Sidney Sheldon's Mistress of the Game (46 page)

Make that two criminals. I’m up to my neck in this now. Too late to turn back.

Gabe thought about Eve Blackwell. How her hatred and bitterness had destroyed so many lives. Would his be one of them? Would his daughter’s?

He heard his father’s voice ringing in his ears, that familiar Scottish brogue:
The Blackwells ruined this family. Thieves, the lot of them, nothing but stinking thieves!

“Are you all right, sir? Can I get you anything?”

Lexi’s a thief. But I love her. I can’t help it.

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

Lieutenant Carey felt his blood pressure start to soar.

“What the hell is with this traffic? Put the sirens on.”

His driver hesitated. “I thought you said we were doing this hush-hush, Chief?”

“Just put the damn sirens on and go already!”

Lieutenant Carey had decided to go to the airport himself. This was too important a job to trust to some minion. If word got out that Lexi Templeton had escaped from police custody—
his
custody—he’d be a laughingstock. He had to keep her from getting on that plane.

At last they arrived. Lieutenant Carey jumped out of the car before it had even stopped.

“It’s gate sixty-two, boss.” Detective Sanchez’s voice crackled through his earpiece.

Lieutenant Carey was running. His cheeks burned, his crumpled suit pants chafed at the waist and his white shirt was soaked with sweat.

Midnight exactly. Had the plane gone already?

The screens were still flashing:
GATE
62,
CLOSING
. A few late-night travelers were milling around. Lieutenant Carey elbowed them out of the way.
Hurry!

He increased his speed, sprinting down the corridor.

Gate 46…52…58…
Gasping for breath, he turned a corner. There it was. Gate 62.

Shit.

Gate 62 was completely deserted.

T
HIRTY
-T
HREE

THE BLOND WOMAN WITH THE BIG SUNGLASSES FELT THE rumble of the plane’s engine as it prepared for takeoff. She gripped the side of her seat.

“Nervous flier?” asked the man sitting next to her.

“Not usually. I’m a little stressed tonight.”

“Don’t be. Just think, tomorrow you’ll be lying on a beach under a palm tree without a care in the world.”

The blond woman thought:
Without a care in the world? Wouldn’t that be nice.

A male steward appeared behind the desk. Lieutenant Carey flashed his badge. He was so breathless he could barely speak.

“I…Police…I need to get on that plane.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the steward began. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. The cabin crew has closed the doors.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Nancy Drew. Now you listen to me. You radio down there and you tell them to open the goddamn doors right now, or I’m personally gonna see to it that you spend the rest of your life wearing your balls as earrings.”

The steward loved a macho man, especially a cop. Unfortunately
this
cop was old enough to be his dad, was fatter than Santa Claus and stank like an overripe Stilton cheese. Not that it would have mattered if he was George Clooney’s twin brother. There was nothing he could do.

“I’m
sorry
, sir. It really is out of my hands.”

He turned and looked out the window. Lieutenant Carey followed his gaze.

The twelve-seater jet was already speeding along the runway. Seconds later, its wings shuddered as it soared into the air.

Bad news travels fast. It took Lieutenant Carey a full minute to wave good-bye to his Hawaiian retirement fantasy. About the same amount of time it took the jet to disappear from sight, its taillights swallowed up by the blackness.

Then he was on the phone.

One hour later, a group of senior Interpol officers was being briefed across the West Indies. A deputation would be sent to meet first Gabe’s flight, then Lexi’s, at Providenciales Airport. Both of them would be arrested on landing and immediately repatriated to the United States. After that, they were the FBI’s problem.

Lieutenant Carey felt the bitterness well up in his chest.

Happy honeymoon, Mrs. McGregor.

I hope they throw away the key.

T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

THE PASSENGERS OF US AIR FLIGHT 28 STREAMED INTO THE arrivals hall at Providenciales Airport in Turks and Caicos looking exhausted. It was almost two-thirty in the morning local time. Mothers with bags under their eyes as big as their suitcases cuddled fractious babies while their husbands struggled with the luggage. The Interpol officer studied them all. He was looking for one baby in particular.

“There they are.”

Emerging through the double doors, the trio was instantly recognizable, despite the silk cravat that the man wore over his nose and mouth. The Interpol officer remembered his brief.

Swedish female, thirty-one, blond, with newborn infant. White-haired male, six foot one.
(Someone had fucked up on that one. This guy couldn’t have been more than five nine on a good day.)
Minimal luggage.

Flanked by three colleagues, the officer stepped forward. He put a hand on Greta Sorensen’s shoulder. Two other officers seized her companion, while a policewoman reached for the baby.

“Excuse me, miss. Sir. We’d like a word.”

The man lowered his cravat to reveal a face crisscrossed with deep wrinkles. The guy must have been in his seventies at least. When he spoke, it was with a pronounced European accent.

“Is something the matter, Officer?”

“You’re not Gabriel McGregor!”

Paolo Cozmici smiled. “Indeed I’m not. Didn’t the airline tell you?”

“Tell us what?”

“That I’d be flying in Mr. McGregor’s stead. It’s quite aboveboard, I can assure you, Officer. It’s the blasted paparazzi, you see. They follow Gabe and Lexi everywhere. It got so bad with the wedding that they decided to leak false honeymoon details to the press, to throw them off the scent.”

“To throw the
press
off the scent?” The Interpol officer rolled his eyes. Was this guy for real?

“That’s right. US Air was most helpful about it all.” Paolo looked pleased with himself. “Greta and I are
decoys
! Isn’t it fabulous?”

Oh yeah. It’s fabulous, all right.

“Sir.” The female officer tapped her boss on the shoulder.

“Not now, Linda.” He turned back to Paolo. “So you’re telling me if I called US Air’s head office right now, they’d know all about this little scam of yours?”

“Absolutely.” Paolo chuckled. “I thought it was rather ingenious.”

“Sorry, sir,” said the policewoman. “But I really think you should take a look at this.” She passed him the swaddled bundle that Greta Sorensen had obligingly handed her a moment before. The Interpol officer’s eyes widened.
Jesus Christ.

There was no baby.

Inside the tightly wrapped pink blankets was a life-size plastic doll.

Gabe felt a sharp
bump
as the plane’s landing gear hit the runway. In his arms, the real baby Max was screaming her head off.

“She’ll be fine in a minute,” said the attendant helpfully. Catherine Blake had only recently been hired to work on Gabe and Lexi’s private jet. She wanted her new boss to like her. “I’ll get her a bottle of something. Once she starts to swallow, her ears’ll pop.”

“Will they? Okay,” Gabe shouted back over the din. “Let’s give that a try.”

Rocking his daughter in his arms, he wished Lexi were there. She’d know what to do.

“How long till we take off again?”

“Not long, sir. We should refuel in forty minutes or so. The pilot will let you know our next takeoff slot.”

“Okay.”

Gabe sighed. He just wanted this whole thing to be over.

When the second plane landed in Turks and Caicos an hour later, the Interpol officer was there to meet it.

“Jennifer Wilson?”

“Yes, sir?” The blond woman smiled politely.

“Would you take your dark glasses off, please, ma’am.”

“Certainly.”

She was pretty. Definitely a looker.

But she was no Lexi Templeton.

Nor was she a criminal mastermind. Jennifer Wilson was just a secretary who’d worked for Kruger-Brent for years. Lexi Templeton had picked a name she knew for her alias. But that was no big surprise. Most people did. The
original
Jennifer Wilson had no idea what she was getting into when she accepted Gabe’s offer of a free, all-expenses-paid vacation. A reward for her long, loyal service.

“Am I in some sort of trouble?” Jennifer Wilson’s face crumpled with anxiety. The policeman looked pissed

“No, ma’am.” The Interpol officer sighed. “But someone sure as hell is.”

Interpol blamed the local police. The local police blamed the FBI.
Why had nobody checked with the airline?
Everybody blamed John Carey, the schmuck in Maine who’d let Lexi slip through his fingers.

On a conference call in the early hours of the morning, the senior FBI agent in charge of the case mused aloud.

“You’ve just pulled off one of the biggest financial frauds in U.S. history. You have one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. You’re on the run with your equally recognizable husband and your newborn baby. Where the hell do you go?”

From somewhere on the other side of the world, a lone voice echoed down the phone line.

“Somewhere that has no extradition treaty with the United States.”

“Preferably with white-sand beaches, palm trees and a decent five-star hotel,” piped up another joker. Everybody laughed.

The FBI agent was silent for a moment. Then he laughed, too. It was staring him in the face.

Of course.

I know exactly where they are
.

T
HIRTY
-F
IVE

24 H
OURS
L
ATER

SUNLIGHT FLOODED THE WHITEWASHED ROOM. GABE opened his eyes and quickly closed them again. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon. You’ve been asleep for hours.”

Lexi was walking around the room naked, opening the wooden shutters. Outside, the Indian Ocean lapped at the sand. Their private beachfront villa had spectacular views of the ocean on one side and of the paradise island of Ihuru on the other. Lexi had bought the house years ago for a song, back when property in the Maldives had crashed. Now it was once again a valuable piece of real estate.

Not valuable. Priceless.

There were about fifty countries around the world that did not have extradition treaties with the United States. Unfortunately for Lexi, most of them were either impossible to get to, especially at short notice, or were the sort of backward, festering dumps that made the idea of a stretch in federal prison start to look appealing. Lexi had no intention of raising Maxine in a refugee camp in Cambodia, or winding up as an exotic item on the menu in Equatorial Guinea.

And why should I when I have the perfect honeymoon house sitting waiting for me?

“Where’s Max?” Gabe sat bolt upright in bed. He was sweating. “The crib’s empty! Someone’s taken her!”

“Relax.” Lexi came over and kissed him. “She’s downstairs with the housekeeper. We’re safe here, darling. We’re together. You don’t have to worry anymore.” Pulling back the sheet, she slipped into bed beside him.

“Let’s make love.”

It was their first time as husband and wife and it was beautiful. By rights, Lexi should have felt tired. It had taken a day and a half to get there. Thirty-six hours in which she’d eaten nothing and not slept more than a few snatched minutes.

After Danny French sailed her safely to the mainland, he drove two hours into rural Maine to a friend’s farm. From there, Lexi hitched a ride on a single-engine crop duster to a larger, private airfield where a jet was waiting to fly her to Le Touquet in northern France. Then it was on to London, switching planes again before the longest leg of the journey.

Gabe was already in the villa when Lexi arrived, passed out on the bed with one arm draped protectively over Max’s crib. She touched his arm and he awoke, hugging her tight, his relief too profound for words. Seconds later, they were both deeply asleep.

Now, lying naked in Gabe’s arms, their lovemaking over, Lexi felt more awake and more alive than she had ever felt in her life. There was so much to
do
. She sprang out of bed and opened the closet, looking for something to put on. None of the clothes looked familiar. She hadn’t been to the house in years.

“What’s your hurry?” Gabe yawned, watching her discard one dress after another. “You’re supposed to be on a honeymoon, remember?”

“I know, honey. But I have a lunch meeting at the Angsana Resort. I can’t show up for it naked.” Settling on a plain brown sundress, Lexi slipped it over her head.

“A
lunch meeting? Here?
Are you serious? Who with, for God’s sake?”

“With my lawyer, of course,” said Lexi. “He checked into the hotel last night, just like we arranged. If anyone can prove my innocence, it’s Mark Hambly.”

“Darling,” Gabe reminded her gently. “You
aren’t
innocent.”

Lexi looked at him reproachfully. “Whose side are you on?”

Mark Hambly sipped his chilled Chablis and handed Lexi the latest copy of the
Wall Street Journal.

“Congratulations. You made the front page.”

Lexi scanned the article impassively. As usual, the
Journal
was frighteningly accurate on the facts. She was more interested in the picture. Some bright young thing had gotten ahold of a shot of Lexi in her wedding dress. She looked stunning.
I was so right to go vintage
. She returned the paper.