Intimate Betrayal (3 page)

“By the way,” he said, “I found out yesterday that the Pressman project is in the bag. Al Pressman was so impressed with your
designs for the cathedral that he jumped at the chance to hire us. You deserve a lot of appreciation, and I intend to see
that you get it.”

She cocked her head and grinned. “In the form of a raise, I hope?”

“I was thinking of both a raise and a promotion.”

“Now that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse!”

He smiled and in a courtly gesture took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I realized some time ago that hiring you was
one of the best things I ever did.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

As Sam moved away to continue mingling, Annie took a deep breath. Things were good! No more of this moping around, fretting
about her work, fretting about her future. For
the first time since Charlie’s death, she was beginning to feel secure.

“Would you care to dance?” someone asked her a few minutes later.

Annie turned to see Sidney Canin standing somewhat hesitantly behind her. Sid had been her architect at Fabrications. She
had been surprised when, after the company’s demise, Sam had offered a job to Sidney as well. Apparently Sid’s plans to move
back to New York City had fallen through, and the ever-genial Sam had hired him despite his less-than-stellar reputation.

Compared to either Sam Brody or Matthew Carlyle, Sid was the sort of man you wouldn’t look at twice. Medium height, medium
build, unremarkable features, and old-fashioned horn rimmed glasses so thick that they distorted his eyes. He never had much
to say for himself, and what he did say was always gloomy and petulant.

Still, not wanting to be rude, she agreed to dance with him, and was surprised when he turned out to be a good dancer with
a fine sense of rhythm.

They spoke briefly about the triumph of winning the cathedral contract. Sounding negative as usual, Sid said, “We’d better
not rest on our laurels until the thing is actually built.” His eyes slid away from hers and he appeared more nervous than
usual. Annie noticed that he was staring at Francesca Carlyle, with whom he had recently been dancing. He hadn’t looked gloomy
while dancing with Francesca—on the contrary, he’d been remarkably animated.

“With a project so big,” he added, “things are bound to go wrong.”

While this was undoubtedly true, it wasn’t something that Annie relished thinking about. As project manager, she had a lot
riding on the successful completion of the cathedral.

She and Sidney danced past Sam Brody, who once again had the now very obviously drunken Francesca in his arms. She was giggling
and tossing her head. As Annie caught Sam’s eye, he grimaced slightly as if to say, “get me out of here.”

Annie grinned at him. Francesca in her sober state had personally contributed heavily to the building fund of the United Path
Church, and she was chairwoman of the building committee. Without her support there would be no cathedral. So, Sam had to
make nice.

Sidney glared at Francesca and Sam. A tiny suspicion stirred in Annie’s head—was Sidney attracted to Francesca? In love with
her? Involved with her? It seemed unlikely, but there had been rumors for years that the Carlyles’ marriage was rocky.

As the dance tune finished, Annie smiled at Sidney and said, “Thanks, that was lovely.” But as she tried to back away from
him, he seized her hand.

“I’m worried about this project. Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asked.

Annie had no wish to be subjected to a long list of Sidney’s unsubstantiated fears, but neither did she want to ignore a legitimate
concern.

“What, exactly, are you worried about?”

“Just some details, but they could prove important.”

But somebody was pinging a glass with a knife, calling for
everybody’s attention. Annie was grateful for the interruption. When Sid got going on “details,” he never stopped.

The glass-pinger was Matthew Carlyle, who had stepped up in front of the band to make an announcement. His wife was leaning
against the wall to his left, her skinny arms wrapped around her middle. She looked a bit ill. Annie hoped she wasn’t about
to pass out or throw up.

“This is a special day for my wife, as you all know, and we’re delighted that you could share it with us,” Carlyle began.
“Francesca, I know, is particularly happy to have so many of her friends here, and we thank you all for coming.”

Sidney, standing right next to Annie, made a low sound in his throat. Annie glanced at him and noted that he was now glowering
at the Carlyles. Francesca too was behaving strangely. As her husband spoke, she fidgeted and looked bored. In her business
and charitable dealings, Francesca was invariably courteous and very much in control. But Annie had heard whispers about a
drinking problem, and Francesca had certainly overdone it tonight.

Francesca and Sidney? Nah,
she thought.

“When I first suggested we give this party,” Carlyle went on, “my lovely wife was reluctant. The money could be spent in some
more useful way, she said, and earmarked for a far worthier and less frivolous cause than, as she put it, a socialite’s meaningless
birthday. But, as you’re all aware, Francesca devotes so much of her time and money to worthy causes. She does so without
fanfare and, often, without taking personal credit for the many people she helps. For that, she deserves something back, and
on this occasion, at least, I believe a little fanfare is appropriate.”

Francesca stepped forward, prematurely it seemed, since
her husband appeared to be about to continue speaking. Pushing in front of him, she glared at him and said, “Oh, for God’s
sake, cut the crap, Matt.”

The room grew even more hushed than it had been. Carlyle took his wife’s arm, as if to restrain her, but she jerked away from
him. “Let’s stop kidding ourselves here. I’m sick of the masquerade, and I’m sure you are too.”

“Sit down, Francesca,” Carlyle said in a starkly different tone. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

Both his voice and his expression called up in Annie’s mind the way he had behaved on the day he’d essentially scuttled Fabrications.
Despite his fine veneer of courtesy, there was something ruthless about Matthew Carlyle.

His wife ignored it. Again she brushed off his hand on her arm, then raised her half-empty glass and announced, “Indeed I
have. I’m celebrating. But I would hate to have our friends get the wrong idea about why I’m having too much to drink. It’s
not my birthday that I’m celebrating, but my freedom. Not the fortieth year of my wretched little life, but the final year
of my marriage to you!”

Darcy sidled over to Annie and whispered, “Do you
believe
this?”

Before Annie could respond, Francesca went on. “Yes, my friends, this sham of a marriage is over. In the morning I’m filing
for divorce from the great Matthew Carlyle. You’re all invited to stay tuned for the California Community Property Divorce
Wars, which will no doubt begin shortly, since I’m advised by my lawyer that billionaire businessmen can be stingy when it
comes to splitting up the marital assets.”

Matthew’s expression had frozen, and even from across the room Annie could see a pulse hammering in his throat. She
knew immediately that he was supremely angry and only barely able to control it.

He did not respond to his wife’s comments, however. Instead he turned and stalked out of the room.

Francesca’s high-pitched laugh rose over the low mutterings of her guests. Nobody knew how to react. Annie did not know the
Carlyles well and had no idea whether their closer friends had had any inkling of this, but her impression was that most people
present were profoundly shocked.

Sam came over, his face a little pale. He and Carlyle had been friends for many years. “Maybe we’d all better leave,” he said
to his co-workers. “Looks to me like this party is over.”

The same conclusion had apparently been reached by all. Whispering their gossip, the guests began to move toward the doors.
A few people gathered around Francesca, Sam and Sid among them, offering comfort, Annie supposed. She tried to gauge whether
Sid was surprised by Francesca’s announcement, but for once his face gave nothing away.

Annie scanned the crowd for her good friend Barbara Rae Acker, who was also Francesca’s minister. This was exactly the kind
of situation that Barbara Rae was skilled at managing. She knew when to listen and when to speak. Even better, she always
knew what to say to calm people down.

Although she had been present earlier, Barbara Rae appeared to have left. Probably one of her parishioners had needed her.

After getting her coat, Annie approached Francesca and pressed her hand gently. “The party was lovely,” she said
sincerely, for it had been—up until the last few minutes. “Thanks for inviting me. Take care.”

The woman was so drunk that Annie wondered if she would even recognize her. But Francesca looked straight at her, and for
a moment her eyes seemed to clear. “You take care, Annie.” Francesca smiled knowingly. “He’s always liked you, my dear. Take
my advice. Be careful.”

Annie blinked, blushed, and immediately felt a flash of guilt.

“What did that mean?” Darcy demanded as they headed down the gangway to the pier.

“I’ve no idea,” Annie murmured. “She was very drunk.”

“I always thought they were such a happy couple,” Darcy said. “Just goes to show—you never really know anyone, do you?”

The story was all over the news the following morning:

Francesca Carlyle, 40, wife of billionaire computer industry entrepreneur Matthew Carlyle, was found floating face down in
San Francisco Bay this morning at dawn. An autopsy will be performed to determine the exact cause of death.

Her demise followed a party held last night on the Carlyle yacht to celebrate Francesca Carlyle’s fortieth birthday. There
are reports that the deceased had been drinking heavily and that she and her husband quarreled in front of their guests.
Matthew Carlyle refused to be interviewed, but he is said to be cooperating with the police investigation.

As, shocked, she read the papers and watched the news, Annie kept remembering the look of cold fury on Matthew Carlyle’s face.

“Wow, it’s dazzling, isn’t it?” Sam Brody said as he stood next to Annie in the Mission district of the city, across the street
from the newest cathedral in San Francisco.

“Yes,” Annie said simply. It was magnificent to see the new construction rising toward the heavens. Although she had worked
on many construction sites over the past decade, she’d never seen one so huge.

Ground had been broken a year and a half ago, the foundation had been set deep into the ground, and the steel structural core
of the building had been completed. Next had come the walls and the high vaulted roof of the modern Gothic-style building.
The stonemasons had completed most of the work on the exterior, although there were still some intricate carved statues and
gargoyles to be added. Meanwhile, the interior
work was now proceeding—the design for which Annie was directly responsible.

The cathedral was designed in the most popular traditional manner, in the shape of a longitudinal cross, with the long central
nave running from east to west. This section was crossed near the front of the building with the north and south transept
arms and terminated at the east end in a semicircular apse, where the Lady Chapel was located

The design was classic, but the building materials were, of course, modern. Contemporary techniques and equipment had enabled
the contractor to build a structure in eighteen months that workmen of centuries past would have labored over for decades.

Annie, Sam Brody, Darcy, and Sidney Canin, all of whom had played major parts in the design for the cathedral, were on site
today, along with two of the six members of the United Path Church building committee, for a tour and an update. As project
manager of the job, Annie was there every day, but today she would have to fill the others in on her progress. She was a little
nervous about the visit, since lately it seemed that they had been plagued with one small problem after another.

Annie’s role as project manager was to oversee the entire operation. Her position was one of enormous responsibility, and
it was pretty much a full-time commitment. Since she was under special contract to the owners—the United Path Church—she monitored
the work both of the contractor, McEnerney Construction, which was in charge of all the structural work, and all the subcontractors
who did the thousands of smaller jobs inherent in all big projects.

Since she was not an architect or a structural engineer,
Annie had occasionally encountered problems that challenged her technical know-how, but she’d tried not to let these upset
her. If there was something she didn’t know one day, she made damn certain she understood it the next.

In an industry dominated by men, she occasionally ran into a bit of macho “don’t worry your pretty little head about that”
from the contractor’s office, but after a year and a half on the job, most of that patronizing had ceased. Annie was confident
that she’d won the respect of
most
of the construction crew.

“Come on, everybody,” she said. “Put on your hard hats and let’s go inside.”

“Hey, boss, did you authorize some folks from the church and the architects’ firm to visit the construction site today?”

Paul McEnerney, owner and CEO of McEnerney Construction, one of the biggest building contractors in the Bay Area, puffed on
a cigarette as he listened to Jack Fletcher, calling him on a cellular phone from the job site.

“Don’t need to authorize it, Fletcher—you oughta be able to take care of that yourself.” As the contractor’s job superintendent,
Fletcher supervised the scheduling and coordinating of the work of the many subcontractors, including the painters, plumbers,
electricians, stonemasons, and woodcrafters. He was supposed to be on top of things.