Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,4

pajamas, her long blond hair tangled after a fitful night's sleep, but he didn't think she'd ever looked more luminous. She wore a grin wider than the Lincoln Tunnel, and if she was nervous, she didn't show it.

"We're finally going to meet her!"

"Or him." He reached over to the passenger seat and squeezed his wife's hand.

"Uh-uh. No way. It's a girl. I know it."

She'd woken up around six with fairly mild contractions and insisted on waiting another two hours before she would let him drive her to Mount Sinai. Two hours in which Peter Templeton had walked up and down the stairs of their West Village brownstone sixteen times, made four unwanted cups of coffee, burned three slices of toast and yelled at his son, Robert, for not being ready for school on time, before being reminded by the housekeeper that it was in fact mid-July, and school had been out for the last five weeks.

Even at the hospital Peter flapped around uselessly like a mother hen.

"Can I get you anything? A hot towel?"

"I'm fine."

"Water?"

"No thanks."

"Crushed ice cubes?"

"Peter..."

"What about that meditation music you're always playing? That's calming, right? I could run to the car and get the tape?"

Alex laughed. She was astonishingly calm.

"I think you need it more than I do. Honestly, darling, you must try to relax. I'm having a baby. Women do this every day. I'll be fine."

I'll be fine.

The first problems began about an hour later. The midwife frowned at one of the monitors. Its green line had begun rising in sudden, jagged leaps.

"Stand back please, Dr. Templeton."

Peter searched the woman's face for clues, like a nervous airline passenger watching the flight attendant during turbulence...if she was still smiling and handing out gin-and-tonics, no one was gonna die, right? But Nurse Matthews would have made a first-class poker player. As she moved surely and confidently around the room, a professional smile of reassurance for Alex, a brusque nod of command to an orderly - fetch Dr. Farrar immediately - her doughlike features gave nothing away.

"What is it? What's the problem?"

Peter struggled to keep the panic out of his voice, for Alex's sake. Her own mother had died giving birth to her and Eve, a snippet of Blackwell family history that had always terrified Peter. He loved Alexandra so much. If anything should happen to her...

"Your wife's blood pressure is somewhat elevated, Dr. Templeton. There's no need for alarm at this stage. I've asked Dr. Farrar to come and assess the situation."

For the first time, Alexandra's face clouded with anxiety.

"What about the baby? Is she all right? Is she in distress?"

It was typical Alex. Never a thought for herself, only for the child. She'd been exactly the same with Robert. Since the day their son was born, ten years ago now, he'd been the center of his mother's universe. Had Peter Templeton been a different sort of man, a lesser man, he might have felt jealous. As it was, the bond between mother and son filled him with joy, a delight so intense that at times he could barely contain it.

It was impossible to imagine a more devoted, selfless, adoring mother than Alexandra. Peter would never forget the time Robert came down with chicken pox, a particularly nasty case. He was five years old, and Alex had sat by his bedside for forty-eight hours straight, so engrossed in her son's needs that she had forgotten to take so much as a sip of water for herself. When Peter came home from work, he'd found her passed out cold on the floor. She was so dehydrated she'd had to be hospitalized and placed on a drip.

The midwife's voice brought him back to the present with a jolt.

"The baby's fine, Mrs. Templeton. Worst-case scenario, we'll speed things up and do a cesarean."

Alex went white.

"A cesarean?"

"Try not to worry. It probably won't come to that. Right now the heartbeat looks terrific. Your baby's as strong as an ox."

Nurse Matthews had even risked a smile.

Peter would remember that smile as long as he lived. It was to be the last image of his old, happy life.

After the smile, reality and nightmare began to blur. Time lost all meaning. The obstetrician was there, Dr. Farrar, a tall, forbidding man in his sixties with a pinched face and glasses that seemed in permanent, imminent danger of toppling off the end of his long, shrewlike nose. The green line on the monitor took on a life of its own, some unseen hand pulling it higher,