Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,131

voice was a monotone. He was clearly still in shock. "Eve Blackwell's lawyers are accusing Lexi of fraud. Something to do with short-selling Kruger-Brent stock. It's all bullshit."

"Of course it is." August put a comforting arm around Gabe's shoulders. "Jesus. What a screwup. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. Just keep it to yourself. Lexi's attorney should have things straightened out in an hour or so." Gabe looked dazed. "We're supposed to be on our honeymoon."

"You will be," said August. "Seriously, don't worry. This is obviously just a crazy mistake."

Alone in his car two minutes later, sober as a judge, August put in an urgent call to his broker.

"Bill? I think you'd better sell my Kruger-Brent stock. Uh-huh, yes. All of it. As soon as the markets open on Monday, I want you to dump the lot."

August Sandford had no idea what sort of trouble Lexi had gotten herself into this time. And he didn't want to know. She had brought Kruger-Brent back from the dead once. He'd always be grateful to her for that. But one more scandal and they were finished.

Not even Lazarus rose twice.

Chapter Thirty-One

GRETA, MAXINE MCGREGOR'S NANNY, HAD MISSED THE drama of her boss's arrest. A thirty-year-old Swede with flaxen hair and strong, childbearing hips, Greta Sorensen had been a professional nanny for nine years. Long enough to know that jobs like this one, working for rich and famous clients like Lexi Templeton, might sound glamorous, but in reality, they were damned hard work. With so many people in the house today, it had taken Greta ages to settle little Max down to sleep. Now, with her charge at last dozing in her crib, the nanny was slumped on the nursery sofa in front of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, snoring loudly.

Gabe walked in and shook her by the shoulder.

"Sorry, sir." Greta jumped. "I was just resting my eyes. Max is fast asleep next door. I'd have woken up if she stirred."

"It's all right, Greta."

"I thought you and Mrs. McGregor had left for your honeymoon. Did you want to say good-bye to the baby?"

"Actually, there's been a change of plan. Mrs. McGregor's been...er...detained. She'll be flying out to join us in a day or two."

The nanny looked puzzled. "To join us?"

"Yes. We've decided to take Maxine on the honeymoon with us after all. Lexi couldn't bear to leave her in the end, so you'll fly out with me tonight. How soon can you pack?"

Greta gritted her teeth and turned off the television. "I'll need an hour to get all the baby's things together, sir." Why did rich people always change their minds at the last minute, and expect everybody else to pick up the pieces? Traveling with an infant was like a major military operation. You couldn't just get up and go.

"You've got twenty minutes," said Gabe. "Ask one of the maids for help if you need it. There's a boat waiting at the jetty to take us to the mainland. It's a short ride to the airport from there."

"May I ask where we're going, sir?"

"Turks and Caicos."

"Oh."

"Don't look so worried," said Gabe. "You'll love it."

Lieutenant John Carey felt the sweat beading on the back of his neck. He had taken a big risk, arresting Lexi Templeton right here in Dark Harbor and bringing her in to the local police station for questioning. This case was so huge, the biggest fraud since Bernie Madoff. Once word got out, everyone would want a piece of it: the FBI, the fraud squad, Interpol. But John Carey had decided to make them all wait.

Why should I let some FBI hotshot waltz in and steal all the glory from right under my nose? We made a nice, clean arrest. All I need now is a nice, clean confession.

"So, Ms. Templeton. Let's get to the point, shall we? Was bankrupting Kruger-Brent, Limited, your idea? Or Mr. Kolepp's?"

Mark Hambly, Lexi's bull terrier of an attorney, whispered in her ear.

"You don't have to answer that."

Lexi had known Mark for years. A squat, broad-shouldered man with a wide neck and short, muscled arms, he looked more like a bare-knuckle prizefighter than a lawyer. Appropriately, since plenty of prosecutors had left courtrooms where Mark Hambly was defending feeling like they'd gone ten rounds with Godzilla. Other defense attorneys relied on subtlety, coaxing juries, pointing out nuances and shades of gray in the evidence. Not Mark Hambly. He ran over juries like a dump truck. It was one of the many things Lexi loved about