Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game

Copyright

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Sheldon Family Limited Partnership 2009

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN 9780007304509

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2009 ISBN 9780007351626

Version 2015–01–08

Dedication

For Alexandra Sheldon,with love and thanks.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Book One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Book Two

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

About the Authors

Also by the Authors

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Lexi Templeton’s hands trembled as she read the letter. Sitting on the bed in her wedding dress, in what had once been her great-grandmother’s bedroom, her quick mind began to race.

Think. You don’t have much time.

What would Kate Blackwell have done?

At forty-one, Lexi Templeton was still a beautiful woman. Her lustrous blonde hair was untouched by gray and her slim, petite figure showed no sign of her recent pregnancy. She’d been determined to get her killer body back before her wedding. She wanted to do justice to her vintage Monique Lhuillier gown, a clinging column of finest ivory-white lace. And she had.

Earlier, the hundred or so wedding guests gathered at Cedar Hill House, the Blackwell family’s legendary Maine estate, had gasped when Lexi Templeton appeared on the lawn arm in arm with her father. Talk about beauty and the beast. Peter Templeton, Lexi’s father, once an eminent psychiatrist and one of New York’s most eligible bachelors in his day, was now an old man. Frail, bent almost double with age and grief, Peter Templeton lead his beautiful daughter towards the rose-covered altar.

I can go now. I can go to join my darling Alexandra. Our little girl is happy at last, he thought to himself.

He was right. Lexi Templeton was happy. She knew she looked radiant. She was marrying the man she loved, surrounded by family and friends. Only one person was missing. That person would never witness another of Lexi’s triumphs. He would never delight in another of her failures. His life and Lexi’s had been intertwined since birth, like the tangled roots of a great tree. But now he was gone, never to return. Despite everything that had happened, Lexi missed him.

Can you see me, Max darling? Are you watching? Are you sorry now?

For a moment, Lexi Templeton felt a pang of loss. Then she laid eyes on her husband-to-be, and all her regrets evaporated. Today was going to be perfect. The cliché. The fairy tale. The happiest day of her life.

The President of the United States was unable to make the wedding. There was a small matter of a war in the Middle East. But he had sent a congratulatory telegram, which Lexi’s brother Robbie read aloud when the newlyweds cut the cake. And everybody else was there. Captains of industry, prime ministers, royalty, movie stars. As chairwoman of the mighty Kruger-Brent, Limited, Lexi Templeton was American royalty. She looked like a queen because she was one. She had it all: great beauty, immense wealth and power that stretched to the four corners of the globe. Now, thanks to her new husband, she had love, too.

But she also had enemies. Powerful enemies. One of whom was determined to destroy her, even from beyond the grave.

Lexi read the letter again.

I know what you’ve done. I know everything.

The net was closing in. Lexi felt the fear churn in her stomach like curdled milk.

There must be a way out of this. There’s always a way. I will not go to prison. I will not lose Kruger-Brent. I will not lose my family. Think!

A few hours earlier the Governor of Maine had made a speech about Lexi at the reception.

‘… a remarkable woman, from a remarkable family. Lexi Templeton’s personal courage and integrity are known to all of us. Her spirit, her determination, her business acumen, her honesty …’

Honesty? If only they knew!

‘… these make up the public face of Lexi Templeton. But today, we’re here to celebrate something else. A very private joy. A very private love. And a love that those of us who know Lexi know she so richly deserves.’

None of you knows me. Not even my husband. I don’t ‘deserve’ his love. But I fought for it, and I won it, and I’m damned if I’m going to let anyone take it away from me. Least of all you.

Now most of the guests had gone. Lexi’s brother Robbie and his partner were still downstairs. So was Lexi’s baby daughter, Maxine, and the nanny. Any moment now Lexi’s husband would come looking for her. It was time to leave for their honeymoon.

It was time …

Lexi Templeton walked over to the window. Beyond the formal lawns of Cedar Hill House she could see the closely huddled white roofs of Dark Harbor, and behind them the dark, brooding sea. This evening the roiling water looked unusually ominous.

It’s waiting. One day it will swallow the island whole. A big wave will come and wipe everything out. As if none of this ever existed.

Two men in suits got out of their car and approached the security gate. Even before they pulled out their badges, Lexi Templeton knew who they were. It was just like it said in the letter: The police are on their way. You have no way out Alexandra. Not this time.

Tears stung the back of Lexi’s eyes. She could hear her Aunt Eve’s voice as clearly as if she were still alive, taunting her, laden with spite. Was she right? Was this really it? The end of the game? After all Lexi’s struggles? She remembered a Dylan Thomas poem she’d learned at school: ‘Do not go gentle into that good night … Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’

Damn right I’ll rage. I’ll not let that old witch beat me without a fight.

The cops were through the gate now. They were almost at the door.

Lexi Templeton took a deep breath and went downstairs to meet them.

1

Dark Harbor, Maine

1984

Danny Corretti looked down through the branches at the swirling mass of people below and felt gripped by a wave of vertigo.

‘What the hell are we doing here?’

Closing his eyes, he tightened his grip around the ancient yew tree, making sure both he and his camera remained concealed in the thick green foliage.

‘Making money,’ his companion whispered excitedly. ‘Look, there she is!’

‘Where?’

Following his friend’s line of vision, Danny Corretti trained his zoom lens on a figure huddled in the very center of the crowd of mourners. Dressed head-to-toe in black, with a thick, floor-length lace mantilla covering her immaculately cut Dior suit, it was impossible to make out her face. She could have been anyone. But she wasn’t anyone.

‘Are you kidding me?’ Danny Corretti frowned. Below him the churchyard seemed to lurch ominously, the ancient graves rising and falling like horses on a ghoulish carousel. ‘I can’t see shit. Are you sure it’s her? It could be Johnny Carson under all that lace.’

His companion grinned. ‘Not with that ass it couldn’t. It’s her all right.’

From the tree to his left, Danny Corretti heard the low whirr, whirr, click of a rival camera. Re-focusing his zoom, he began to shoot.

Come on baby. Give daddy a smile.

A clear shot of Eve Blackwell’s face would be worth a cool hundred grand to whichever photographer got there first. Anyone skilled enough to capture her elusive baby bump could expect to earn twice that.

Two hundred grand!

Not a lot of money to the Blackwells perhaps, heirs to the multi-billion-dollar Kruger-Brent, Limited, the diamond empire turned vast, multinational conglomerate that had made them the richest family in America; but a fortune to Danny Corretti. It was the Blackwells who had brought Danny and his fellow paparazzi to St Stephen’s churchyard on this chill February morning. They had come to bury their matriarch, Kate Blackwell, dead at last at the grand old age of ninety-two.

Look at them. Like bloated black flies, swarming around the old lady’s corpse. Revolting.

Danny Corretti felt his nausea return, but tried not to think about it, nor about the excruciating pain in his back from being stuck up a tree for six straight hours. He longed to stretch out, but didn’t dare move a muscle, in case he alerted the Kruger-Brent security guards to his presence. Watching the dour, black-clad figures pace the perimeter of the churchyard, pistols clutched like security blankets to their ex-marine-corps chests, Danny Corretti felt a stab of fear. He doubted Kate Blackwell had hired any of them for their sense of humor.

You’ll be OK. Just get the shot and get out of here. Come on Eve, baby. Say cheese.

Danny Corretti wasn’t really cut out for this sort of covert work. A tall, skinny man with preternaturally long legs and an unexpected shock of white-blond hair above his Italian, olive complexion, there weren’t too many hiding places in the Maine churchyard that could accommodate his lanky, six-foot-two frame. The yew tree had been his best option, but he’d had to arrive ludicrously early this morning to beat his rival snappers to such a coveted vantage point. Clinging to the upper branches now, every sinew of his body felt as if it were on fire, despite the numbing cold of the day. He gritted his teeth, cursing his long legs to the heavens.

Just think of the money.

Ironically, if it weren’t for his long legs, Danny wouldn’t have been on this crazy job in the first place.

If it hadn’t been for Danny’s long legs, his mistress’s husband would never have noticed his size twelve feet sticking out from under the marital bed.

Ah, Carla. God, she was beautiful! Those breasts, as soft and succulent as two ripe peaches. No man could resist her. If only that Neanderthal she married hadn’t clocked off early …

It was Danny’s long legs that had gotten him beaten to a pulp and landed him (uninsured) in the local hospital. Thanks to his long legs, his wife Loretta had discovered his affair, divorced him and taken the house. Now, thanks to his long legs, Loretta’s rat-faced lawyer was demanding Danny pay maintenance to the tune of a thousand bucks a month.

A thousand bucks? Who did they think he was, Donald frikkin’ Trump?

Yes, Danny blamed his long legs entirely for his current predicament. Why else would he be spending his Sunday morning bent double and freezing his ass off in a four-hundred-year-old tree above a graveyard, risking his neck for one lousy picture of the woman the tabloids had dubbed ‘The Beast of the Blackwells’?

Danny Corretti’s long legs had a lot to answer for.

He was going to get that shot of Eve Blackwell if it killed him.

The priest’s voice rang out through the February chill, deep and strong and powerful.

‘Merciful God, you know the anguish of the sorrowful …’

Behind her thick veil, Eve Blackwell sneered. Sorrowful? To see that old witch dead and buried? Please. If I were ten years younger I’d be doing cartwheels.

Today Eve was burying one of her enemies. But she would not rest until she had buried them all.

One down, three to go.

‘You are attentive to the prayers of the humble …’

Eve Blackwell glanced around at the small group of family and friends who had come to bid her grandmother Kate farewell, and wondered if any of them could be described as humble.

There was her identical twin sister Alexandra. At thirty-four Alexandra was still a great beauty with her high cheekbones, mane of buttermilk hair, and the striking gray eyes she had inherited from her great-grandfather, Kruger-Brent’s founder, Jamie McGregor.

Eve’s eyes narrowed with hatred. The same hatred she had felt for her twin since the day they emerged from the womb.

How dare she! How dare my sister still look beautiful.

Alexandra was weeping openly, clutching tightly to her son Robert’s hand. Blond, delicate and sweet natured, ten-year-old Robert was a carbon copy of his mother. A gifted pianist, he had been Kate Blackwell’s favorite, and Kruger-Brent’s heir apparent.

Not for much longer, thought Eve. Let’s see how long the boy lasts without Kate around to protect him.

Eve Blackwell felt her chest tighten. How she loathed the pair of them, mother and son and their crocodile tears! If only it were Alexandra’s body being lowered into the gaping, frozen earth today. Then Eve’s happiness would truly be complete.

Beside Alexandra hovered her husband, the renowned psychiatrist Peter Templeton. Tall, dark, handsome and blue-eyed, Peter Templeton looked more like a quarterback than a psychiatrist. He and Alex made a handsome couple. Peter had once been arrogant enough to think he understood Eve. He believed he’d seen through her, through to the molten core of hatred that bubbled deep within. Alexandra, in her goodness, had never been able to see how much her twin sister hated her. But her husband knew better.

Eve smiled.

Vain fool. He thinks he knows me, but he’s barely scratched the surface.

No, the priest would find no humility in Peter Templeton.

What about her own husband, the eminent plastic surgeon Keith Webster? Many people thought of Keith Webster as humble. Eve could hear his grateful patients now: ‘Dear Dr Webster, such a gifted surgeon, but so shy and unassuming about his talents.’ Eve felt her flesh creep as Keith wrapped a protective, conjugal arm around her shoulder.

Protective? He’s not protective. He’s possessive. And psychotic. He blackmailed me into marriage, then deliberately destroyed my face, carving up my beautiful features and turning me into this grotesque, this carnival freak show. All so that I wouldn’t leave him.

One day I’ll make that bastard pay for what he’s done.

Eve Blackwell was many things, but she was not stupid. She knew that the trees and bushes around St Stephen’s Church were alive with photographers, and she knew why: they all wanted a picture of her hideously ravaged face.

Well they could go to hell, the lot of them. From behind, you could still make out Eve’s perfect, womanly figure. But her front side was completely concealed. No lens on earth could penetrate the thick, hand-woven lace of her veil. Eve had made sure of it.

Once a great beauty like her sister, in recent years Eve Blackwell had become a virtual recluse in her Manhattan penthouse, terrified of showing her monstrously scarred face to the world. Indeed, she had not been seen in public for two years. The last time was at her grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party at Cedar Hill House, the Blackwell family’s private Camelot, just yards from where the old woman was now being laid to rest.

Kate Blackwell was the lucky one. She’d gone to join her beloved ghosts: Jamie, Margaret, Banda, David, the spirits of Kruger-Brent’s long and violent African past. But there was to be no such rest for Eve. With rumors already flying about her pregnancy – Eve and Alexandra Blackwell were both expecting, but the family had refused to confirm this to the press – Eve was well aware that the price on her head had doubled. There wasn’t a tabloid editor in America who wouldn’t sell his soul for a half decent picture of The Beast of the Blackwells with child.

And to think, they call me a monster …

‘Lord, hear your people, who cry out to you in their need …’

Eve watched silently as Kate Blackwell’s coffin was lowered into the freshly dug grave. Brad Rogers, Kate’s number two at Kruger-Brent for three decades, stifled a sob. Now a very old man himself, his hair as white and thin as the dusting of February snow beneath his feet, Brad Rogers had been all but broken by Kate’s death. Secretly he had loved her for years. But it was a love she could never return.

How tiny she is! thought Eve in wonder, as the pathetic wooden box disappeared into the bowels of the earth. Kate Blackwell, who had loomed so large in life, fêted by presidents and kings. How insignificant she was, in the end.

Not much of a feast for the worms of your beloved Dark Harbor, are you Granny?

For years Kate Blackwell had been Eve’s nemesis. She’d done everything in her power to prevent her wicked granddaughter from achieving her life’s ambition – taking control of the family firm, the mighty Kruger-Brent.

But now Kate Blackwell was gone.

‘Eternal rest grant to her, oh Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon her.’

Good riddance, you vengeful old bitch. I hope you rot in hell.

‘May she rest in peace.’

Danny Corretti looked miserably at the negatives in front of him. His back was still killing him after this morning, and now he felt a migraine coming on.

‘D’you get anything?’

His friend tried to sound hopeful. But he already knew the answer.

None of them had got the two-hundred-thousand-dollar picture.

Eve Blackwell had outsmarted them all.

2

In the maternity unit at New York’s Mount Sinai Medical Center, Staff Nurse Gaynor Matthews watched the handsome, middle-aged father take his newborn child in his arms for the first time.

He was gazing at the baby girl, oblivious to everything around him. Nurse Matthews thought: He’s thinking how beautiful she is.

Nurse Matthews was pleasantly plump, with a round, open face and a ready smile that accentuated the twin fans of lines around her eyes. A midwife for more than a decade, she’d seen this moment played out thousands of times – hundreds of them in this very room – but she never tired of it. Besotted dads, their eyes lighting up with love, the purest love they would ever know. Moments like these made midwifery worthwhile. Worth the grinding hours. Worth the crappy pay. Worth the patronizing male obstetricians who thought of themselves as gods just because they had a medical degree and a penis.

Worth the rare moments of tragedy.

The father gently caressed his baby’s cheek. He was a beautiful man, Nurse Matthews decided. Tall, dark, broad shouldered, a classic jock. Just the way she liked them.

She blushed. What on earth was she doing? She had no right to think such things. Not at a time like this.

The father thought: Jesus Christ. She’s so like her mother.

It was true. The little girl’s skin was the same delicate, translucent peach as the girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Her big, inquisitive eyes were the same pale gray, like dawn mist rolling off the ocean. Even her dimpled chin was her mother in miniature. For a split second, the father’s heart leaped at the sight of her, an involuntary smile playing around his lips.

His daughter. Their daughter. So tiny. So perfect.

Then he looked down at the blood on his hands.

And screamed.

Alex had been so excited that morning, when Peter drove her to the hospital.

‘Can you believe that in a few short hours she’ll be here?’

She was still in her pajamas, her long blonde hair tangled after a fitful night’s sleep, but he didn’t think she’d ever looked more luminous. She wore a grin wider than the Lincoln tunnel, and if she was nervous, she didn’t show it.

‘We’re finally going to meet her!’

‘Or him.’ He reached over to the passenger seat and squeezed his wife’s hand.

‘Uh uh. No way. It’s a girl. I know it.’

She’d woken up around six with fairly mild contractions, and insisted on waiting a further two hours before she would let him drive her to Mount Sinai. Two hours in which Peter Templeton had walked up and down the stairs of their West Village brownstone sixteen times, made four unwanted cups of coffee, burned three slices of toast, and yelled at his son Robert for not being ready for school on time, before being reminded by the housekeeper that it was in fact mid July, and school had been out for the last five weeks.

Even at the hospital Peter flapped around uselessly like a mother hen.

‘Can I get you anything? A hot towel?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Water?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Crushed ice cubes?’

‘Peter …’

‘What about that meditation music you’re always playing? That’s calming, right? I could run to the car and get the tape?’

Alex laughed. She was astonishingly calm.

‘I think you need it more than I do. Honestly darling, you must try to relax. I’m having a baby. Women do this every day. I’ll be fine.’

I’ll be fine.

The first problems began about an hour later. The midwife frowned at one of the monitors. Its green line had begun rising in sudden, jagged leaps.

‘Stand back please, Dr Templeton.’