Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,115
The fat man's eyes bulged.
"Penetrate it."
"Yes, sir. We will, sir. Thank you, sir."
Waddling down the driveway of Gabe's Bridgehampton beach house, clutching his check like a talisman, the PI marveled at the stupid things men did for love.
The PI had seen hundreds of pictures of Lexi Templeton. Blow-job lips on an angel's face. Tits and ass to die for, but classy with it. A woman like that could screw any man she wanted. But she'd picked this old, white-haired shell of a guy who just happened to have bucket loads of money and a trusting nature?
Maybe McGregor thought he was safe because the lady was rich herself. If so, he was an even bigger fool.
Didn't he know that rich women were the greediest of all?
It was Friday morning. Max sat in his corner office at Kruger-Brent staring at the photographs on his desk. His little boys, George and Edward, were five years old now. Max's office had countless silver-framed pictures of them, hand in hand, grinning at the camera. There were photographs of Annabel, too, and of Eve as a young woman at the height of her beauty. But it was Max's sons who mesmerized him, their innocence flooding the room like sunlight.
That's what childhood ought to look like. Happy. Pure.
August Sandford stormed in.
"Have you seen our share price? What the hell's happening?"
August Sandford had not aged well. His once thick chestnut hair had thinned, exposing too much middle-aged scalp. The muscled physique of his twenties had long since turned to fat. Kruger-Brent had made him a rich man, on paper. But this morning, August had seen the value of that paper drop by almost 15 percent. With a wife, three kids and a demanding mistress to support, August's stress levels were permanently set on high. This morning, the sweat patches under his arms had grown so big they were about to start dripping.
Max pulled up Bloomberg on his PC screen. Jesus.
August was shouting, "Some bastard's shorting us."
It was true. Somebody out there was borrowing massive amounts of Kruger-Brent stock and selling it at a discount. Effectively they were taking a bet on the share price going down. The problem was that by shorting on this scale, the seller was turning his prediction into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"That piece in the Wall Street Journal, that's what started this. That bitch journalist, making out like we're some kind of major credit risk! Two lousy loans and the whole market's turning on us. How the fuck did she know about Singapore? That's what I'd like to know."
"I don't know."
"Well, you should know. You're running this company, Max. We're leaking bad news like a ripped condom and you're sitting in your ivory tower with your finger up your ass!"
Max's head began to throb. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, August was gone. Thank God. Standing in his place was an elderly man. He was leaning heavily on a wooden cane, clutching the handle with delicate, liver-spotted hands.
"Can I help you?"
The old man shook his head. "No. I'm afraid no one can help me anymore. It's too late."
Something about his voice sounded familiar. His sadness tugged at Max's heartstrings. "Too late for what, sir?" he asked kindly. "Perhaps I can help."
"Too late for everything. I'm dead, you see. My boy killed me."
Foul green slime began to ooze from the old man's nostrils.
"Why did you do it, Max? I loved you so much."
Keith?
A terrible, unearthly stench filled Max's office. He started to choke, clutching his desk for support.
"Get out! You're dead! Get out and leave me alone!"
"Max?"
"I said GET OUT!"
August Sandford was shaking Max by the shoulders.
"Max! Can you hear me? Are you all right? Max?"
"Oh God. I killed him!"
"Killed who?"
That was all they needed in a crisis. A chairman who was losing his marbles.
Slowly, Max emerged from the nightmare. The terror began to fade. It's okay. I'm in my office. August's here. It was a dream, that's all. Just a dream.
"I'm sorry." He smiled weakly at August Sandford. "The stress gets to me sometimes. I'm fine."
Like hell you are.
Max forced himself to look at the screen in front of him. This was the real nightmare. And he hadn't the first clue what to do about it. Sensing his indecision, August took charge.
"You need to call a board meeting. Right now. We need to find out who's short-selling our stock and why. If it's the credit rumors, we can address that. But we have to act fast."