Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,56
afford to let Lexi look like the star of the show."
There wasn't much danger of that. No one at Kruger-Brent took Lexi seriously. Not anymore. But, technically speaking, under the terms of Kate Blackwell's will, she still stood a chance of being appointed chairman when she turned twenty-five. Until he, Max, was safely sitting in the chairman's seat, he couldn't afford to get complacent.
Max's old familiar hatred of his cousin had taken a disturbing twist recently. Overnight, it seemed, Lexi had transformed into a sensuous, desirable woman. What made it worse, and more confusing, was that she was starting to look more and more like a young version of Eve. Lexi's mother, Alexandra, had been Eve's identical twin, after all, so perhaps it was inevitable that the likeness would be striking. Still, Max found this genetic irony upsetting. In fact, he found everything about his cousin Lexi upsetting.
The paparazzi had always loved her: the brave, beautiful Blackwell baby, the plucky kidnapping survivor. Eve had once contemptuously described her niece as "America's favorite cripple" and she wasn't far wrong. Now, thanks to Lexi's butterflylike emergence as a society belle, media interest in her life seemed to have quintupled. She was no longer the Blackwell Baby, but the Blackwell Bombshell. Everyone wanted a piece of her.
She loves every second of it, too, Max thought bitterly. Last Christmas, when they'd briefly worked together at Kruger-Brent, he had sensed Lexi silently watching him. As if she were trying to catch him lusting after her, the way that everybody else seemed to.
Forget it. Not me.
Why can't you just disappear? Go to deaf school, marry some other special-ed retard and get the hell out of my life?
Sasha Harvey-Newton didn't know how lucky she was to be missing Max's birthday party. He heartily wished he could have missed it himself.
"Quite a spread, isn't it?"
Tristram Harwood, head of Kruger-Brent's oil and gas division, was talking to Logan Marshall, who ran the mining businesses.
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
Neither of them had been to the Blackwells' Dark Harbor compound since Kate Blackwell's funeral almost seventeen years ago. It was wonderful to see the old house bursting with life and vitality again. Everywhere you turned, America's impossibly beautiful, privileged youth were laughing and talking and dancing with one another while their parents looked on, the mothers dripping diamonds while they gossiped, the fathers grumbling about the latest plunge in the Dow Jones and the new fortunes to be made on the Internet.
Cedar Hill House itself had barely changed since Kate's day. The same Vlaminck floral canvas hung over the fireplace in the living room. Even the rose-and-green-chintz sofas remained, providing a lingering touch of femininity to what was now a man's home. Peter Templeton had inherited the estate upon Alexandra's death, but for years he had found the house too full of painful memories and rarely visited it. After Lexi's ordeal, however, he'd brought her to Maine to recuperate. Slowly, summer by summer, Cedar Hill House had been allowed to live again.
"Ah, there he is. The birthday boy. I suppose we should go and tug our forelocks, get it over and done with?"
Logan Marshall followed Tristram Harwood's gaze. Max was on the veranda, surrounded by a gaggle of admiring teenage girls. In a Ralph Lauren suit and Choate tie, on the surface he looked the epitome of a preppy young gentleman. But neither the clothes nor the old-money, East Coast setting could completely conceal Max's feral nature. He reminded Tristram Harwood of a jungle savage whom some misguided anthropologist had "rescued" and dragged, kicking and screaming, into the civilized world. As if he might at any moment start tearing off his Brooks Brothers shirt with his teeth.
"Happy birthday, young man. I trust you're enjoying the party?"
Max turned around. He wiped the bored expression off his face and greeted the two Kruger-Brent board members warmly. He knew that his mother would be watching.
"Of course. My uncle's gone to a tremendous effort. And you, are you both well?"
Tristram Harwood nodded. "Very well. Business is booming."
For a sixteen-year-old, the boy sure had an adult way of expressing himself. Such maturity. Such poise. Everyone at the firm knew that Kate Blackwell's will favored Alexandra's offspring over Eve's. But when the time came to vote for a new chairman, all board members would be consulted. If they unanimously voted for Max, it would be difficult for the family to ignore their position. And really, how would a deaf woman ever manage to run one of the