Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game. Tilly Bagshawe

them the richest family in America; but a fortune to Danny Corretti. It was the Blackwells who had brought Danny and his fellow paparazzi to St Stephen’s churchyard on this chill February morning. They had come to bury their matriarch, Kate Blackwell, dead at last at the grand old age of ninety-two.

      Look at them. Like bloated black flies, swarming around the old lady’s corpse. Revolting.

      Danny Corretti felt his nausea return, but tried not to think about it, nor about the excruciating pain in his back from being stuck up a tree for six straight hours. He longed to stretch out, but didn’t dare move a muscle, in case he alerted the Kruger-Brent security guards to his presence. Watching the dour, black-clad figures pace the perimeter of the churchyard, pistols clutched like security blankets to their ex-marine-corps chests, Danny Corretti felt a stab of fear. He doubted Kate Blackwell had hired any of them for their sense of humor.

      You’ll be OK. Just get the shot and get out of here. Come on Eve, baby. Say cheese.

      Danny Corretti wasn’t really cut out for this sort of covert work. A tall, skinny man with preternaturally long legs and an unexpected shock of white-blond hair above his Italian, olive complexion, there weren’t too many hiding places in the Maine churchyard that could accommodate his lanky, six-foot-two frame. The yew tree had been his best option, but he’d had to arrive ludicrously early this morning to beat his rival snappers to such a coveted vantage point. Clinging to the upper branches now, every sinew of his body felt as if it were on fire, despite the numbing cold of the day. He gritted his teeth, cursing his long legs to the heavens.

      Just think of the money.

      Ironically, if it weren’t for his long legs, Danny wouldn’t have been on this crazy job in the first place.

      If it hadn’t been for Danny’s long legs, his mistress’s husband would never have noticed his size twelve feet sticking out from under the marital bed.

       Ah, Carla. God, she was beautiful! Those breasts, as soft and succulent as two ripe peaches. No man could resist her. If only that Neanderthal she married hadn’t clocked off early …

      It was Danny’s long legs that had gotten him beaten to a pulp and landed him (uninsured) in the local hospital. Thanks to his long legs, his wife Loretta had discovered his affair, divorced him and taken the house. Now, thanks to his long legs, Loretta’s rat-faced lawyer was demanding Danny pay maintenance to the tune of a thousand bucks a month.

       A thousand bucks? Who did they think he was, Donald frikkin’ Trump?

      Yes, Danny blamed his long legs entirely for his current predicament. Why else would he be spending his Sunday morning bent double and freezing his ass off in a four-hundred-year-old tree above a graveyard, risking his neck for one lousy picture of the woman the tabloids had dubbed ‘The Beast of the Blackwells’?

      Danny Corretti’s long legs had a lot to answer for.

      He was going to get that shot of Eve Blackwell if it killed him.

      

      The priest’s voice rang out through the February chill, deep and strong and powerful.

      ‘Merciful God, you know the anguish of the sorrowful …’

      Behind her thick veil, Eve Blackwell sneered. Sorrowful? To see that old witch dead and buried? Please. If I were ten years younger I’d be doing cartwheels.

      Today Eve was burying one of her enemies. But she would not rest until she had buried them all.

      One down, three to go.

      ‘You are attentive to the prayers of the humble …’

      Eve Blackwell glanced around at the small group of family and friends who had come to bid her grandmother Kate farewell, and wondered if any of them could be described as humble.

      There was her identical twin sister Alexandra. At thirty-four Alexandra was still a great beauty with her high cheekbones, mane of buttermilk hair, and the striking gray eyes she had inherited from her great-grandfather, Kruger-Brent’s founder, Jamie McGregor.

      Eve’s eyes narrowed with hatred. The same hatred she had felt for her twin since the day they emerged from the womb.

      How dare she! How dare my sister still look beautiful.

      Alexandra was weeping openly, clutching tightly to her son Robert’s hand. Blond, delicate and sweet natured, ten-year-old Robert was a carbon copy of his mother. A gifted pianist, he had been Kate Blackwell’s favorite, and Kruger-Brent’s heir apparent.

      Not for much longer, thought Eve. Let’s see how long the boy lasts without Kate around to protect him.

      Eve Blackwell felt her chest tighten. How she loathed the pair of them, mother and son and their crocodile tears! If only it were Alexandra’s body being lowered into the gaping, frozen earth today. Then Eve’s happiness would truly be complete.

      Beside Alexandra hovered her husband, the renowned psychiatrist Peter Templeton. Tall, dark, handsome and blue-eyed, Peter Templeton looked more like a quarterback than a psychiatrist. He and Alex made a handsome couple. Peter had once been arrogant enough to think he understood Eve. He believed he’d seen through her, through to the molten core of hatred that bubbled deep within. Alexandra, in her goodness, had never been able to see how much her twin sister hated her. But her husband knew better.

      Eve smiled.

      Vain fool. He thinks he knows me, but he’s barely scratched the surface.

      No, the priest would find no humility in Peter Templeton.

      What about her own husband, the eminent plastic surgeon Keith Webster? Many people thought of Keith Webster as humble. Eve could hear his grateful patients now: ‘Dear Dr Webster, such a gifted surgeon, but so shy and unassuming about his talents.’ Eve felt her flesh creep as Keith wrapped a protective, conjugal arm around her shoulder.

      Protective? He’s not protective. He’s possessive. And psychotic. He blackmailed me into marriage, then deliberately destroyed my face, carving up my beautiful features and turning me into this grotesque, this carnival freak show. All so that I wouldn’t leave him.

      One day I’ll make that bastard pay for what he’s done.

      Eve Blackwell was many things, but she was not stupid. She knew that the trees and bushes around St Stephen’s Church were alive with photographers, and she knew why: they all wanted a picture of her hideously ravaged face.

      Well they could go to hell, the lot of them. From behind, you could still make out Eve’s perfect, womanly figure. But her front side was completely concealed. No lens on earth could penetrate the thick, hand-woven lace of her veil. Eve had made sure of it.

      Once a great beauty like her sister, in recent years Eve Blackwell had become a virtual recluse in her Manhattan penthouse, terrified of showing her monstrously scarred face to the world. Indeed, she had not been seen in public for two years. The last time was at her grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party at Cedar Hill House, the Blackwell family’s private Camelot, just yards from where the old woman was now being laid to rest.

      Kate Blackwell was the lucky one. She’d gone to join her beloved ghosts: Jamie, Margaret, Banda, David, the spirits of Kruger-Brent’s long and violent African past. But there was to be no such rest for Eve. With rumors already flying about her pregnancy – Eve and Alexandra Blackwell were both expecting, but the family had refused to confirm this to the press – Eve was well aware that the price on her head had doubled. There wasn’t a tabloid editor in America who wouldn’t sell his soul for a half decent picture of The Beast of the Blackwells with child.

      And to think, they call me a monster …

      ‘Lord, hear your people, who cry out to you in their need …’

      Eve watched silently as Kate Blackwell’s coffin was lowered into the freshly dug grave. Brad Rogers, Kate’s number two at Kruger-Brent for three