Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,11

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 racked her body. Seconds later, she felt a warm wetness between her legs and the frenzied kicking of tiny legs. 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, how about that for a surprise? 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. 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 babylike 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 she could mold 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 worshipped, adored and obeyed her, before Keith 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 her 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.
Chapter Three

ROBBIE TEMPLETON FELT A FAMILIAR, CHURNING FEELING in the pit of his stomach as he walked through the revolving doors of the Kruger-Brent building on Park Avenue.

"Good morning, Mr. Robert."

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Robert."

"Is your father expecting you?"

Everybody knew him. The receptionists, in their gray-flannel company uniforms, the security guards, even Jose, the janitor. Robert Templeton was Kate Blackwell's great-grandson, fifteen years old, with the world at his feet. One day he would take his place as CEO and chairman.

So they said.

Robbie had been coming to this building with his mother since he was a little boy. The impressive, marble-floored atrium with its six-foot flower arrangements and walls smothered with priceless modern art, Bas-quiats and Warhols and Lucien Freuds, was Robbie's playroom. He'd played peekaboo in the elevators and hide-and-seek down the long, corporate corridors. He'd swung his legs and spun around in Kate Blackwell's swivel chair