Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon

Tony thought he had misunderstood him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your mother personally requested that we engage Dominique. It was part of our deal when Kruger-Brent, Limited, took us over. It’s all in our file, if you’d care to—”

“No.” Tony could make no sense of what he was hearing. Why would his mother—? “May I have Dominique’s address, please?”

“Certainly, Mr. Blackwell. She’s doing a layout in Vermont today, but she should be back”—he glanced at a schedule on his desk—”tomorrow afternoon.”

 

 

Tony was waiting outside Dominique’s apartment building when a black sedan pulled up and Dominique stepped out. With her was a large, athletic-looking man carrying Dominique’s suitcase. Dominique stopped dead when she saw Tony.

“Tony! My God! What—what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Some other time, buddy,” the athlete said. “We have a busy afternoon.”

Tony did not even look at him. “Tell your friend to go away.”

“Hey! Who the hell do you think—?”

Dominique turned to the man. “Please go, Ben. I’ll call you this evening.”

He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Okay.” He glared at Tony, got back in the car and roared off.

Dominique turned to Tony. “You’d better come inside.”

The apartment was a large duplex with white rugs and drapes and modern furniture. It must have cost a fortune.

“You’re doing well,” Tony said.

“Yes. I’ve been lucky.” Dominique’s fingers were picking nervously at her blouse. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. I tried to get in touch with you after I left Paris.”

“I moved.”

“To America?”

“Yes”.

“How did you get a job with the Carleton Blessing Agency?”

“I—I answered a newspaper advertisement,” she said lamely.

“When did you first meet my mother, Dominique?”

“I—at your apartment in Paris. Remember? We—”

“No more games,” Tony said. He felt a wild rage building in him. “It’s over. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but if you tell me one more lie, I promise you your face won’t be fit to photograph.”

Dominique started to speak, but the fury in Tony’s eyes stopped her.

“I’ll ask you once more. When did you first meet my mother?”

This time there was no hesitation. “When you were accepted at École des Beaux-Arts. Your mother arranged for me to model there.”

He felt sick to his stomach. He forced himself to go on. “So I could meet you?”

“Yes, I—”

“And she paid you to become my mistress, to pretend to love me?”

“Yes. It was just after the war—it was terrible. I had no money. Don’t you see? But Tony, believe me, I cared. I really cared—”

“Just answer my questions.” The savagery in his voice frightened her. This was a stranger before her, a man capable of untold violence.

“What was the point of it?”

“Your mother wanted me to keep an eye on you.”

He thought of Dominique’s tenderness and her lovemaking—bought and paid for, courtesy of his mother—and he was sick with shame. All along, he had been his mother’s puppet, controlled, manipulated. His mother had never given a damn about him. He was not her son. He was her crown prince, her heir apparent. All that mattered to her was the company. He took one last look at Dominique, then turned and stumbled out. She looked after him, her eyes blinded by tears, and she thought, I didn’t lie about loving you, Tony. I didn’t lie about that.

 

 

Kate was in the library when Tony walked in, very drunk.

“I t-talked to D-dominique,” he said. “You t-two m-must have had a w-wonderful time 1-laughing at me behind my back.”

Kate felt a quick sense of alarm. “Tony—”

“From now on I want you to s-stay out of my p-personal l-life. Do you hear me?” And he turned and staggered out of the room.

Kate watched him go, and she was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.

 

 

20

 

The following day, Tony took an apartment in Greenwich Village. There were no more sociable dinners with his mother. He kept his relationship with Kate on an impersonal, businesslike basis. From time to time Kate made conciliatory overtures, which Tony ignored.