Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game. Tilly Bagshawe

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СКАЧАТЬ in a heap at the foot of the bed, with three ecstasy tablets tucked into the back pocket – Gianni Sperotto’s version of a party favor.

      Bright side: I’m a minor. The worst they can give me is Juvenile Detention.

       Not so bright side: They can give me Juvenile Detention!

      For all his bravado in his dad’s office, Robbie Templeton was terrified by the thought of prison. To him it seemed far worse than suicide. Death meant peace. It meant being with his mother. But prison, even Juvie, for a pretty boy like him? They’d eat him alive. And that was before they found out he was a Blackwell and one of the richest kids in the country.

      Spreadeagled half naked against the wall, he tried to concentrate. It wasn’t easy with Maureen Swanson screaming and cursing next to him like a banshee.

      ‘You assholes lay one finger on me, and I swear to God my dad will personally slice off your balls!’

      The police captain laughed. ‘I’d advise you not to threaten us, sweetheart.’

      ‘Great ass,’ added the lieutenant. ‘How about you spread those legs a little wider?’

      Robbie racked his brains. Did he have any ID in his jeans? Anything they could use to prove who he was? Man, it was hard to think when you were high.

      Without warning, Maureen Swanson spun around and smashed her fist into the lieutenant’s face. The cheap cocktail ring she was wearing sliced into his eyeball like a knife through butter.

      ‘Jesus Christ, you little bitch! You blinded me!’

      In the pandemonium that followed, Robbie seized his chance. Making a run for the open window, he dived through it head first.

      A blast of cold night air hit his lower body. He remembered that he was naked from the waist down. When he opened his eyes, he remembered something else: Gianni Sperotto’s bedroom was six stories above ground.

      

      The fall seemed to take for ever. Time stretched out in serene slow motion. Robbie knew he was going to die. The thought made him smile. He’d imagined this moment countless times; wondered if he would feel fear when the time came. But now that it was actually happening, he felt suffused with a deep, rich contentment. Almost joy.

      The ground rose slowly to greet him, green and gray in the moonlight.

      Then everything went black.

      

      ‘Dude?’

      ‘Hey dude? Can you hear me?’

      Robbie was by a river, lying in the long grass. He was in South Africa, in the wilderness near Burgersdorp, the little Transvaal town where his mom used to take him as a small child. Once known as Klipdrift, this was the place where Jamie McGregor had first made his fortune. The birthplace of Kruger-Brent, the spot where it all began. The wind was blowing softly through the acacia trees. Above him, Robbie could see his mother’s face, the loveliest sight in the world. Her lips were moving. She was trying to talk to him. But her voice sounded strange. Unfamiliar.

      ‘You are one lucky son of a bitch, man. You coulda killed yo’self.’

      His mother’s face was fading.

       Mom! Come back!

      But it was too late. Alex was gone, her loving gaze replaced by the curious stares of three black strangers, kids not much older than Robbie.

      He was lying on his back, sprawled across some rhododendron bushes. Their springy branches must have broken his fall. When he tried to move, the pain in his left leg was agonizing. With some help he found he was able to stand.

      ‘You must be seriously high, bro.’ The oldest boy shook his head admiringly. ‘What d’you think, you was Superman or somethin’?’

      His friends laughed loudly.

      ‘You do realize you’re buck naked? Or maybe I’m Superman? Maybe I got some of that kryptonite shit, X-ray vision goin’ on.’

      More laughter.

      ‘Please,’ Robbie stammered. ‘Help me. The cops … they’ll be down here any second. One of you give me your pants.’

      The boys looked at each other.

      ‘Say what? We ain’t giving you our goddamned pants.’

      Robbie thought for a moment, then started pulling at the little finger of his left hand.

      ‘Here. Take this.’ He pressed a solid gold signet ring into the oldest boy’s hand. It had once belonged to Robbie’s great-great-grandfather, Jamie McGregor, and it bore the symbol of two fighting rams: Kruger-Brent’s crest. ‘It’s gold. It’s worth five hundred bucks at least.’

      The boy looked at the ring.

      ‘Jackson, give Clark Kent here your pants.’

      Jackson looked outraged. ‘Screw you! I ain’t giving him my goddamned pants.’

      ‘I said take ’em off! Now! Here come the cops, man.’

      A pair of uniformed police were rushing out of Gianni’s building with flashlights. Robbie thought: They’re looking for a body.

      The black kid slipped out of his jeans like a snake shedding its skin.

      Robbie watched him sprint into the darkness, the Carl Lewis of Westchester County. Seeing three black figures disappearing across the scrubland, the cops gave chase. Robbie had a few valuable seconds in which to make his move.

      He pulled on the pants. They were huge. Yanking the belt onto its tightest notch he could just about keep them up. Slowly, he began to walk. The pain in his leg was getting worse. Shutting out everything else, he focused his mind on Lexi and his mother. He couldn’t go to prison. He had to get away. Humming softly to the soundtrack playing in his head – Grieg’s piano concerto in A minor – he limped on into the darkness.

      

      By the time Robbie got home, it was six in the morning.

      Dawn had already broken over the West Village. In doorways, the homeless were starting to stir, bags of rattling bones trying to shake off the combined effects of sleep and booze, and move on before the first police patrols arrived. Robbie watched them. Not for the first time he thought how ironic it was that only a few feet of brick separated these hopeless hulks of human refuse from people like him: the richest of the rich. Those bums must think he had it all. What would they say if they knew how often he lay awake at night, in feather-bedded comfort, dreaming of blowing his brains out?

      He had no keys. They had been in his pants, along with the ecstasy. Limping down to the basement, he punched a six-digit number into the keypad by the service door, which clicked open obligingly. Welcome home.

      He wondered what was going on back in Bronxville. Had the cops caught up with his three black buddies? Unlikely. But that didn’t mean he was out of the woods. Maureen Swanson might have spilled the beans, told the police СКАЧАТЬ