Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,16

right. I am a freak.

He had no idea where he was going. He knew he'd have to go home eventually, but he couldn't face it right now. Walking into Grand Central station, he bought a ticket for the first train to anywhere and jumped on board.
Chapter Four
THE GIRL WAS A REDHEAD. SHE HAD HUGE BREASTS THAT seemed to wriggle like puppies beneath her tight angora sweater. Her black leather miniskirt was so short that Robbie could see the daisy pattern on her white cotton panties.

Her name was Maureen Swanson. She was captain of the cheerleading squad, the most popular girl in school. Every guy at St. Bede's wanted to fuck her brains out.

Almost every guy.

Maureen Swanson stared at Robbie. "Don't I know you?"

Robbie looked at his shoes.

"Hey. Rain Man. I'm talking to you. Hellooooo?"

It was just his luck. Of all the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of trains leaving Grand Central that afternoon, he had to pick the one with Maureen the Mammary Monster on board.

"You're the Blackwell kid, aren't you?"

Robbie looked around for a means of escape but there was none. The car was packed with commuters. He was hemmed in like a sardine in a tin.

"Bobby, right? Tenth grade?"

"Robbie."

"I knew it!" Maureen couldn't have looked more triumphant if she'd just solved the riddle of the Sphinx or discovered the meaning of life. "Robbie Blackwell."

Hearing the name Blackwell, other passengers turned to look at Robbie. Some of them stared quite openly. Was he really one of them?

"Actually, my name is Templeton. And you don't know me. We never met."

Maureen rose to her feet, eliciting admiring glances from the more circumspect businessmen and wolf whistles from the braver ones. The women in the car glared at her.

"Well, Robbie Templeton." Maureen smiled lasciviously, easing herself down onto Robbie's lap. "We can soon fix that."

Robbie felt his insides liquefy. Not with desire. With fear. Why the hell hadn't he thrown himself onto the tracks when he'd had the chance? Anything would have been better than the death by smothering he was about to endure in the rift-valley of Maureen Swanson's cleavage.

"Where are you headed?"

It was a good question. Where was he headed? He still had no idea. The train had started to slow down. A disembodied voice informed the passengers that they were approaching Yonkers.

"Yonkers. This is my stop."

Extricating himself from Maureen's viselike embrace, he began to elbow his way through the human wall of commuters, only just making it out before the car door closed. He stood on the platform as the train pulled away.

Thank God. She's gone.

Maureen Swanson's voice rang out behind him: "What a coincidence. This is my stop, too."

Robbie's heart sank.

How had she made it off the train without him noticing? Who was she, Harriet Houdini?

Maureen Swanson was two years older than Robbie Templeton. Maureen Swanson was also a goddess. The type of girl who could have any guy she wanted. Of course, the guys Maureen Swanson wanted were college linebackers built like O. J. Simpson. Robbie was built more like Wallis Simpson. Handsome undoubtedly, but at fifteen still small and slight and looking every inch the tenth grader that he was.

On the other hand, Robbie was also the heir to the Kruger-Brent fortune. For $10 billion, it appeared, Maureen Swanson was prepared to make an exception to her usual dating criteria. Robbie Templeton might not be built like a football player, but he was worth more money than most pros.

Maureen smiled. "I know a guy who lives around here. There's always a party going on at his place. You wanna check it out?"

Robbie weighed his options. He did not want to check it out. He did not want to go to a party, especially not with Maureen Swanson. He wanted to be left alone so that he could go and kill himself somewhere, quietly, without his last memory being a pair of Dolly Parton breasts or daisy-patterned panties from JCPenney. Was that so much to ask?

And yet...A party meant other people. Noise. Drugs. Distractions for Maureen.

Drugs.

Robbie shrugged. What the hell.

"Sure, why not? I've got nothing better to do."

When Peter Templeton got home that evening, he expected to find his son waiting for him.

"Robert!"

He let the front door slam shut behind him.

"ROBERT!"

Peter Templeton no longer felt guilty about slapping Robert that afternoon. He was against physical violence generally, especially as a form of parental control. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Robert had stood in his office, laughing at him. Actually laughing. After all the trouble he'd caused