly, Mrs. Elizabeth.”
    He deftly took her coat, gloves, and purse, then provided the same service for Rod. Kogi had been with Timothy for fifteen years, and he’d stayed on. Stayed on with his master’s accused murderer. He’d never said a word to Elizabeth and she had been too much of a coward to ask him what he thought.
    â€œPlease to sit down,” said Kogi.
    Rod sat on the pale gold sofa. Elizabeth wandered about the living room, a marvel of modern sculptures, most of them naked women and men in bronze and marble. One large woman was posed in front of the bow windows. Several Rodins were among the collection. So much chrome and glass and silk, not to mention the twenty-foot Tabriz in pale peach and blue that covered the thick white carpet. Very expensive, all of it, and very elegant, and about as subtle and restrained as the celebration for the Statue of Liberty. Elizabeth didn’t actively dislike it, she simply ignored it for the most part. Her eyes went to the seven-foot Steinway grand piano set in the far corner by another set of long windows. Timothy had bought it for her as a wedding present, three years before. On the wall beside the piano were three Picassos, from his Pink Period. Two of them were nudes, pathetic figures against their rose and terra-cotta backgrounds.
    Elizabeth walked toward the