Sidney Sheldon's Mistress of the Game (41 page)

Once word got out that Lexi Templeton had bought the Kruger-Brent name and was rebuilding the firm, the press went wild for the story.

BLACKWELL BEAUTY BUYS BACK BUSINESS

KRUGER-BRENT RISES FROM ASHES

LEXI CLINCHES LAST-MINUTE DEAL

The American public didn’t think to question where Lexi had found the money for her epic business-buying spree. She was a Blackwell. Of course she was rich. Those closer to her were more suspicious.

“What’d you do? Rob a bank?” asked Robbie.

Lexi was coy. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

August, who had some idea how much money Lexi ought to have lost when her Kruger-Brent stock got wiped out, was even more perplexed. But he didn’t dare bring up the subject. Lexi had thrown him a lifeline. He was in no hurry to start cutting the rope.

One night in October, August and Lexi were working late, going through their European property portfolio. The smaller, leaner
Kruger-Brent now operated out of Templeton’s old offices. They were a lot less grand, but half the price, a proposition that worked for August. Sitting on the floor of Lexi’s office amid a sea of paperwork—the new furniture had yet to arrive—they were both starting to get tired.

“All right. Italy.” August yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I say we keep the commercial stuff and ditch the residential.”

“Agreed.” Lexi put her hand over her mouth. “Oh God.”

“What?”

She staggered to her feet. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

She came back from the bathroom a few minutes later looking white as a sheet.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. I think I’m a little exhausted. Stress. Whatever.”

August remembered his conversation with Max Webster the day their shares started crashing.
I’m fine. These Blackwells wouldn’t know “fine” if it bit them in the ass.
No one had seen Max since the firm went under. Rumors were rife that he’d had a complete mental breakdown. August Sandford could well believe it.

“You should see a doctor,” he told Lexi.

“I’m fine.” She picked up the next bulging file. “Romania. Are we in or out?”

“Out. You should see a doctor.”

Lexi rolled her eyes. “If I still feel bad on Monday, I’ll go, okay?”

Lexi had no intention of seeing a doctor. For one thing, she didn’t have time. For another, medical science had yet to come up with a cure for heartbreak.

Running Kruger-Brent was all Lexi had ever wanted. She’d risked everything to beat Max, and she’d done it. She’d won. But without Gabe to share it, her victory felt joyless and empty: a beautifully wrapped birthday present with nothing inside.

Sleep, that’s what I need. And a vacation.

It was the stress. Stress made people sick all the time, right? If anyone found out that she and Carl had deliberately manipulated Kruger-Brent’s share price, they could both be looking at a decade in jail.

That’s what’s making me nauseous. Not Gabriel stupid McGregor.

George and Edward Webster found their mother in the garden.

“Mommy,” said George. “Daddy’s got a tummy ache.”

“I think he needs some pink medicine,” added Edward.

Annabel put down her gardening shears. Gardening was her ther
apy, her escape. Since Kruger-Brent’s collapse, she’d retreated to her rose beds more and more frequently, unable to bear watching Max tear himself apart with guilt. It was Eve’s disappointment that haunted him most. Tortured by the idea that he’d let his mother down, Max longed for her forgiveness. But of course, the crazy old bitch hadn’t called or returned a single one of Max’s calls.

“What were you doing in Daddy’s room? I told you not to go in there. Your father needs to rest.”

George said indignantly: “We didn’t go in.”

“He was lying on the floor in the hallway,” Edward explained. “We had to step over him to get our boots. Didn’t we, George?”

Annabel wasn’t listening. Running across the yard to the house, her face and hands smeared with soil, she found Max curled up in a fetal position on the floor, groaning.

“Darling! Max. What did you do? Have you taken something? MAX!”

She shook him hard. Max mumbled incoherently in response. Annabel could only catch a few words. “Eve…Keith…she made me do it…” Frantically, Annabel searched Max’s pockets for pills.

“Please, honey. Tell me what you’ve taken.” But it was no good. Leaving him clutching his stomach and moaning into the carpet, she dialed 911.

“The good news is there’s nothing physically wrong with him, Mrs. Webster.”

Annabel tried to focus on the psychiatrist’s words. She was sitting in an office on the ground floor of a private sanatorium. It was a calming room, painted a restful sky-blue, with a large window overlooking the gardens. The psychiatrist, Dr. Granville, was about Annabel’s age, blond-haired and handsome in a preppy, unthreatening sort of way. He seemed kind. At the general hospital, the staff had been too busy to reassure her. All their focus had been on Max. Understandably. By the time Annabel got him to the ER, he’d started having seizures, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. He had to be sedated before the doctors could examine him. It was awful.

“There was no overdose. No attempt at self-harm. That’s good, too.”

Right. It’s all good. It’s all completely fabulous.

“So what
is
wrong with him?” Annabel wrung her hands despairingly.

“Try to think of his body as an electrical circuit, with the brain as its
center. Your husband’s circuit simply overheated. All the fuses blew at once.”

“A nervous breakdown?”

Dr. Granville grimaced. “I don’t like that term. I wouldn’t describe your husband’s symptoms as a nervous condition. He is deeply depressed. I believe he may have lived with untreated schizophrenia for many years. There appear to be repressed memories—”

Annabel interrupted. “What can you
do
?”

Schizophrenia…depression…these were just useless labels. She wanted to know that Max was going to get better.

Dr. Granville was sympathetic. “I know it’s very difficult. You want answers, and I don’t have them for you. Eventually we will put him on drug treatment and into therapy. With the right combination of medication, symptoms can often be effectively managed.”

“But not cured?”

Dr. Granville looked at the beautiful, exhausted woman in front of him and wished with all his heart he had the magic wand she needed.

“No one can be cured of being who they are, Mrs. Webster.”

For the next two weeks, there was no change in Max’s condition.

Annabel begged Eve to come and visit him.

“He asks for you constantly. For God’s sake, Eve, he’s your son! Whatever he’s done, or not done, whatever happened at Kruger-Brent, can’t you forgive him?”

But the old woman’s brain was as addled as her son’s. Max was her husband, Keith. Max was her sister’s husband, George Mellis. Max had raped her, disfigured her, stolen Kruger-Brent from her.

“Don’t speak his name to me!” Eve screeched at Annabel on the phone. “He’s dead, dead and gone, and I hope he burns in hell!”

Stripping off his pajamas, Max felt peaceful. He was going to see his mother at last. Everything would be all right.

He made rips in the sleeves and pant legs with a loose bedspring and began to tear. He should never have slept with Lexi. That was when the poison got into his system. He’d been unfaithful to his mother. That’s why Kruger-Brent had been taken from him. He was no longer clean.

Calmly, methodically, he tied the strips of fabric together using a
true lover’s knot, a camping knot that his father had taught him in South Africa when he was a little boy.

Come here, Max. Let me show you.

He had to remember to teach the knot to Edward and George. They’d go camping next summer. It’d be a blast. Now that he wasn’t working, he’d have more time for the family.
My darling boys.

Standing on the bed on tiptoes, naked, Max threw the knotted fabric over the ceiling beam. The noose felt wonderful against his neck, caressing his skin like a lover’s fingers. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back. His eighth birthday. The gun.

What is it?

Open it and find out.

Eve’s voice was low and sensual.

You’re too old for toys. Keith doesn’t understand that, but I do.

Max smelled her perfume. Chanel.

Do you like it?

His head was pressed against her soft breasts, breathing her in, adoring her.

I love it, Mommy. I love you.

Smiling beatifically, Max leaped into his mother’s arms.

T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

LEXI SAT ALONE IN THE DOCTOR’S WAITING ROOM, GLANCING impatiently at her BlackBerry. How much longer were they going to keep her waiting? Didn’t they realize she had a business to run?

It was late October, ten days after Max Webster’s shocking suicide, and New York had suddenly plunged headlong into winter. In other years, Lexi’s spirits always lifted with the first frost. She loved the cold bite of the air on the city streets, the smell of the chestnut vendors outside her building, the blinding glare of winter sunlight in the crisp ice-blue sky. It roused some childish excitement in her: the promise of Christmas, Santa Claus, brightly wrapped boxes and ribbons, wood smoke, cinnamon. This year, however, the New York cold seemed to have seeped into her bones. She felt drained. Listless. Max’s death had neither elated nor shattered her. She was numbed with a cold that froze from the inside out, from her heart to the tips of her Gucci-gloved fingers.

“Ms. Templeton?”

The receptionist was a plump black woman dressed from head to toe in orange. Even her cheap plastic earrings were Halloween-hued. She tapped Lexi on the shoulder.

“We’ve been calling you, ma’am. Dr. Neale will see you now.”

Dr. Perregrine Neale had known Lexi Templeton since she was a child. A keen tennis player in his midsixties, he prided himself on his still-trim figure. With his distinguished gray hair, deep voice and strong, masculine features, Perry Neale was particularly popular with middle-aged women patients; a category to which Lexi now technically belonged, although looking at her clear skin and blond hair without so much as a hint of gray, it was hard to believe she was forty years old.

“Come in, Lexi. Have a seat.”

“I won’t, if you don’t mind, Perry. I’m in kind of a rush. If you could just let me have my test results and a prescription, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Perregrine Neale gestured to the Ralph Lauren armchair in the corner. “Please. This won’t take long. You look tired.”

Lexi sat down.

“I am tired. That’s why I’m here. I’m sick and tired of being tired.”

Perregrine Neale laughed.

“That’s to be expected. The first trimester is often the most exhausting.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said it’s normal to feel excessively tired in the early stages of a pregnancy. You’re pregnant, Lexi.”

Now it was Lexi’s turn to laugh. “I don’t think so, Perry. You must have mixed my blood sample with someone else’s. Not to put too fine a point on it, I haven’t had sex in months. Not to mention the fact that I’m forty years old and I’ve been on the pill since dinosaurs roamed the earth!”

“Be that as it may, you’re pregnant. I would estimate you’re about three months gone. We’ll have to do a scan to be sure.”

Perregrine Neale’s face was deadly serious. Lexi was suddenly glad she was sitting down. Cold beads of sweat began to roll down her spine. She gripped the sides of the chair, fighting back a rising tide of nausea.

“I can’t be pregnant.”

Painfully, she cast her mind back to the last time she and Gabe had slept together. It was two weeks before she made her move on Kruger-Brent. How long ago was that? She’d come home late, wound up like a clockwork toy after a tense, secret meeting with Carl Kolepp. When Gabe tried to touch her, Lexi pushed him away. But for once, he’d forced the issue, stroking and exciting her as only he could, bringing her
to orgasm twice before finally pushing himself inside her, obliterating the tension from her mind and body.

Perregrine Neale was still talking.

“…twelve weeks…nuchal scan…baby’s neck measurements…” His voice washed over Lexi like an echo, distant and unreal. “…older first-time mothers…elevated risk…”

“No.”

Lexi spoke so softly that at first the doctor didn’t hear her.

“What did you say?”

“I said NO!” This time the panic in her voice was unmistakable. “I can’t be pregnant.”

“Lexi. You
are
pregnant.”

“I mean I can’t…I can’t have a baby. I can’t go through with it.”

Perregrine Neale paused. “You want to terminate?”

Lexi nodded.

“I can arrange that, of course. But don’t make any rushed decisions. Clearly, the pregnancy was unexpected. Perhaps if you gave yourself a chance to get used to the idea—”

“No.” Lexi shook her head fervently. Her mind was filled with images of Gabe, his face, his body. Forcibly, she pushed them out, screwing her eyes closed. “I can’t do it, Perry. There’s work. Kruger-Brent. We’re only just starting to rebuild. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

“Lexi, please don’t take this the wrong way. But you’re forty years old. You may not get another chance at pregnancy, at least not naturally. There’s always IVF, of course, but statistically the odds are not great.”

“I don’t want another chance.” Lexi stood up. She was shaking, but her voice was firm. “I don’t want children, Perry. Please set up a termination as soon as possible.”

She walked out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

Gabe McGregor sat on the veranda of his new Cape Town apartment, lost in thought. Maybe he should have waited? Shopped around a bit before signing the lease? It was the first place the real-estate agent had shown him that met his requirements: private, not too big, excellent security, ocean views. Gabe had signed on the dotted line within a minute of walking through the door.