Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game

At first Eve had been angry, of course. He’d expected that. But now she saw things clearly. He had to do it. He had no choice. As long as Eve remained so mesmerizingly, intoxicatingly beautiful, he was at risk of losing her. Losing her to other, less worthy men, men who could never love her the way that he did. Men like George Mellis, who had once beaten Eve so badly she had almost died. Keith Webster had restored her looks after that attack. It was the day they met. Eve had been so deliciously grateful afterwards, he’d fallen in love with her on the spot.

But what Keith Webster giveth, Keith Webster could also taketh away.

It was a lesson Eve needed to learn.

Others might find his wife’s grotesquely scarred features repellant, but not Keith Webster. In his eyes, Eve would always be beautiful. The most beautiful creature on earth.

Keith Webster had no illusions about his own appearance. When he looked in the mirror he saw a slight, short-sighted man with only a few wisps of sandy hair left clinging to his otherwise bald head, like seaweed on a bare rock. Women had never been interested in him, period, never mind women as insanely attractive as Eve Blackwell. He’d felt no compunction at the time about blackmailing Eve into marriage (Keith knew she had murdered George Mellis, and threatened to go to the police if she didn’t marry him) and he felt no guilt about it now. After all, how else was he supposed to possess her? To fulfill her destiny, and his own?

Once again, Eve had given him no choice.

Resting a loving hand on her baby bump, Keith felt replete with happiness. Terrified of being photographed and ridiculed like a carnival sideshow, Eve had become a virtual prisoner in their penthouse apartment since he ‘recreated’ her, as he liked to think of it. With nothing to do with the long, lonely hours of her existence but cater to his every whim, she had finally capitulated and given Keith the one thing he desired above all others: a baby, their baby, a living, breathing affirmation of their love.

What more could any man ask for?

She’d had a rotten pregnancy, poor thing, with violent bouts of morning sickness throughout. Although Keith knew there had never been much love lost between his wife and her twin sister, he was sure that Alexandra’s sudden death must have frightened Eve.

Still, only a few weeks to go now.

Bending his head reverently, he kissed his wife’s belly, murmuring endearments to his unborn child.

Soon the baby would be born. Then all their troubles would be over, the pain of the past forgotten.

Eve’s labor was long and agonizing. While the press huddled like baying bloodhounds beneath her hospital window, Eve spent sixteen grueling hours feeling her body being ripped apart from within.

‘Are you sure you won’t consider pain relief, Mrs Webster? A shot of pethidine would really take the edge off your contractions.’

‘My name is Blackwell,’ Eve hissed between clenched teeth, ‘and no.’

Eve was adamant. No drugs. No relief. She had conceived this child to wreak her vengeance, to bring righteous suffering to her enemies, and to reclaim her stolen inheritance: Kruger-Brent. It was right that he should be born from suffering. That the first sound he heard should be his mother’s screams.

If she didn’t despise him so intensely, Eve might almost have felt sorry for Keith Webster. The pathetic, inadequate, milquetoast she’d been trapped into marrying actually believed she was happy to be having his child! Hovering over her like an old maid, full of pity for her morning sickness … except it wasn’t morning sickness at all. Eve’s violent bouts of vomiting were triggered by pure revulsion. The very idea of Keith’s seed growing inside her was enough to make her retch.

True, she had allowed him to impregnate her. This baby was no mistake.

He thinks I conceived out of love.

Eve laughed aloud. The arrogance of Keith’s madness knew no limits.

The truth was that Eve Blackwell hated her husband. Hated him with a murderous passion so strong, she was surprised the nurses couldn’t smell it on her skin.

When Keith had first removed Eve’s bandages and shown her her ruined face, five long years ago, she’d screamed until she passed out. In the weeks that followed she had sobbed and raged, her emotions swinging wildly from shock to disbelief to terror. At first she’d been so desperate she had actually clung to Keith. Yes, he’d done this terrible thing, but he was all she had. Without his protection she feared being flung to the wolves, torn to shreds like a hunted animal. As the years passed, however, Eve stopped worrying about Keith abandoning her. She realized, with amused horror, that the man was so deranged he actually still found her attractive. Keith Webster had turned Eve Blackwell into a monster: The Beast of the Blackwells. But she was his monster. To Keith, that was all that mattered.

‘The baby’s crowning Mrs Web—Ms Blackwell. I can see the head!’

Eve wished the nurses would stop smiling. Didn’t they realize the agony she was in? It was like being attended by a troupe of giddy schoolgirls.

Thank God Keith had agreed to stay in the fathers’ waiting room.

Eve had begged him: ‘I want you to still find me sexy my darling. You know what they say about men who watch their wives give birth. It ruins, you know, that, for ever.’

Keith insisted that nothing could dim his passion for her. But to Eve’s astonishment, he’d agreed to stay away.

‘One more push! You’re almost there!’

The pain was so strong, Eve was surprised she hadn’t lost consciousness. Like a rip tide it pulled at her until she was no longer aware of anything but the sensations deep inside her womb.

She thought about Alex, realizing for the first time how physically painful and terrifying her sister’s death must have been.

Good.

It was ironic. Eve thought about all the time and effort she’d put into trying to kill her twin over the years: setting her nightgown alight at their fifth birthday party; arranging riding accidents, sailing accidents, and finally the whole complicated murder plot with George Mellis. Knowing George was both penniless and psychotic, and that his rich playboy routine was all an act, Eve had encouraged him to woo and marry her sister. The plan was for George to win Alex’s trust, persuade her to make a new will that left him everything, including her controlling stake in Kruger-Brent, then get rid of her, splitting the inheritance with Eve.

But somehow Alexandra had survived every one of Eve’s elaborate schemes. The bitch was like one of those novelty birthday candles you couldn’t blow out. And then Bam! Out of nowhere, a simple act of God had come along and erased her, like the unwanted stain she was.

Alexandra Blackwell, Kruger-Brent heiress and famous beauty. Dead in childbirth at the age of thirty-four.

It was so perfect, it was almost biblical.

Eve heard a loud, feral noise. It took a moment to register that it was her own voice, screaming as the final contraction wracked her body with agony. Seconds later she felt a warm wetness between her legs and the frenzied kicking of tiny limbs. A slimy, bloody creature, covered in waxy white vernix slithered into the waiting arms of the midwife.

‘It’s a boy!’

‘Congratulations, Ms Blackwell!’

One of the nurses cut the cord. Another cleaned up the afterbirth.

Weak with exhaustion and blood loss, Eve slumped back against the sodden sheets. She watched as the nurses cleaned and examined the baby, ticking things off on a chart. Suddenly she felt choked with panic.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ She sat bolt upright. ‘Why isn’t he crying? Is he dead?’

The midwife, smiled. Well that was a turn-up for the books. Eve Blackwell had been so detached and hostile during the birth – quite frankly, she’d been an out and out bitch to the nursing team – they’d begun to suspect she didn’t want her baby. But obviously they’d misjudged her. The concern in Eve’s voice now was unmistakably genuine. She’s going to make a great mommy after all.

‘He’s right as rain Ms Blackwell. Here, you can see for yourself.’

Eve took the white bundle. Someone had cleaned the child up. The blood and the wax were gone. When she looked down Eve saw a small, olive-skinned face, topped with a crown of glossy, blue-black hair. The nose and mouth were baby-like and nondescript. But the enormous, dark brown eyes with their fringe of black lashes and steady, focused gaze; those were extraordinary. The boy looked up at her, silently scanning her face. To the rest of the world, Eve was a freak. To her baby, she was the universe.

Eve thought: He’s intelligent. Cunning, like a little gypsy.

She smiled, and though she knew it wasn’t meant to be possible, she could have sworn he smiled back.

‘Have you thought of a name for him yet?’

Eve didn’t even look up.

‘Max. His name is Max.’

It was a simple name, short, but to Eve it suggested strength. The boy would need strength if he was going to fulfill his purpose and avenge his mother.

Eve had conceived Keith Webster’s child for one reason and one reason only. Because she needed an accomplice. Someone who she could mould in her own image, feed with her own hatred and send out into the world to do all the things that she, a prisoner in her own home, could no longer do for herself.

Max would make Keith Webster pay for what he’d done to her.

Max would bring Kruger-Brent back to her.

Max would worship and adore and obey her, the way that men had always worshiped, adored and obeyed her, before Keith had robbed her of her looks.

‘Knock knock.’

Keith appeared at the door, bearing a huge bouquet of roses. Handing them to a nurse, he kissed Eve perfunctorily on the top of the head before taking his son in his arms.

‘He’s … he’s beautiful.’ His voice was choked. When he looked up, Eve saw that there were tears of joy streaming down his face. ‘Thank you, Eve. Thank you my darling. You’ve no idea what this … what he means to me.’

Eve smiled knowingly.

‘You’re welcome, Keith.’

And she sank into a contented, dreamless sleep.

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