Master of the Game

Brad had been surprised when Kate telephoned him to say she was going to disinherit Eve, for he knew how much Kate cared about this particular granddaughter and what plans she had for her. Brad could not imagine what had happened. Well, it was none of his business. If Kate wanted to discuss it with him, she would. His job was to carry out her orders. He felt a momentary flash of pity for the lovely young woman before him. Kate had not been much older when he had first met her. Neither had he. And now he was a gray-haired old fool, still hoping that one day Kate Blackwell would realize there was someone who loved her very deeply.

He said to Eve, "I have some papers for you to sign. If you’ll just read them over and – "

"That won’t be necessary."

"Eve, it’s important that you understand." He began to explain. "Under your grandmother’s will, you’re the beneficiary of an irrevocable trust fund currently in excess of five million dollars. Your grandmother is the executor. At her discretion, the money can be paid to you at any time from the age of twenty-one to thirty-five." He cleared his throat. "She has elected to give it to you when you reach age thirty-five."

It was a slap in the face.

"Beginning today, you will receive a weekly allowance of two hundred fifty dollars."

It was impossible! One decent dress cost more than that. There was no way she could live on $250 a week. This was being done to humiliate her. This bastard was probably in on it with her grandmother. He was sitting behind his big desk, enjoying himself, laughing. She wanted to pick up the large bronze paperweight in front of him and smash his head in. She could almost feel the crunch of bone under her hand.

Brad droned on. "You are not to have any charge accounts, private or otherwise, and you are not to use the Blackwell name at any stores. Anything you purchase must be paid for in cash."

The nightmare was getting worse and worse.

"Next. If there is any gossip connected with your name in any newspaper or magazine – local or foreign – your weekly income will be stopped. Is that clear?"

"Yes." Her voice was a whisper.

"You and your sister Alexandra were issued insurance policies on your grandmother’s life for five million dollars apiece. The policy you hold was canceled as of this morning. At the end of one year," Brad went on, "if your grandmother is satisfied with your behavior, your weekly allowance will be doubled." He hesitated. "There is one final stipulation."

She wants to hang me in public by my thumbs. "Yes?"

Brad Rogers looked uncomfortable. "Your grandmother does not wish ever to see you again, Eve."

Well, I want to see you one more time, old woman. I want to see you dying in agony.

Brad’s voice trickled through to the cauldron of Eve’s mind. "If you have any problems, you are to telephone me. She does not want you to come to this building again, or to visit any of the family estates."

He had tried to argue with Kate about that. "My God, Kate, she’s your granddaughter, your flesh and blood. You’re treating her like a leper."

"She is a leper."

And the discussion had ended.

Now Brad said awkwardly, "Well, I think that covers everything. Are there any questions, Eve?"

"No." She was in shock.

"Then if you’ll just sign these papers…"

Ten minutes later, Eve was on the street again. There was a check for $250 in her purse.

The following morning Eve called on a real-estate agent and began looking for an apartment. In her fantasies, she had envisioned a beautiful penthouse overlooking Central Park, the rooms done in white with modern furniture, and a terrace where she could entertain guests. Reality came as a stunning blow. It seemed there were no Park Avenue penthouses available for someone with an income of $250 a week. What was available was a one-room studio apartment in Little Italy with a couch that became a bed, a nook that the real-estate agent euphemistically referred to as the "library," a small kitchenette and a tiny bathroom with stained tile.

"Is – is this the best you have?" Eve asked.

"No," the agent informed her. "I’ve got a twenty-room townhouse on Sutton Place for a half a million dollars, plus maintenance."

You bastard! Eve thought.

Real despair did not hit Eve until the following afternoon when she moved in. It was a prison. Her dressing room at home had been as large as this entire apartment. She thought of Alexandra enjoying herself in the huge house on Fifth Avenue. My God, why couldn’t Alexandra have burned to death? It had been so close! If she had died and Eve had been the only heiress, things would have been different. Her grandmother would not have dared disinherit her.

But if Kate Blackwell thought that Eve intended to give up her heritage that easily, she did not know her granddaughter. Eve had no intention of trying to live on $250 a week. There was five million dollars that belonged to her, sitting in a bank, and that vicious old woman was keeping it from her. There has to be a way to get my hands on that money. I will find it.

The solution came the following day.

"And what can I do for you, Miss Blackwell?" Alvin Seagram asked deferentially. He was vice-president of the National Union Bank, and he was, in fact, prepared to do almost anything. What kind Fates had brought this young woman to him? If he could secure the Kruger-Brent account, or any part of it, his career would rise like a rocket.

"There’s some money in trust for me," Eve explained. "Five million dollars. Because of the rules of the trust, it won’t come to me until I’m thirty-five years old." She smiled ingenuously. "That seems so long from now."