Mistress of the Game

Of course it was Max who had betrayed her. He’d played her, just like August said he would. Images of their lovemaking, the wild, pagan passion of the last six months, swept unbidden through Lexi’s mind. Was it all just a game to him? Part of his battle plan? It must have been. And yet his desire, his love for her, felt so real.

She weighed her options:

I could tell them. I could tell the board it was Max who stole those pictures and made them public. Max who precipitated this crisis. Max who got us all into this mess.

But even as she thought it, Lexi knew she would never do that. The market had already lost its faith in her. Kruger-Brent’s share price would plunge this morning as a result. If Max’s name was tarnished, too, investors would have nothing to cling to. The company would fall out of Blackwell-family hands. It might even collapse altogether.

Kruger-Brent was the one great love of Lexi’s life. She could not allow it to go under.

She looked at Max. That’s what you were counting on, wasn’t it? You knew I wouldn’t turn you in. You knew I love this company too much.

She hated him for what he’d done to her. But she hated him even more for what he’d done to Kruger-Brent. To secure the chairmanship for himself, he’d put the entire firm in jeopardy.

Lexi got to her feet.

“Enough.”

She held up a hand for silence. The muttering ceased.

“It’s clear that you all feel the same way. Therefore, for the good of the company, I will withdraw my name from the chairmanship ballot. I will formally resign from Kruger-Brent this afternoon.”

The attorneys’ shoulders slumped visibly with relief.

Max opened his mouth to speak. But when he looked into Lexi’s eyes, the words died on his lips. The things he wanted to say meant nothing now: I’m sorry. I still love you . He’d had to destroy her in order to win Kruger-Brent for Eve. It was his destiny, his life’s purpose. He’d had no choice. One day, he hoped, Lexi would see that. She would understand.

With a quiet dignity that made August Sandford want to cry, Lexi gathered up her briefcase, turned and left the room.

“Good luck, Max.”

Lexi waited for the elevator doors to close before unclenching her fists. Blood dripped from her palms from where she had dug her own fingernails into the flesh.

Good luck, Max.

Good luck, Judas, you treacherous son of a bitch.

Her Bible studies came back to her.

“And Jesus said, ‘I tell you solemnly, one of you will betray me. But woe to that man, the betrayer! It would be better for that man if he had never been born.’”

Lexi was going to make Max wish that he had never been born.

Her cousin had won the battle.

But the war had only just begun.

BOOK TWO

TWENTY-TWO

LOS ANGELES. FIVE YEARS LATER

PAOLO COZMICI LOOKED AT THE EXQUISITELY DECORATED Bel Air drawing room and scowled.

“Too many flowers. It looks like somebody died.”

Robbie Templeton kissed him indulgently on the top of his bald head. “The flowers are perfect. Everything’s perfect. Relax, babe. Have a drink.”

Tonight was Robbie’s fortieth birthday party. With typical altruism, he had decided to mark the milestone with a charity event that he hoped would raise a million dollars for the Templeton/Cozmici AIDS Foundation. Stars from the worlds of classical and pop music, as well as a smattering of Hollywood movie actors, would soon be pulling up to Robbie and Paolo’s wrought-iron gates, where a huddle of eager paparazzi was already gathered. The sprawling Bel Air estate had been home to classical music’s happiest couple for the past three years. The real-estate agent described it as “a French Country manor,” a turn of phrase that had reduced poor Paolo to paroxysms of laughter.

“’Ave you ever been to France?”

It was in fact a vast, vulgar, wedding cake of a house, smothered in enough climbing roses to make Martha Stewart wince. The gardens came complete with a fake stream powered by a hidden electric pump and a faux-medieval bridge. It was the epitome of tackiness: brash, American, suburban. Disney . But it was also incredibly comfortable, boasted heart-stopping views from almost every room, and-crucially-afforded total privacy. Robbie and Paolo had been blissfully happy there.

“Ah, Lex, there you are. Would you please tell Monsieur le Grinch here that the house looks awesome?”

“The house looks awesome.”

It was hard to believe that Lexi Templeton was thirty years old. Skipping down the stairs in a vintage gray Hardy Amies ball gown, with diamonds gleaming at her ears, neck and wrists, her skin still shone like a teenager’s. She wore her hair long and loose, another girlish touch that belied the steely businesswoman within.

After Lexi left Kruger-Brent five years ago in a storm of scandal, most business pundits wrote her off. Overnight, her picture stopped appearing on the front covers of magazines. Lexi made no statements, responded to no rumors, approved no messages through “friends” or “insiders.” She stopped attending celebrity parties, charity auctions, gallery openings. Word was that she’d left America, but no one knew for sure. As the months went by, people ceased to care.

But those who assumed Lexi had crawled under a rock to lick her wounds had profoundly underestimated the strength of her ambition, not to mention the resilience of her spirit.

Ten days after Max’s coup, Lexi awoke to the sound of horns blaring outside her new, rented apartment. The media had driven her out of her old place. The noise was muffled at first, as if everything had been covered with a fresh fall of snow. But during the next few days, the snow slowly started melting. Sounds became sharper, crisper. Lexi delighted in each one like a newborn child. Water gushing from the faucet in her bathroom made her laugh out loud. Vendors cursing on the street below brought a lump to her throat. Strangest of all was her own voice. It didn’t seem to belong to her at all.