Mistress of the Game

Mistress of the Game Page 27

FELICITY TENNANT WAS DEPRESSED. SHUFFLING OUT TO the mailbox in her pajamas, she did not return her neighbors' cheery waves on this glorious, sunny September morning. Behind Felicity stood the idyllic white clapboard house where she and her husband, David, had lived happily and harmoniously throughout twenty years of marriage. Until last month.

First rule of a happy marriage: Get Your Husband Out of the House.

Ever since David quit his job at Templeton, he'd been moping around at home like a bear with a sore head, getting under Felicity's feet. For reasons Felicity did not understand, they had apparently lost a lot of money. David was even talking about selling the house and moving somewhere more modest. Perhaps even leaving Westchester County.

Over my dead body.

The morning mail did not lift Felicity's spirits. Bills, bills and more bills. There was only one white envelope among the brown and red. (Red bills! The shame of it!) Felicity would have liked to open it, but David got terribly prickly when she opened his mail. Then again, David got terribly prickly about everything at the moment.

"Here." Back in the kitchen, she handed him the letter, along with the bills. "For you."

David Tennant opened the envelope without interest. Since Templeton folded, it was as if a black cloud had descended over his life. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Inside the envelope was a note and a check. David Tennant read both. Twice. Felicity noticed that his hands had started to shake.

"What? What is it?"

He handed her the note.

Dear David, I am sorry this has taken so long. And I'm sorry I was not able to be more open with you. I hope this check will go some way toward restoring your faith in me. Your friend, Lexi

"Humph." Felicity Tennant was unimpressed. "Guilty conscience got the better of her, has it? It's about time. Your friend, indeed! After the way Her Ladyship has treated us."

Silently, David Tennant passed his wife the check.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Felicity Tennant clutched the kitchen table for support.

The check was for $15 million.

It was going to be a good day after all.

Yasmin Ross smiled at her boss when he walked into the office.

"Morning Mr. M. The mail's on your desk, next to the latte and skinny blueberry muffin. I moved the morning meeting to a quarter after so you'd have time to eat something."

Gabe smiled back gratefully

"Yaz, you're an angel."

Poor man. Yasmin watched him go into his office, shoulders slumped, head down. Gabe's smiles didn't fool her, or anybody else at the charity offices. Ever since he'd broken things off with Lexi Templeton, the joy seemed to have drained out of him like air from a punctured tire. Lexi must be crazy, letting him slip through her fingers. I wouldn't kick Gabe McGregor out of my bed, not for any money.

Sitting at his desk, Gabe picked at his muffin. He knew his assistant was worried about him, and her concern touched him. He hadn't been eating well lately. Or sleeping, for that matter. Sighing, he turned his attention to the mail. Every day Gabe received scores of begging letters, asking for gifts from his foundation. Saying no was the part of his work he liked least, but it had to be done. If they spread themselves too thin, they'd achieve nothing. There was still so much work to be done.

Recently Gabe had been saying no even more than usual, thanks to the hole in the charity's funds made by Lexi. Legally, Gabe was obliged to report the theft to the police. But he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. Not yet, anyway.

When he saw the handwriting on the plain white envelope, he choked on his coffee, spraying brown liquid right across the desk. Gabe hadn't heard a word from Lexi since that awful day in the Hamptons.

What could she want? A reconciliation?

Is that what I want, too?

He opened the letter. Except there was no letter. Only a check.

It was for exactly three times the amount Lexi had stolen.

August Sandford was suspicious.

"I don't know, Jim. Who else is going?"

Jim Barnet was the head - ex-head - of Kruger-Brent's manufacturing division. Along with a select group of other divisional heads, Jim had been summoned to a meeting by the firm's receivers. Apparently, a potential cash buyer had come forward, interested in bidding for some of Kruger-Brent's more profitable businesses.

"Me, Mickey. Alan Dawes, I think. Tabitha Crewe."

"Tabitha? They want mining?"

"Apparently. And real estate."

"And nobody has any idea who this mystery benefactor is?"

"Nope. But come on, man. It's not like we're exactly inundated with offers. Most of the market still seems to think we're toxic."

August hung up the phone.

"Who was that, darling?" Leticia, his mistress, rolled over in bed, pressing her soft breasts against his chest. Since Kruger-Brent went bust, August's performance as a lover had dropped off a cliff. It was like there was an invisible thread connecting his dick to his net worth. When one shriveled, so did the other.

"Jim Barnet. Some cash-rich buyer wants to talk to us apparently."

"That's good, right?"

Reaching beneath the Frette sheets, Leticia gently ran her fingers over August's balls. He used to love that in the old days.

"Maybe." August felt the first stirrings of an erection. A good sign? "I hope so."

Mandrake & Connors was one of the largest, most respected accounting firms on Wall Street. In Kruger-Brent's glory days, it'd made a fortune acting for the firm. Now, in an ironic twist of fate, it found itself handling its bankruptcy. Unraveling the accounts of such a vastly complex network of businesses was expected to take months, if not years.

August Sandford sat with five of his former colleagues in one of Mandrake & Connors's conference rooms. A month before, the six Kruger-Brent board members would have called the shots at such a meeting. Today, Whit Barclay, the accountant, was in charge. He was loving every minute of it.

"You all know why you're here."

Whit Barclay was a small man with a weak chin, receding hairline and permanently wet lips. A drone who had made it to the top of his anthill full of drones by the simple expedient of staying in the same job for thirty-two years.

"It goes without saying that everything that is discussed within these four walls today remains strictly confidential."

The Kruger-Brenters murmured their assent.

"A company known as Cedar International has approached us, expressing an interest in a number of Kruger-Brent's more profitable business areas."

"And mining," muttered August Sandford. Tabitha Crewe shot him a venomous look. Everybody knew that Tabitha's division, which had been responsible for Kruger-Brent's gold and diamond mines, was a lame duck.

"Indeed," Whit Barclay averred. "In any event, Cedar International - "

August Sandford interrupted again. "Who are these guys? I'm sorry to piss on everybody's picnic. But has anyone heard of this company?"

"Really, Mr. Sandford. There's no need for coarse language."

"I haven't," said Jim Barnet.

"Me neither." Mickey Robertson and Alan Dawes agreed.

"How do we know they're for real?"

Whit Barclay flushed with anger. He was supposed to be chairing this meeting.

"I can assure you, Cedar International is a legitimate, highly capitalized firm with - "

"Yeah, but who are they? What do they do? They're not active in any of our business areas or we would have heard of them."

The door to the conference room opened. Everybody turned around.

Whit Barclay said stiffly: "Allow me to introduce the CEO of Cedar International."

August Sandford's jaw almost hit the table.

"Hello, August. Everybody." Lexi smiled sweetly. "It's been a while."

Lexi had done her homework. She knew exactly which of Kruger-Brent's businesses were viable and which had become dangerous drains on the firm's resources. She could afford to pick and choose, buying up the cream of the crop at bargain-basement prices. The only area where she'd let her heart rule her head was in mining. Jamie McGregor had built Kruger-Brent on diamonds. Kruger-Brent without a mining division would be like Microsoft without Windows. Besides, she was convinced she could turn the business around, once she'd fired Tabitha Crewe and the rest of the lazy yes-men whom Max had allowed to bleed the company dry.

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 therapy, 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.