Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon

She shrugged. “I merely mentioned your name. They were delighted to have you.”

“That was mighty kind of you, Kate. Now, as long as you and I are alone, why don’t you tell me exactly what’s on your mind?”

 

 

Tony was at work in his private study, a small room off the main downstairs hallway. He was seated in a deep armchair when he heard the door open and someone come in. He turned to look. It was Marianne Hoffman. Before Tony could open his mouth to make his presence known, he heard her gasp.

She was looking at the paintings on the wall. They were Tony’s paintings—the few he had brought back from his apartment in Paris, and this was the only room in the house where he would allow them to be hung. He watched her walk around the room, going from painting to painting, and it was too late to say anything.

“I don’t believe it,” she murmured.

And Tony felt a sudden anger within him. He knew they were not that bad. As he moved, the leather of his chair creaked, and Marianne turned and saw him.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Tony rose. “That’s quite all right.” His tone was rude. He disliked having his sanctuary invaded. “Were you looking for something?’

“No. I—I was just wandering around. Your collection of paintings belongs in a museum.”

“Except for these,” Tony heard himself saying.

She was puzzled by the hostility in his voice. She turned to look at the paintings again. She saw the signature. “You painted these?”

“I’m sorry if they don’t appeal to you.”

“They’re fantastic!” She moved toward him. “I don’t understand. If you can do this, why would you ever want to do anything else? You’re wonderful. I don’t mean you’re good. I mean you’re wonderful.”

Tony stood there, not listening, just wanting her to get out.

“I wanted to be a painter,” Marianne said. “I studied with Oskar Kokoschka for a year. I finally quit because I knew I never could be as good as I wanted to be. But you!” She turned to the paintings again. “Did you study in Paris?”

He wished she would leave him alone. “Yes.”

“And you quit—just like that?”

“Yes.”

“What a pity. You—”

“There you are!”

They both turned. Kate was standing in the doorway. She eyed the two of them a moment, then walked over to Marianne. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Marianne. Your father mentioned that you like orchids. You must see our greenhouse.”

“Thank you,” Marianne murmured. “I’m really—”

Kate turned to Tony. “Tony, perhaps you should see to your other guests.” There was a note of sharp displeasure in her voice.

She took Marianne’s arm, and they were gone.

There was a fascination to watching his mother maneuver people. It was done so smoothly. Not a move was wasted. It had started with the Wyatts arriving early and the Hoffmans arriving late. Lucy being placed next to him at every meal. The private conferences with Charlie Wyatt. It was so damned obvious, and yet Tony had to admit to himself that it was obvious only because he had the key. He knew his mother and the way her mind worked. Lucy Wyatt was a lovely girl. She would make a wonderful wife for someone, but not for him. Not with Kate Black-well as her sponsor. His mother was a ruthless, calculating bitch, and as long as Tony remembered that, he was safe from her machinations. He wondered what her next move would be.

He did not have to wait long to find out.

They were on the terrace having cocktails. “Mr. Wyatt has been kind enough to invite us to his ranch next weekend,” Kate told Tony. “Isn’t that lovely?” Her face radiated her pleasure. “I’ve never seen a Texas ranch.”

Kruger-Brent owned a ranch in Texas, and it was probably twice as big as the Wyatt spread.

“You will come, won’t you, Tony?” Charlie Wyatt asked.

Lucy said, “Please do.”

They were ganging up on him. It was a challenge. He decided to accept it. “I’d be d-delighted.”

“Good.” There was real pleasure on Lucy’s face. And on Kate’s.