Free False Pretenses by Catherine Coulter Page A

with to him.
    â€œJonathan!”
    His eyes felt red and unfocused. He heard his own voice, blank with the growing pain. “In here, Rose.” A pause, then, “Please bring some aspirin.”
    She didn’t. “What’s the matter?” she asked, coming into his study, her new evening gown swirling about her ankles. The diamonds glittering at her throat made his eyes hurt.
    â€œI have a terrible headache,” he said.
    She laughed. “A woman’s excuse, darling. But I didn’t come to see if you wanted to go to bed. You aren’t dressed. The Banbridges are expecting us in thirty minutes.”
    â€œI’m not going,” he said. “I told you last week and last night that I wasn’t going. There will be at least fifty guests. I won’t be missed. Have a good time, Rose.”
    She hated him in that moment, truly hated him. He spoke to her as if she were some sort of boring lackey; he didn’t give a damn about her. She said, her voice sharp, “My parents will be there. In case you’ve forgotten who they are, Jonathan, they are the Pillsons. The Andrew Pillsons. They will expect to see you.”
    â€œGive them my best.”
    â€œBastard.”
    â€œPlease, Rose, my head is coming off. If you want to fight, it will have to wait.”
    â€œEverything and everyone waits for you, don’t they? You, the famous Jonathan Harley, oh yes, famous now. If it hadn’t been for my father—”
    â€œRose, you don’t want to be late.”
    â€œYou are a monster, a selfish, hateful monster. I suppose you’ll leave soon enough after I do. Your headache will disappear like magic, and your little tart will drool over every word you say. Who are you screwing now, darling?”
    â€œI’m not screwing anyone, Rose.”
    â€œOf course I wouldn’t expect an honest answer. You will come with me, Jonathan. You must come. You will not humiliate me, not again.”
    â€œI wasn’t aware that I had ever humiliated you.”
    â€œSo calm, so very controlled, aren’t you? You’ve turned into a robot, no feelings—”
    â€œI thought I was a monster,” he said, and wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He just wanted to be alone now, with some aspirin, in an empty, silent room.
    â€œ. . . you don’t care about anyone, do you? Nothingexcept your rotten business, and all your cheap women, of course.”
    â€œI care about NetFRAME, certainly. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be wearing diamonds, Rose. You wouldn’t have a maid, a housekeeper, a cook, and a chauffeur. There are no cheap women.” He actually felt his lips curve into a smile. “If I screwed around as much as you think I do, there wouldn’t be any business left. I’d be dead from exhaustion.”
    She felt anger soar through her. It was impossible to score a point on him, he was too articulate, too detached, too manipulative. “So you admit there are some women?”
    â€œOnly one, three years ago, as you well know. My paltry sort of revenge—unworthy, I know.”
    â€œWill you always throw Pietro up to me?” Her voice caught on a sob, and he waited, praying she wouldn’t go into hysterics. “He wanted me, believed I was beautiful and special.”
    â€œRose, I will throw up, but not Pietro. Please, go to your party. Have a good time.”
    She stood very still, and stared at a portrait of their cottage in Nantucket behind him on the wall. The colors were soft, the scene stark. Odd how the artist had caught the different lights. Next to the painting was a photograph of the two of them standing on the beach, the cottage in the background. It had been taken some four years before. Jonathan was wearing faded jeans and a plain white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sneakers on his feet. She was in shorts and a halter, barefoot, her long blond hair blowing in her face. Both were