Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,38

upper body. He beat him so appallingly that when the wife came downstairs, she thought her husband was dead.

The police arrested Gabe at the scene. He made no attempt to flee, largely because he didn't know where he was, or what he was supposed to have done.

"Will the defendant please rise."

Gabe was staring into space, lost in thought. He was in a Plexiglas box in the corner of the courtroom. Michael Wilmott, his lawyer, had told him it was bulletproof. Only defendants who were considered a danger to the magistrates or court officials were placed behind the Plexiglas walls.

They think I'm dangerous. A dangerous criminal.

"Stand up, please, Mr. McGregor."

Gabe stood up.

"Due to the serious nature of this offense, to which you have wisely pleaded guilty, I am obliged to refer your case to the crown court for sentencing."

Refer? Gabe looked at his lawyer hopefully. Does that mean they're letting me out? He hadn't had a hit in three days and was beginning to feel desperate. The Plexiglas was making him claustrophobic.

"Your request for bail is denied. You will be remanded in custody until the date of your next hearing, provisionally set for October fourth. Presentence reports..."

Gabe wasn't listening.

You will be remanded in custody.

His gray eyes pleaded with the magistrate. She was a woman after all. But she looked at him impassively, turned and left the room. His lawyer's hand was on his arm.

"Keep your head down," Michael Wilmott muttered. "I'll be in touch."

Then he, too, was gone. Two armed police escorted Gabe toward the cells. Later, he would be transferred to prison.

Prison! No! I can't! I have to get out of here!

No one heard the voices. They were all in his head.
Chapter Twelve

"BUT WHY DO WE HAVE TO GO?" MAX WEBSTER SWUNG HIS legs impatiently, kicking the back of the chauffeur's seat. "We hate the Templetons."

"Nonsense, Max," Keith Webster said firmly. "We don't hate anyone. Especially not family."

Max was traveling across town with his parents to visit his cousin, Lexi in the hospital. Three weeks after her dramatic rescue, she was finally allowed visitors. Keith Webster had insisted to Eve that they should be the first.

By now the whole of America knew about Lexi's kidnap ordeal. Miraculously, Agent Edwards had persuaded the media to hold fire on the story while Lexi was missing. Any press coverage might have put her life in jeopardy, and neither Rupert Murdoch nor Ted Turner wanted Blackwell blood on their hands. But after the debacle at the New Jersey mill, it was open season on the juiciest story to hit the headlines in a generation:

EIGHT-YEAR-OLD HEIRESS KIDNAPPED, DEAFENED IN BUNGLED RESCUE

KRUGER-BRENT CHILD MUTE AFTER TRAUMA

FBI HERO FIGHTS FOR LIFE

BLACKWELL KIDNAPPERS STILL AT LARGE

Rumors that Lexi had been abused, or even raped, reverberated around Manhattan high society, adding a delicious frisson of excitement to the summer's party circuit.

Peter heard none of the whispers and read none of the headlines. He had not left the hospital since Lexi was admitted. At night, he kept a constant vigil at her bedside. During the days, he held her hand through the battery of tests, treatments and therapy sessions that had become the new normality for both of them. His hopes had soared when the doctors told him that cochlear implants might restore Lexi's hearing. But after a severe allergic reaction to the first device, Peter refused to put her through any more operations. "She's already been through so much." He did not ask the doctors when they thought Lexi would be able to come home. The prospect terrified him. He dreaded the day when the comforting routine of Mount Sinai would be snatched away and he would be left to care for Lexi alone.

What if he couldn't do it? What if he failed her again?

The thought brought tears to his eyes.

In New Orleans, Robbie watched the news reports of his sister's progress on television. He was staying at the apartment of a man he'd met in a piano bar the night he arrived in the city: Tony. Tony was in his midthirties, a writer, and though he was neither particularly attractive nor wildly dynamic, he was kind and reliable. Tony's apartment was a run-down two-bedroom perched above a restaurant that sold nothing but Cajun chicken. The smell of grease, salt and chicken fat had seeped into everything, from the curtains to the carpets, couch and sheets.

Dom Dellal had chickened out at the last moment and decided to stay in New York, but Robbie wasn't sorry. He needed a fresh