"Master of the Game" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sheldon Sidney)

BOOK FOUR Tony 1946-1950

Tony had been to Paris before, but this time the circumstances were different. The City of Light had been dimmed by the German occupation, but had been saved from destruction when it was declared an open city. The people had suffered a great deal, and though the Nazis had looted the Louvre, Tony found Paris relatively untouched. Besides, this time he was going to live there, to be a part of the city, rather than be a tourist. He could have stayed at Kate's penthouse on Avenue du Marechal Foch, which had not been damaged during the occupation. Instead, he rented an unfurnished flat in an old converted house behind Grand Montparnasse. The apartment consisted of a living room with a fireplace, a small bedroom and a tiny kitchen that had no refrigerator. Between the bedroom and the kitchen crouched a bathroom with a claw-footed tub and small stained bidet and a temperamental toilet with a broken seat.

When the landlady started to make apologies, Tony stopped her. "It's perfect."

He spent all day Saturday at the flea market. Monday and Tuesday he toured the secondhand shops along the Left Bank, and by Wednesday he had the basic furniture he needed. A sofa bed, a scarred table, two overstuffed chairs, an old, ornately carved wardrobe, lamps and a rickety kitchen table and two straight chairs. Mother would be horrified, Tony thought. He could have had his apartment crammed with priceless antiques, but that would have been playing the part of a young American artist in Paris. He intended to live it.

The next step was getting into a good art school. The most prestigious art school in all of France was the Ecole des Beaux-Arts of Paris. Its standards were high, and few Americans were admitted. Tony applied for a place there. They'll never accept me, he thought. But if they do! Somehow, he had to show his mother he had made the right decision. He submitted three of his paintings and waited four weeks to hear whether he had been accepted. At the end of the fourth week, his concierge handed him a letter from the school. He was to report the following Monday.

The Ecole des Beaux-Arts was a large stone building, two stories high, with a dozen classrooms filled with students. Tony reported to the head of the school, Maitre Gessand, a towering, bitter-looking man with no neck and the thinnest lips Tony had ever seen.

"Your paintings are amateurish," he told Tony. "But they show promise. Our committee selected you more for what was not in the paintings than for what was in them. Do you understand?"

"Not exactly, maitre."

"You will, in time. I am assigning you to Maitre Cantal. He will be your teacher for the next five years—if vou last that long."

I'll last that long, Tony promised himself.

Maitre Cantal was a very short man, with a totally bald head which he covered with a purple beret. He had dark-brown eyes, a large, bulbous nose and lips like sausages. He greeted Tony with, "Americans are dilettantes, barbarians. Why are you here?"

"To learn, maitre."

Maitre Cantal grunted.

There were twenty-five pupils in the class, most of them French. Easels had been set up around the room, and Tony selected one near the window that overlooked a workingman's bistro. Scattered around the room were plaster casts of various parts of the human anatomy taken from Greek statues. Tony looked around for the model. He could see no one.

"You will begin," Maitre Cantal told the class.

"Excuse me," Tony said. "I—I didn't bring my paints with me."

"You will not need paints. You will spend the first year learning to draw properly."

The maitre pointed to the Greek statuary. "You will draw those. If it seems too simple for you, let me warn you: Before the year is over, more than half of you will be eliminated.". He warmed to his speech. "You will spend the first year learning anatomy. The second year—for those of you who pass the course—you will draw from live models, working with oils. The third year—and I assure you there will be fewer of you—you will paint with me, in my style, greatly improving on it, naturally. In the fourth and fifth years, you will find your own style, your own voice. Now let us get to work."

The class went to work.

The maitre went around the room, stopping at each easel to make criticisms or comments. When he came to the drawing Tony was working on, he said curtly, "No! That will not do. What I see is the outside of an arm. I want to see the inside. Muscles, bones, ligaments. I want to know there is blood flowing underneath. Do you know how to do that?"

"Yes, maitre. You think it, see it, feel it, and then you draw it."

When Tony was not in class, he was usually in his apartment sketching. He could have painted from dawn to dawn. Painting gave him a sense of freedom he had never known before. The simple act of sitting in front of an easel with a paintbrush in his hand made him feel godlike. He could create whole worlds with one hand. He could make a tree, a flower, a human, a universe. It was a heady experience. He had been born for this. When he was not painting, he was out on the streets of Paris exploring the fabulous city. Now it was his city, the place where his art was being born. There were two Parises, divided by the Seine into the Left Bank and the Right Bank, and they were worlds apart. The Right Bank was for the wealthy, the established. The Left Bank belonged to the students, the artists, the struggling. It was Montparnasse and the Boulevard Raspail and Saint-Germain-des-Pres. It was the Cafe Flore and Henry Miller and Elliot Paul. For Tony, it was home. He would sit for hours at the Boule Blanche or La Coupole with fellow students, discussing their arcane world.

"I understand the art director of the Guggenheim Museum is in Paris, buying up everything in sight."

"Tell him to wait for me!"

They all read the same magazines and shared them because they were expensive: Studio and Cahiers d'Art, Formes et Cou-leurs and Gazette des Beaux-Arts.

Tony had learned French at Le Rosey, and he found it easy to make friends with the other students in his class, for they all shared a common passion. They had no idea who Tony's family was, and they accepted him as one of them. Poor and struggling artists gathered at Cafe Flore and Les Deux Magots on Boulevard Saint-Germain, and ate at Le Pot d'Etian on the Rue des Canettes or at the Rue de l'Universite. None of the others had ever seen the inside of Lasserre or Maxim's.

In 1946, giants were practicing their art in Paris. From time to time, Tony caught glimpses of Pablo Picasso, and one day Tony and a friend saw Marc Chagall, a large, flamboyant man in his fifties, with a wild mop of hair just beginning to turn gray. Chagall was seated at a table across the cafe, in earnest conversation with a group of people.

"We're lucky to see him," Tony's friend whispered. "He comes to Paris very seldom. His home is at Vence, near the Mediterranean coast."

There was Max Ernst sipping an aperitif at a sidewalk cafe, and the great Alberto Giacometti walking down the Rue de Ri-voli, looking like one of his own sculptures, tall and thin and gnarled. Tony was surprised to note he was clubfooted. Tony met Hans Belmer, who was making a name for himself with erotic paintings of young girls turning into dismembered dolls. But perhaps Tony's most exciting moment came when he was introduced to Braque. The artist was cordial, but Tony was tongue-tied.

The future geniuses haunted the new art galleries, studying their competition. The Drouant-David Gallery was exhibiting an unknown young artist named Bernard Buffet, who had studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and Soutine, Utrillo and Dufy. The students congregated at the Salon d'Automne and the Charpentier Gallery and Mile. Roussa's Gallery on the Rue de Seine, and spent their spare time gossiping about their successful rivals.

The first time Kate saw Tony's apartment, she was stunned. She wisely made no comment, but she thought, Bloody hell! How can a son of mine live in this dreary closet? Aloud she said, "It has great charm, Tony. I don't see a refrigerator. Where do you keep your food?"

"Out on the w-windowsill."

Kate walked over to the window, opened it and selected an apple from the sill outside. "I'm not eating one of your subjects, am I?"

Tony laughed. "N-no, Mother."

Kate took a bite. "Now," she demanded, "tell me about your painting."

'There's n-not much to t-tell yet," Tony confessed. "We're just doing d-drawings this year."

"Do you like this Maitre Cantal?"

"He's m-marvelous. The important question is whether he 1-likes me. Only about one-third of the class is going to m-make it to next year."

Not once did Kate mention Tony's joining the company.

Maitre Cantal was not a man to lavish praise. The biggest compliment Tony would get would be a grudging, "I suppose I've seen worse," or, "I'm almost beginning to see underneath."

At the end of the school term, Tony was among the eight advanced to the second-year class. To celebrate, Tony and the other relieved students went to a nightclub in Montmartre, got drunk and spent the night with some young English women who were on a tour of France.

When school started again, Tony began to work with oils and five models. It was like being released from kindergarten. After one year of sketching parts of anatomy, Tony felt he knew every muscle, nerve and gland in the human body. That wasn't drawing—it was copying. Now, with a paintbrush in his hand and a live model in front of him, Tony began to create. Even Maitre Cantal was impressed.

"You have the feel," he said grudgingly. "Now we must work on the technique."

There were about a dozen models who sat for classes at the school. The ones Maitre Cantal used most frequently were Carlos, a young man working his way through medical school; Annette, a short, buxom brunette with a clump of red pubic hair and an acne-scarred back; and Dominique Masson, a beautiful, young, willowy blonde with delicate cheekbones and deep-green eyes. Dominique also posed for several well-known painters. She was everyone's favorite. Every day after class the male students would gather around her, trying to make a date.

"I never mix pleasure with business," she told them. "Anyway," she teased, "it would not be fair. You have all seen what I have to offer. How do I know what you have to offer?"

And the ribald conversation would go on. But Dominique never went out with anyone at the school.

Late one afternoon when all the other students had left and Tony was finishing a painting of Dominique, she came up behind him unexpectedly. "My nose is too long."

Tony was flustered. "Oh. I'm sorry, I'll change it."

"No, no. The nose in the painting is fine. It is my nose that is too long."

Tony smiled. 'I'm afraid I can't do much about that."

"A Frenchman would have said, "Your nose is perfect, chirie.'"

"I like your nose, and I'm not French."

"Obviously. You have never asked me out. I wonder why."

Tony was taken aback. "I—I don't know. I guess it's because everyone else has, and you never go out with anybody."

Dominique smiled. "Everybody goes out with somebody. Good night"

And she was gone.

Tony noticed that whenever he stayed late, Dominique dressed and then returned to stand behind him and watched him paint.

"You are very good," she announced one afternoon. "You are going to be an important painter."

"Thank you, Dominique. I hope you're right."

"Painting is very serious to you, oui?"

"Out"

"Would a man who is going to be an important painter like to buy me dinner?" She saw the look of surprise on his face. "I do not eat much. I must keep my figure."

Tony laughed. "Certainly. It would be a pleasure."

They ate at a bistro near Sacre-Coeur, and they discussed painters and painting. Tony was fascinated with her stories of the well-known artists for whom she posed. As they were having cafe au lait, Dominique said, "I must tell you, you are as good as any of them."

Tony was inordinately pleased, but all he said was, "I have a long way to go."

Outside the cafe, Dominique asked, "Are you going to invite me to see your apartment?"

"If you'd like to. I'm afraid it isn't much."

When they arrived, Dominique looked around the tiny, messy apartment and shook her head. "You were right. It is not much. Who takes care of you?"

"A cleaning lady comes in once a week."

"Fire her. This place is filthy. Don't you have a girl friend?"

"No."

She studied him a moment. "You're not queer?"

"No."

"Good. It would be a terrible waste. Find me a pail of water and some soap."

Dominique went to work on the apartment, cleaning and scrubbing and finally tidying up. When she had finished, she said, 'That will have to do for now. My God, I need a bath."

She went into the tiny bathroom and ran water in the tub. "How do you fit yourself in this?" she called out.

"I pull up my legs."

She laughed. "I would like to see that."

Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom with only a towel around her waist, her blond hair damp and curling. She had a beautiful figure, full breasts, a narrow waist and long, tapering legs. Tony had been unaware of her as a woman before. She had been merely a nude figure to be portrayed on canvas. Oddly enough, the towel changed everything. He felt a sudden rush of blood to his loins.

Dominique was watching him. "Would you like to make love to me?"

"Very much."

She slowly removed the towel. "Show me."

Tony had never known a woman like Dominique. She gave him everything and asked for nothing. She came over almost every evening to cook for Tony. When they went out to dinner, Dominique insisted on going to inexpensive bistros or sandwich bars. "You must save your money," she scolded him. "It is very difficult even for a good artist to get started. And you are good, cheri."

They went to Les Halles in the small hours of the morning and had onion soup at Pied de Cochon. They went to the Musee Carnavalet and out-of-the-way places where tourists did not go, like Cimetiere Pere-Lachaise—the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, Frederic Chopin, Honore de Balzac and Marcel Proust. They visited the catacombs and spent a lazy holiday week going down the Seine on a barge owned by a friend of Dominique's.

Dominique was a delight to be with. She had a quixotic sense of humor, and whenever Tony was depressed, she would laugh him out of it. She seemed to know everyone in Paris, and she took Tony to interesting parties where he met some of the most prominent figures of the day, like the poet Paul Eluard, and Andre Breton, in charge of the prestigious Galerie Maeght.

Dominique was a source of constant encouragement. "You are going to be better than all of them, cheri. Believe me. I know."

If Tony was in the mood to paint at night, Dominique would cheerfully pose for him, even though she had been working all day. God, I'm lucky, Tony thought. This was the first time he had been sure someone loved him for what he was, not who he was, and it was a feeling he cherished. Tony was afraid to tell Dominique he was the heir to one of the world's largest fortunes, afraid she would change, afraid they would lose what they had. But for her birthday Tony could not resist buying her a Russian lynx coat.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life!" Dominique swirled the coat around her and danced around the room. She stopped in the middle of a spin. "Where did it come from? Tony, where did you get the money to buy this coat?"

He was ready for her. "It's hot—stolen. I bought it from a little man outside the Rodin Museum. He was anxious to get rid of it. It didn't cost me much more than a good cloth coat would cost at Au Printemps."

Dominique stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. "I'll wear it even if we both go to prison!"

Then she threw her arms around Tony and started to cry. "Oh, Tony, you idiot. You darling, fantastic idiot."

It was well worth the lie, Tony decided.

One night Dominique suggested to Tony that he move in with her. Between working at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and modeling for some of the better-known artists in Paris, Dominique was able to rent a large, modern apartment on Rue Pretres-Saint Severin. "You should not be living in a place like this, Tony. It is dreadful. Live with me, and you will not have to pay any rent. I can do your laundry, cook for you and—"

"No, Dominique. Thank you."

"But why?"

How could he explain? In the beginning he might have told her he was rich, but now it was too late. She would feel he had been making a fool of her. So he said, "It would be like living off you. You've already given me too much."

"Then I'm giving up my apartment and moving in here. I want to be with you."

She moved in the following day.

There was a wonderful, easy intimacy between them. They spent weekends in the country and stopped at little hostels where Tony would set up his easel and paint landscapes, and when they got hungry Dominique would spread out a picnic lunch she had prepared and they would eat in a meadow. Afterward, they made long, sweet love. Tony had never been so completely happy.

His work was progressing beautifully. One morning Maitre Cantal held up one of Tony's paintings and said to the class, "Look at that body. You can see it breathing."

Tony could hardly wait to tell Dominique that night. "You know how I got the breathing just right? I hold the model in my arms every night."

Dominique laughed in excitement and then grew serious. "Tony, I do not think you need three more years of school. You are ready now. Everyone at the school sees that, even Cantal."

Tony's fear was that he was not good enough, that he was just another painter, that his work would be lost in the flood of pictures turned out by thousands of artists all over the world every day. He could not bear the thought of it. Winning is what's important, Tony. Remember that.

Sometimes when Tony finished a painting he would be filled with a sense of elation and think, / have talent I really kmve talent. At other times he would look at his work and think, I'm a bloody amateur.

With Dominique's encouragement, Tony was gaining more and more confidence in his work. He had finished almost two dozen paintings on his own. Landscapes, still fifes. There was a painting of Dominique lying nude under a tree, the sun dappling her body. A man's jacket and shirt were in the foreground, and the viewer knew the woman awaited her lover.

When Dominique saw the painting, she cried, "You must have an exhibition!"

"You're mad, Dominique! I'm not ready."

"You're wrong, mon cher."

Tony arrived home late the next afternoon to find that Dominique was not alone. Anton Goerg, a thin man with an enormous potbelly and protuberant hazel eyes, was with her. He was the owner and proprietor of the Goerg Gallery, a modest gallery on the Rue Dauphine. Tony's paintings were spread around the room.

"What's going on?" Tony asked.

"What's going on, monsieur," Anton Goerg exclaimed, "is that I think your work is brilliant." He clapped Tony on the back. "I would be honored to give you a showing in my gallery."

Tony looked over at Dominique, and she was beaming at him.   "I—I don't know what to say."

"You have already said it," Goerg replied. "On these canvases."

Tony and Dominique stayed up half the night discussing it.

"I don't feel I'm ready. The critics will crucify me."

"You're wrong, cheri. This is perfect for you. It is a small gallery. Only the local people will come and judge you. There is no way you can get hurt. Monsieur Goerg would never offer to give you an exhibition if he did not believe in you. He agrees with me that you are going to be a very important artist."

"All right," Tony finally said. "Who knows? I might even sell a painting."

The cable read: arriving paris Saturday, please join me

FOR DINNER. LOVE, MOTHER.

Tony's first thought as he watched his mother walk into the studio was, What a handsome woman she is. She was in her mid-fifties, hair untinted, with white strands laced through the black. There was a charged vitality about her. Tony had once asked her why she had not remarried. She had answered quietly, "Only two men were ever important in my life. Your father and you."

Now, standing in the little apartment in Paris, facing his mother, Tony said, "It's g-good to see you, M-mother."

'Tony, you look absolutely wonderful! The beard is new." She laughed and ran her fingers through it. "You look like a young Abe Lincoln." Her eyes swept the small apartment. "Thank God, you've gotten a good cleaning woman. It looks like a different place."

Kate walked over to the easel, where Tony had been working on a painting, and she stopped and stared at it for a long time. He stood there, nervously awaiting his mother's reaction.

When Kate spoke, her voice was very soft. "It's brilliant, Tony. Really brilliant." There was no effort to conceal the pride she felt. She could not be deceived about art, and there was a fierce exultation in her that her son was so talented.

She turned to face him. "Let me see more!"

They spent the next two hours going through his stack of paintings. Kate discussed each one in great detail. There was no condescension in her voice. She had failed in her attempt to control his life, and Tony admired her for taking her defeat so gracefully.

Kate said, "I'll arrange for a showing. I know a few dealers who—"

'Thanks, M-mother, but you d-don't have to. I'm having a showing next F-friday. A g-gallery is giving me an exhibition."

Kate threw her arms around Tony. "That's wonderful! Which gallery?"

'The G-goerg Gallery."

"I don't believe I know it."

"It's s-small, but Fm not ready for Hammer or W-wildenstein yet."

She pointed to the painting of Dominique under the tree. "You're wrong, Tony. I think this—"

There was the sound of the front door opening. 'I'm horny, cheri. Take off your—" Dominique saw Kate. "Oh, merde! I'm sorry. I—I didn't know you had company, Tony."

There was a moment of frozen silence.

"Dominique, this is my m-mother. M-mother, may I present D-dominique Masson."

The two women stood there, studying each other.

"How do you do, Mrs. Blackwell."

Kate said, "I've been admiring my son's portrait of you." The rest was left unspoken.

There was another awkward silence.

"Did Tony tell you he's going to have an exhibition, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"Yes, he did. It's wonderful news."

"Can you s-stay for it, Mother?"

'I'd give anything to be able to be there, but I have a board meeting the day after tomorrow in Johannesburg and there's no way I can miss it. I wish I'd known about it sooner, I'd have rearranged my schedule."

"It's all r-right," Tony said. "I understand." Tony was nervous that his mother might say more about the company in front of Dominique, but Kate's mind was on the paintings.

"It's important for the right people to see your exhibition."

"Who are the right people, Mrs. Blackwell?"

Kate turned to Dominique. "Opinion-makers, critics. Someone like Andre d'Usseau—he should be there."

Andre d'Usseau was the most respected art critic in France. He was a ferocious lion guarding the temple of art, and a single review from him could make or break an artist overnight.

D'Usseau was invited to the opening of every exhibition, but he attended only the major ones. Gallery owners and artists trembled, waiting for his reviews to appear. He was a master of the bon mot, and his quips flew around Paris on poisoned wings. Andre d'Usseau was the most hated man in Parisian art circles, and the most respected. His mordant wit and savage criticism were tolerated because of his expertise.

Tony turned to Dominique. "That's a m-mother for you." Then to Kate, "Andre d'Usseau doesn't g-go to little galleries."

"Oh, Tony, he must come. He can make you famous overnight."

"Or b-break me."

"Don't you believe in yourself?" Kate was watching her son.

"Of course he does," Dominique said. "But we couldn't dare hope that Monsieur d'Usseau would come."

"I could probably find some friends who know him."

Dominique's face lighted up. 'That would be fantastic!" She turned to Tony. "Cheri, do you know what it would mean if he came to your opening?"

"Oblivion?"

"Be serious. I know his taste, Tony. I know what he likes. He will adore your paintings."

Kate said, "I won't try to arrange for him to come unless you want me to, Tony."

"Of course he wants it, Mrs. Blackwell."

Tony took a deep breath. "I'm s-scared, but what the hell! L-let's try."

"I'll see what I can do." Kate looked at the painting on the easel for a long, long time, then turned back to Tony. There was a sadness in her eyes. "Son, I must leave Paris tomorrow. Can we have dinner tonight?"

Tony replied, "Yes, of course, Mother. We're f-free."

Kate turned to Dominique and said graciously, "Would you like to have dinner at Maxim's or—"

Tony said quickly, "Dominique and I know a w-wonderful little cafe not f-far from here."

They went to a bistro at the Place Victoire. The food was good and the wine was excellent. The two women seemed to get along well, and Tony was terribly proud of both of them. It's one of the

best nights of my life, he thought. I'm with my mother and the woman I'm going to marry.

The next morning Kate telephoned from the airport. "I've made a half a dozen phone calls," she told Tony. "No one could give me a definite answer about Andre d'Usseau. But whichever way it goes, darling, I'm proud of you. The paintings are wonderful. Tony, I love you."

"I l-love you, too, M-mother."

The Goerg Gallery was just large enough to escape being called intime. Two dozen of Tony's paintings were being hung on the walls in frantic, last-minute preparation for the opening. On a marble sideboard were slabs of cheese and biscuits and bottles of Chablis. The gallery was empty except for Anton Goerg, Tony, Dominique and a young female assistant who was hanging the last of the paintings.

Anton Goerg looked at his watch. "The invitations said 'seven o'clock.' People should start to arrive at any moment now."

Tony had not expected to be nervous. And I'm not nervous, he told himself. I'm panicky!

"What if no one shows up?" he asked. "I mean, what if not one single, bloody person shows up?"

Dominique smiled and stroked his cheek. 'Then we'll have all this cheese and wine for ourselves."

People began to arrive. Slowly at first, and then in larger numbers. Monsieur Goerg was at the door, effusively greeting them. They don't look like art buyers to me, Tony thought grimly. His discerning eye divided them into three categories: There were the artists and art students who attended each exhibition to evaluate the competition; the art dealers who came to every exhibition so they could spread derogatory news about aspiring painters; and the arty crowd, consisting to a large extent of homosexuals and lesbians who seemed to spend their lives around the fringes of the art world. I'm not going to sell a single, goddamned picture, Tony decided.

Monsieur Goerg was beckoning to Tony from across the room.

"I don't think I want to meet any of these people," Tony whispered to Dominique. "They're here to rip me apart."

"Nonsense. They came here to meet you. Now be charming, Tony."

And so, he was charming. He met everybody, smiled a lot and uttered all the appropriate phrases in response to the compliments that were paid him. But were they really compliments? Tony wondered. Over the years a vocabulary had developed in art circles to cover exhibitions of unknown painters. Phrases that said everything and nothing.

"You really feel you're there ..."

"I've never seen a style quite like yours ..."

"Now, that's a painting! ..."

"It speaks to me ..."

"You couldn't have done it any better ..."

People kept arriving, and Tony wondered whether the attraction was curiosity about his paintings or the free wine and cheese. So far, not one of his paintings had sold, but the wine and cheese were being consumed rapaciously.

"Be patient," Monsieur Goerg whispered to Tony. "They are interested. First they must get a smell of the paintings. They see one they like, they keep wandering back to it. Pretty soon they ask the price, and when they nibble, voila! The hook is set!"

"Jesus! I feel like I'm on a fishing cruise," Tony told Dominique.

Monsieur Goerg bustled up to Tony. "We've sold one!" he exclaimed. "The Normandy landscape. Five hundred francs."

It was a moment that Tony would remember as long as he lived. Someone had bought a painting of his! Someone had thought enough of his work to pay money for it, to hang it in his home or office, to look at it, live with it, show it to friends. It was a small piece of immortality. It was a way of living more than one life, of being in more than one place at the same time. A successful artist was in hundreds of homes and offices and museums all over the world, bringing pleasure to thousands—sometimes millions of people. Tony felt as though he had stepped into the pantheon of Da Vinci and Michelangelo and Rembrandt. He was no longer an amateur painter, he was a professional. Someone had paid money for his work.

Dominique hurried up to him, her eyes bright with excitement. "You've just sold another one, Tony."

"Which one?" he asked eagerly.

"The floral."

The small gallery was filled now with people and loud chatter and the clink of glasses; and suddenly a stillness came over the room. There was an undercurrent of whispers and all eyes turned to the door.

Andre d'Usseau was entering the gallery. He was in his middle fifties, taller than the average Frenchman, with a strong, leonine face and a mane of white hair. He wore a flowing Inverness cape and Borsalino hat, and behind him came an entourage of hangers-on. Automatically, everyone in the room began to make way for d'Usseau. There was not one person present who did not know who he was.

Dominique squeezed Tony's hand. "He's come!" she said. "He's here!"

Such an honor had never befallen Monsieur Goerg before, and he was beside himself, bowing and scraping before the great man, doing everything but tugging at his forelock.

"Monsieur d'Usseau," he babbled. "What a great pleasure this is! What an honor! May I offer you some wine, some cheese?" He cursed himself for not having bought a decent wine.

"Thank you," the great man replied. "I have come to feast only my eyes. I would like to meet the artist."

Tony was too stunned to move. Dominique pushed him forward.

"Here he is," Monsieur Goerg said. "Mr. Andre d'Usseau, this is Tony Blackwell."

Tony found his voice. "How do you do, sir? I—thank you for coming."

Andre d'Usseau bowed slightly and moved toward the paintings on the walls. Everyone pushed back to give him room. He made his way slowly, looking at each painting long and care-fully, then moving on to the next one. Tony tried to read his face, but he could tell nothing.  D'Usseau neither frowned nor smiled. He stopped for a long time at one particular painting, a nude of Dominique, then moved on. He made a complete circle of the room, missing nothing. Tony was perspiring profusely.

When Andre d'Usseau had finished, he walked over to Tony. "I am glad I came," was all he said.

Within minutes after the famous critic had left, every painting in the gallery was sold. A great new artist was being born, and everyone wanted to be in at the birth.

"I have never seen anything like it," Monsieur Goerg exclaimed. "Andre d'Usseau came to my gallery. My gallery! All Paris will read about it tomorrow. 'I am glad I came.' Andre d'Usseau is not a man to waste words. This calls for champagne. Let us celebrate."

Later that night, Tony and Dominique had their own private celebration. Dominique snuggled in his arms. "I've slept with painters before," she said, "but never anyone as famous as you're going to be. Tomorrow everyone in Paris will know who you are."

And Dominique was right.

At five o'clock the following morning, Tony and Dominique hurriedly got dressed and went out to get the first edition of the morning paper. It had just arrived at the kiosk. Tony snatched up the paper and turned to the art section. His review was the headline article under the by-line of Andre d'Usseau. Tony read it aloud:

"An exhibition by a young American painter, Anthony Blackwell, opened last night at the Goerg Gallery. It was a great learning experience for this critic. I have attended so many exhibitions of talented painters that I had forgotten what truly bad paintings looked like. I was forcibly reminded last night..."

Tony's face turned ashen.

"Please don't read any more," Dominique begged. She tried to take the paper from Tony.

"Let go!" he commanded. He read on.

"At first I thought a joke was being perpetrated. I could not seriously believe that anyone would have the nerve to hang such amateurish paintings and dare to call them art. I searched for the tiniest glimmering of talent. Alas, there was none. They should have hung the painter instead of his paintings. I would earnestly advise that the confused Mr. Blackwell return to his real profession, which I can only assume is that of house painter."

"I can't believe it," Dominique whispered. "I can't believe he couldn't see it. Oh, that bastard!" Dominique began to cry helplessly.

Tony felt as though his chest were filled with lead. He had difficulty breathing. "He saw it," he said. "And he does know, Dominique. He does know." His voice was filled with pain. That's what hurts so much. Christ! What a fool I was!" He started to move away.

"Where are you going, Tony?"

"I don't know."

He wandered around the cold, dawn streets, unaware of the tears running down his face. Within a few hours, everyone in Paris would have read that review. He would be an object of ridicule. But what hurt more was that he had deluded himself. He had really believed he had a career ahead of him as a painter. At kast Andre d'Usseau had saved him from that mistake. Pieces of posterity, Tony thought grimly. Pieces of shit! He walked into the first open bar and proceeded to get mindlessly drunk.

When Tony finally returned to his apartment, it was five o'clock the following morning.

Dominique was waiting for him, frantic. "Where have you been, Tony? Your mother has been trying to get in touch with you. She's sick with worry."

"Did you read it to her?"

"Yes, she insisted. I—"

The telephone rang. Dominique looked at Tony, and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Yes, Mrs. Blackwell. He just walked in." She held the receiver out to Tony. He hesitated, then took it.

"Hello, M-mother."

Kate's voice was filled with distress. "Tony, darling, listen to me. I can make him print a retraction. I—"

"Mother," Tony said wearily, "this isn't a b-business transaction. This is a c-critic expressing an opinion. His opinion is that I should be h-hanged."

"Darling, I hate to have you hurt like this. I don't think I can stand—" She broke off, unable to continue.

"It's all right, M-mother. I've had my little f-fling. I tried it and it didn't w-work. I don't have what it t-takes. It's as simple as that. I h-hate d'Usseau's guts, but he's the best g-goddamned art critic in the world, I have to g-give him that. He saved me from making a t-terrible mistake."

"Tony, I wish there was something I could say ..."

"D'Usseau s-said it all. It's b-better that I f-found it out now instead of t-ten years from now, isn't it? I've got to g-get out of this town."

"Wait there for me, darling. I'll leave Johannesburg tomorrow and we'll go back to New York together."

"All right," Tony said. He replaced the receiver and turned toward Dominique. "I'm sorry, Dominique. You picked the wrong fellow."

Dominique said nothing. She just looked at him with eyes filled with an unspeakable sorrow.

The following afternoon at Kruger-Brent's office on Rue Ma-tignon, Kate Blackwell was writing out a check. The man seated across the desk from her sighed. "It is a pity. Your son has talent, Mrs. Blackwell. He could have become an important painter."

Kate stared at him coldly. "Mr. d'Usseau, there are tens of thousands of painters in the world. My son was not meant to be one of the crowd." She passed the check across the desk. "You fulfilled your part of the bargain, I'm prepared to fulfill mine.

Kruger-Brent, Limited, will sponsor art museums in Johannesburg, London and New York. You will be in charge of selecting the paintings—with a handsome commission, of course."

But long after d'Usseau had gone, Kate sat at her desk, filled with a deep sadness. She loved her son so much. If he ever found out... She knew the risk she had taken. But she could not stand by and let Tony throw away his inheritance. No matter what it might cost her, he had to be protected. The company had to be protected. Kate rose, feeling suddenly very tired. It was time to pick up Tony and take him home. She would help him get over this, so he could get on with what he had been born to do.

Run the company.

For the next two years, Tony Blackwell felt he was on a giant treadmill that was taking him nowhere. He was the heir apparent to an awesome conglomerate. Kruger-Brent's empire had expanded to include paper mills, an airline, banks and a chain of hospitals. Tony learned that a name is a key that opens all doors. There are clubs and organizations and social cliques where the coin of the realm is not money or influence, but the proper name. Tony was accepted for membership in the Union Club, The Brook and The Links Club. He was catered to everywhere he went, but he felt like an imposter. He had done nothing to deserve any of it. He was in the giant shadow of his grandfather, and he felt he was constantly being measured against him. It was unfair, for there were no more mine fields to crawl over, no guards shooting at him, no sharks threatening him. The ancient tales of derring-do had nothing to do with Tony. They belonged to a past century, another time, another place, heroic acts committed by a stranger.

Tony worked twice as hard as anyone else at Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He drove himself mercilessly, trying to rid himself of memories too searing to bear. He wrote to Dominique, but his letters

were returned unopened. He telephoned Maitre Cantal, but Dominique no longer modeled at the school. She had disappeared.

Tony handled his job expertly and methodically, with neither passion nor love, and if he felt a deep emptiness inside himself, no one suspected it. Not even Kate. She received weekly reports on Tony, and she was pleased with them.

"He has a natural aptitude for business," she told Brad Rogers.

To Kate, the long hours her son worked were proof of how much he loved what he was doing. When Kate thought of how Tony had almost thrown his future away, she shuddered and was grateful she had saved him.

In 1948 the Nationalist Party was in full power in South Africa, with segregation in all public places. Migration was strictly controlled, and families were split up to suit the convenience of the government. Every black man had to carry a bewy-shoek, and it was more than a pass, it was a Lifeline, his birth certificate, his work permit, his tax receipt. It regulated his movements and his life. There were increasing riots in South Africa, and they were ruthlessly put down by the police. From time to time, Kate read newspaper stories about sabotage and unrest, and Banda's name was always prominently mentioned. He was still a leader in the underground, despite his age. Of course he would fight for his people, Kate thought. He's Banda.

Kate celebrated her fifty-sixth birthday alone with Tony at the house on Fifth Avenue. She thought, This handsome twenty-four-year-old man across the table can't be my son. I'm too young. And he was toasting her, "To m-my f-fantastic m-mother. Happy b-birthday!"

"You should make that to my fantastic old mother." Soon I'll be retiring, Kate thought, but my son will take my place. My son!

At Kate's insistence, Tony had moved into the mansion on Fifth Avenue.

"The place is too bloody large for me to rattle around in alone," Kate told him. "You'll have the whole east wing to

yourself and all the privacy you need." It was easier for Tony to give in than to argue.

Tony and Kate had breakfast together every morning, and the topic of conversation was always Kruger-Brent, Ltd. Tony marveled that his mother could care so passionately for a faceless, soulless entity, an amorphous collection of buildings and machines and bookkeeping figures. Where did the magic lie? With all the myriad mysteries of the world to explore, why would anyone want to waste a lifetime accumulating wealth to pile on more wealth, gathering power that was beyond power? Tony did not understand his mother. But he loved her. And he tried to live up to what she expected of him.

The Pan American flight from Rome to New York had been uneventful. Tony liked the airline. It was pleasant and efficient. He worked on his overseas acquisitions reports from the time the plane took off, skipping dinner and ignoring the stewardesses who kept offering him drinks, pillows or whatever else might appeal to their attractive passenger.

"Thank you, miss. I'm fine."

"If there's anything at all, Mr. Blackwell..."

'Thank you."

A middle-aged woman in the seat next to Tony was reading a fashion magazine. As she turned a page, Tony happened to glance over, and he froze. There was a picture of a model wearing a ball gown. It was Dominique. There was no question about it. There were the high, delicate cheekbones and the deep-green eyes, the luxuriant blond hair. Tony's pulse began to race.

"Excuse me," Tony said to his seat companion. "May I borrow that page?"

Early the following morning, Tony called the dress shop and got the name of their advertising agency. He telephoned them. "I'm trying to locate one of your models," he told the switchboard operator. "Could you—"

"One moment, please."

A man's voice came on. "May I help you?"

"I saw a photograph in this month's issue of Vogue. A model advertising a ball gown for the Rothman stores. Is that your account?"

"Yes."

'Can you give me the name of your model agency?"

"That would be the Carleton Blessing Agency." He gave Tony the telephone number.

A minute later, Tony was talking to a woman at the Blessing Agency. "I'm trying to locate one of your models," he said. "Dominique Masson."

"I'm sorry. It is our policy not to give out personal information." And the line went dead.

Tony sat there, staring at the receiver. There had to be a way to get in touch with Dominique. He went into Brad Rogers's office.

"Morning, Tony. Coffee?"

"No, thanks. Brad, have you heard of the Carleton Blessing Model Agency?"

"I should think so. We own it."

"What?"

"It's under the umbrella of one of our subsidiaries."

"When did we acquire it?"

"A couple of years ago. Just about the time you joined the company. What's your interest in it?"

"I'm trying to locate one of their models. She's an old friend."

"No problem. I'll call and—"

"Never mind. I'll do it. Thanks, Brad."

A feeling of warm anticipation was building up inside Tony.

Late that afternoon, Tony went uptown to the offices of the Carleton Blessing Agency and gave his name. Sixty seconds later, he was seated in the office of the president, a Mr. Tilton.

"This is certainly an honor, Mr. Blackwell, I hope there's no problem. Our profits for the last quarter—"

"No problem. I'm interested in one of your models. Domi-nique Masson."

Tilton's face lighted up. "She's turned out to be one of our very best. Your mother has a good eye."

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 Ecole 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, / 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 1-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.

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.

Kate's heart ached. But she had done what was right for Tony. Just as she had once done what was right for David. She could not have let either of them leave the company. Tony was the one human being in the world Kate loved, and she watched as he became more and more insular, drawing deep within himself, rejecting everyone. He had no friends. Where once he had been warm and outgoing, he was now cool and reserved. He had built a wall around himself that no one was able to breach. He needs a wife to care for him, Kate thought. And a son to carry on. I must help him. I must.

Brad Rogers came into Kate's office and said, 'I'm afraid we're in for some more trouble, Kate." "What's happened?"

He put a cable on her desk. "The South African Parliament has outlawed the Natives' Representative Council and passed the Communist Act."

Kate said, "My God!" The act had nothing to do with communism. It stated that anyone who disagreed with any government policy and tried to change it in any way was guilty under the Communist Act and could be imprisoned.

"It's their way of breaking the black resistance movement," she said. "If—" She was interrupted by her secretary.

"There's an overseas call for you. It's Mr. Pierce in Johannesburg."

Jonathan Pierce was the manager of the Johannesburg branch office. Kate picked up the phone. "Hello, Johnny. How are you?"

"Fine, Kate. I have some news I thought you'd better be aware of."

"What's that?"

"I've just received a report that the police have captured Banda."

Kate was on the next flight to Johannesburg. She had alerted the company lawyers to see what could be done for Banda. Even the power and prestige of Kruger-Brent, Ltd., might not be able to help him. He had been designated an enemy of the state, and she dreaded to think what his punishment would be. At least she must see him and talk to him and offer what support she could.

When the plane landed in Johannesburg, Kate went to her office and telephoned the director of prisons.

"He's in an isolation block, Mrs. Blackwell, and he's allowed no visitors. However, in your case, I will see what can be done..."

The following morning, Kate was at the Johannesburg prison, face to face with Banda. He was manacled and shackled, and there was a glass partition between them. His hair was completely white. Kate had not known what to expect—despair, defiance—but Banda grinned when he saw her and said, "I knew you'd come. You're just like your daddy. You can't stay away from trouble, can you?"

"Look who's talking," Kate retorted. "Bloody hell! How do we get you out of here?"

"In a box. That's the only way they're going to let me go."

"I have a lot of fancy lawyers who—"

"Forget it, Kate. They caught me fair and square. Now I've got to get away fair and square."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't like cages, I never did. And they haven't built one yet that can keep me."

Kate said, "Banda, don't try it. Please. They'll kill you."

"Nothing can kill me," Banda said. "You're talking to a man who lived through sharks and land mines and guard dogs." A soft gleam came into his eyes. "You know something, Kate? I think maybe that was the best time of my life."

When Kate went to visit Banda the next day, die superintendent said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. BlackwelL We've had to move him for security reasons."

"Where is he?"

'I'm not at liberty to say."

When Kate woke up the following morning, she saw the headline in the newspaper carried in with her breakfast tray. It read: rebel leader killed while trying to escape prison. She was at the prison an hour later, in the superintendent's office.

"He was shot during an attempted prison break, Mrs. Black-well. That's all there is to it."

You're wrong, thought Kate, there's more. Much more. Banda was dead, but was his dream of freedom for his people dead?

Two days later, after making the funeral arrangements, Kate was on the plane to New York. She looked out the window to take one last look at her beloved land. The soil was red and rich and fertile, and in the bowels of its earth were treasures beyond man's dreams. This was God's chosen land, and He had been lavish in his generosity. But there was a curse upon the country. I'll never come back here again, Kate thought sadly. Never.

One of Brad Rogers's responsibilities was to oversee the Long-Range Planning Department of Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He was brilliant at finding businesses that would make profitable acquisitions.

One day in early May, he walked into Kate Blackwell's office. "I've come across something interesting, Kate." He placed two folders on her desk. 'Two companies. If we could pick up either one of them, it would be a coup."

"Thanks, Brad. I'll look them over tonight."

That evening, Kate dined alone and studied Brad Rogers's confidential reports on the two companies—Wyatt Oil amp; Tool and International Technology. The reports were long and detailed, and both ended with the letters nis, the company code for Not Interested in Selling, which meant that if the companies were to be acquired, it would take more than a straightforward business transaction to accomplish it. And, Kate thought, they're well worth taking over. Each company was privately controlled by a wealthy and strong-minded individual, which eliminated any possibility of a takeover attempt. It was a challenge, and it had been a long time since Kate had faced a challenge. The more she thought about it, the more the possibilities began to excite her. She studied again the confidential balance sheets. Wyatt Oil amp; Tool was owned by a Texan, Charlie Wyatt, and the company's assets included producing oil wells, a utility company and dozens of potentially profitable oil leases. There was no question about it, Wyatt Oil amp; Tool would make a handsome acquisition for Kruger-Brent, Ltd.

Kate turned her attention to the second company. International Technology was owned by a German, Count Frederick Hoffman. The company had started with a small steel mill in Essen, and over the years had expanded into a huge conglomerate, with shipyards, petrochemical plants, a fleet of oil tankers and a computer division.

As large as Kruger-Brent, Ltd., was, it could digest only one of these giants. She knew which company she was going after. nis, the sheet read.

We'll see about that, Kate thought.

Early the following morning, she sent for Brad Rogers. "I'd love to know how you got hold of those confidential balance sheets," Kate grinned. "Tell me about Charlie Wyatt and Frederick Hoffman."

Brad had done his homework. "Charlie Wyatt was born in Dallas. Flamboyant, loud, runs his own empire, smart as hell. He started with nothing, got lucky in oil wildcatting, kept expanding and now he owns about half of Texas."

"How old is he?"

"Forty-seven."

"Children?"

"One daughter, twenty-five. From what I hear, she's a raving beauty."

"Is she married?"

"Divorced."

"Frederick Hoffman."

"Hoffman's a couple of years younger than Charlie Wyatt. He's a count, comes from a distinguished German family going back to the Middle Ages. He's a widower. His grandfather started with a small steel mill. Frederick Hoffman inherited it from his father and built it into a conglomerate. He was one of the first to get into the computer field. He holds a lot of patents on microprocessors. Every time we use a computer, Count Hoffman gets a royalty."

"Children?"

"A daughter, twenty-three."

"What is she like?"

"I couldn't find out," Brad Rogers apologized. "It's a very buttoned-up family. They travel in their own little circles." He hesitated. "We're probably wasting our time on this, Kate. I had a few drinks with a couple of top executives in both companies.

Neither Wyatt nor Hoffman has the slightest interest in a sale, merger or joint venture. As you can see from their Financials, they'd be crazy even to think about it."

That feeling of challenge was there in Kate again, tugging at her.

Ten days later Kate was invited by the President of the United States to a Washington conference of leading international industrialists to discuss assistance to underdeveloped countries. Kate made a telephone call, and shortly afterward Charlie Wyatt and Count Frederick Hoffman received invitations to attend the conference.

Kate had formed a mental impression of both the Texan and the German, and they fitted her preconceived notions almost precisely. She had never met a shy Texan, and Charlie Wyatt was no exception. He was a huge man—almost six feet four inches—with enormous shoulders and a football player's body that had gone to fat. His face was large and ruddy, and his voice loud and booming. He came off as a good oF boy—or would have if Kate had not known better. Charlie Wyatt had not built bis empire by luck. He was a business genius. Kate had talked to him for less than ten minutes when she knew that there was no way this man could be persuaded to do anything he did not want to do. He was opinionated, and he had a deep stubborn streak. No one was going to cajole him, threaten him or con him out of his company. But Kate had found his Achilles' heel, and that was enough.

Frederick Hoffman was Charlie Wyatt's opposite. He was a handsome man, with an aristocratic face and soft brown hair tinged with gray at the temples. He was punctiliously correct and filled with a sense of old-fashioned courtesy. On the surface, Frederick Hoffman was pleasant and debonair; on the inside Kate sensed a core of steel.

The conference in Washington lasted three days, and it went well. The meetings were chaired by the Vice-President, and the President made a brief appearance. Everyone there was im-

pressed with Kate Blackwell. She was an attractive, charismatic woman, head of a corporate empire she had helped build, and they were fascinated, as Kate meant them to be.

When Kate got Charlie Wyatt alone for a moment, she asked innocently, "Is your family with you, Mr. Wyatt?"

"I brought my daughter along. She has a little shoppin' to do."

"Oh, really? How nice." No one would have suspected that Kate not only knew his daughter was with him, but what kind of dress she had bought at Garfinckel's that morning. "I'm giving a little dinner party at Dark Harbor Friday. I'd be pleased if you and your daughter would join us for the weekend."

Wyatt did not hesitate. "I've heard a lot about your spread, Mrs. Blackwell. I'd sure like to see it."

Kate smiled. "Good. I'll make arrangements for you to be flown up there tomorrow night."

Ten minutes later, Kate was speaking to Frederick Hoffman. "Are you alone in Washington, Mr. Hoffman?" she asked. "Or is your wife with you?"

"My wife died a few years ago," Frederick Hoffman told her. 'I'm here with my daughter."

Kate knew they were staying at the Hay-Adams Hotel in Suite 418. "I'm giving a little dinner party at Dark Harbor. I would be delighted if you and your daughter could join us tomorrow for the weekend."

"I should be getting back to Germany," Hoffman replied. He studied her a moment, and smiled. "I suppose another day or two won't make much difference."

"Wonderful. I'll arrange transportation for you."

It was Kate's custom to give a party at the Dark Harbor estate once every two months. Some of the most interesting and powerful people in the world came to these gatherings, and the get-togethers were always fruitful. Kate intended to see to it that this one was a very special party. Her problem was to make sure Tony attended. During the past year, he had seldom bothered to show up, and when he did he had made a perfunctory appearance and left. This time it was imperative that he come and that he stay.

When Kate mentioned the weekend to Tony, he said curtly, "I c-can't make it. I'm leaving for C-canada Monday and I have a lot of w-work to clean up before I go."

"This is important," Kate told him. "Charlie Wyatt and Count Hoffman are going to be there and they're—"

"I know who they are," he interrupted. "I t-talked to Brad Rogers. We haven't got a p-prayer of acquiring either one of those companies."

"I want to give it a try."

He looked at her and asked, "W-which one are you after?"

"Wyatt Oil and Tool. It could increase our profits as much as fifteen percent, perhaps more. When the Arab countries realize they have the world by the throat, they're going to form a cartel, and oil prices will skyrocket. Oil is going to turn into liquid gold."

"What about International T-t-technology?"

Kate shrugged. "It's a good company, but the plum is Wyatt Oil and Tool. It's a perfect acquisition for us. I need you there, Tony. Canada can wait a few days."

Tony loathed parties. He hated the endless, boring conversations, the boastful men and the predatory women. But this was business. "All right."

All the pieces were in place.

The Wyatts were flown to Maine in a company Cessna, and from the ferry were driven to Cedar Hill House in a limousine. Kate was at the door to greet them. Brad Rogers had been right about Charlie Wyatt's daughter, Lucy. She was strikingly beautiful. She was tall, with black hair and gold-flecked brown eyes, set in almost perfect features. Her sleek Galanos dress outlined a firm, stunning figure. She had, Brad informed Kate, been divorced from a wealthy Italian playboy two years earlier. Kate introduced Lucy to Tony and watched for her son's reaction. There was none. He greeted both the Wyatts with equal courtesy and led them into the bar, where a bartender was waiting to mix drinks.

"What a lovely room," Lucy exclaimed. Her voice was unexpectedly soft and mellow, with no trace of a Texas accent. "Do you spend much time here?" she asked Tony.

"No."

She waited for him to go on. Then, "Did you grow up here?"

"Partly."

Kate picked up the conversation, adroitly smoothing over Tony's silence. "Some of Tony's happiest memories are of this house. The poor man is so busy he doesn't get much chance to come back here and enjoy it, do you, Tony?"

He gave his mother a cool look and said, "No. As a matter of fact, I should be in C-canada—"

"But he postponed it so he could meet both of you," Kate finished for him.

"Well, I'm mighty pleased," Charlie Wyatt said. "I've heard a lot about you, son." He grinned. "You wouldn't want to come to work for me, would you?"

"I don't think that's q-quite what my mother had in mind, Mr. Wyatt."

Charlie Wyatt grinned again. "I know." He turned to look at Kate. "Your mother's quite a lady. You should have seen her rope and hog-tie everybody at that White House meetin'. She—" He stopped as Frederick Hoffman and his daughter, Marianne, entered the room. Marianne Hoffman was a pale version of her father. She had the same aristocratic features and she had long, blond hair. She wore an off-white chiffon dress. Next to Lucy Wyatt she looked washed out.

"May I present my daughter, Marianne?" Count Hoffman said. "I'm sorry we're late," He apologized. 'The plane was delayed at La Guardia."

"Oh, what a shame," Kate said. Tony was aware that Kate had arranged the delay. She had had the Wyatts and the Hoff-mans flown up to Maine in separate planes, so that the Wyatts would arrive early and the Hoffmans late. "We were just having a drink. What would you like?"

"A Scotch, please," Count Hoffman said.

Kate turned to Marianne. "And you, my dear?"

"Nothing, thank you."

A few minutes later, the other guests began to arrive, and Tony circulated among them, playing the part of the gracious host. No one except Kate could have guessed how little the festivities meant to him. It was not, Kate knew, that Tony was bored. It was simply that he was completely removed from what was happening around him. He had lost his pleasure in people. It worried Kate.

Two tables had been set in the large dining room. Kate seated Marianne Hoffman between a Supreme Court justice and a senator at one table, and she seated Lucy Wyatt on Tony's right at the other table. All the men in the room—married and unmarried—were eyeing Lucy. Kate listened to Lucy trying to draw Tony into conversation. It was obvious that she liked him. Kate smiled to herself. It was a good beginning.

The following morning, Saturday, at breakfast, Charlie Wyatt said to Kate, "That's a mighty pretty yacht you've got sittin' out there, Mrs. Blackwell. How big is it?"

"I'm really not quite sure." Kate turned to her son. 'Tony, how large is the Corsair?"

His mother knew exactly how large it was, but Tony said politely, "Eighty f-feet."

"We don't go in much for boats in Texas. We're in too much of a hurry. We do most of our travelin' in planes." Wyatt gave a booming laugh. "Guess maybe I'll try it and get my feet wet."

Kate smiled. "I was hoping you would let me show you around the island. We could go out on the boat tomorrow."

Charlie Wyatt looked at her thoughtfully and said, "That's mighty kind of you, Mrs. Blackwell."

Tony quietly watched the two of them and said nothing. The first move had just been made, and he wondered whether Charlie Wyatt was aware of it. Probably not. He was a clever businessman, but he had never come up against anyone like Kate Blackwell.

Kate turned to Tony and Lucy. "It's such a beautiful day. Why don't you two go for a sail in the catboat?"

Before Tony could refuse, Lucy said, "Oh, I'd love that."

"I'm s-sorry," Tony said curtly. "I'm expecting s-some overseas calls." Tony could feel his mother's disapproving eyes on him.

Kate turned to Marianne Hoffman. "I haven't seen your father this morning."

"He's out exploring the island. He's an early riser."

"I understand you like to ride. We have a fine stable here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell. I'll just wander around, if you don't mind."

"Of course not." Kate turned back to Tony. "Are you sure you won't change your mind about taking Miss Wyatt for a sail?" There was steel in her voice.

"I'm s-sure."

It was a small victory, but it was a victory nevertheless. The battle was joined, and Tony had no intention of losing it. Not this time. His mother no longer had the power to deceive him. She had used him as a pawn once, and he was fully aware she was planning to try it again; but this time she would fail. She wanted the Wyatt Oil amp; Tool Company. Charlie Wyatt had no intention of merging or selling his company. But every man has a weakness, and Kate had found his: his daughter. If Lucy were to marry into the Blackwell family, a merger of some kind would become inevitable. Tony looked across the breakfast table at his mother, despising her. She had baited the trap well. Lucy was not only beautiful, she was intelligent and charming. But she was as much of a pawn in this sick game as Tony was, and nothing in the world could induce him to touch her. This was a battle between his mother and himself.

When breakfast was over, Kate rose. "Tony, before your phone call comes in, why don't you show Miss Wyatt the gardens?"

There was no way Tony could refuse graciously. "All right." He would make it short.

Kate turned to Charlie Wyatt. "Are you interested in rare books? We have quite a collection in the library."

"I'm interested in anything you want to show me," the Texan said.

Almost as an afterthought, Kate turned back to Marianne Hoffman. "Will you be all right, dear?"

'I'll be fine, thank you, Mrs. Blackwell. Please don't worry about me."

"I won't," Kate said.

And Tony knew she meant it. Miss Hoffman was of no use to Kate, and so she dismissed her. It was done with a light charm and a smile, but beneath it was a single-minded ruthlessness that Tony detested.

Lucy was watching him. "Are you ready, Tony?"

"Yes."

Tony and Lucy moved toward the door. They were not quite out of earshot when Tony heard his mother say, "Don't they make a lovely couple?"

The two of them walked through the large, formal gardens toward the dock where the Corsair was tied up. There were acres and acres of wildly colored flowers staining the summer air with their scent.

"This is a heavenly place," Lucy said.

"Yes."

"We don't have flowers like these in Texas."

"No?"

"It's so quiet and peaceful here."

"Yes."

Lucy stopped abruptly and turned to face Tony.

He saw the anger in her face. "Have I said something to offend you?" he asked.

"You haven't said anything. That's what I find offensive. All I can get out of you is a yes or a no. You make me feel as though I'm—I'm chasing you."

"Are you?"

She laughed. "Yes. If I could only teach you to talk, I think we might have something."

Tony grinned.

"What are you thinking?" Lucy asked.

"Nothing."

He was thinking of his mother, and how much she hated losing.

Kate was showing Charlie Wyatt the large, oak-paneled library. On the shelves were first editions of Oliver Goldsmith, Laurence Sterne, Tobias Smollett and John Donne, along with a Ben Jonson first folio. There was Samuel Butler and John Bun-yan, and the rare 1813 privately printed edition of Queen Mab. Wyatt walked along the shelves of treasures, his eyes gleaming. He paused in front of a beautifully bound edition of John Keats's Endymion.

'This is a Roseberg copy," Charlie Wyatt said.

Kate looked at him in surprise. "Yes. There are only two known copies."

"I have the other one," Wyatt told her.

"I should have known," Kate laughed. "That 'good ol' Texas boy' act you put on had me fooled."

Wyatt grinned. "Did it? It's good camouflage."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Colorado School of Mining, then Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship." He studied Kate a moment. "Fm told it was you who got me invited to that White House conference."

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. "Fm 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.

If Lucy is planning to seduce me, Tony thought, she is wasting her time. The hurt done to Tony by his mother and Dominique had implanted in him such a deep distrust of females that his only association with them now was with high-priced call girls. Of all the female species, they were the most honest. All they wanted was money and told you how much up front. You paid for what you got, and you got what you paid for. No complications, no tears, no deceit. Lucy Wyatt was in for a surprise.

Early Sunday morning, Tony went down to the pool for a swim. Marianne Hoffman was already in the water, wearing a white maillot. She had a lovely figure, tall and slender and graceful. Tony stood there watching her cutting cleanly through the water, her arms flashing up and down in a regular, graceful rhythm. She saw Tony and swam over to him.

"Good morning."

"Morning. You're good," Tony said.

Marianne smiled. "I love sports. I get that from my father." She pulled herself up to the edge of the pool, and Tony handed her a towel. He watched as she unselfconsciously dried her hair.

"Have you had breakfast?" Tony asked.

"No. I wasn't sure the cook would be up this early."

'This is a hotel. There's twenty-four-hour service."

She smiled up at him. "Nice."

"Where is your home?"

"Mostly in Munich. We live in an old schloss—a castle—outside the city."

"Where were you brought up?"

Marianne sighed. "That's a long story. During the war, I was sent away to school in Switzerland. After that, I went to Oxford, studied at the Sorbonne and lived in London for a few years." She looked directly into his eyes. "That's where I've been. Where have you been?"

"Oh, New York, Maine, Switzerland, South Africa, a few years in the South Pacific during the war, Paris ..." He broke off abruptly, as though he were saying too much.

"Forgive me if I seem to pry, but I can't imagine why you stopped painting."

"It's not important," Tony said curtly. "Let's have breakfast"

They ate alone on the terrace overlooking the sparkling sweep of the bay. She was easy to talk to. There was a dignity about her, a gentleness that Tony found appealing. She did not flirt, she did not chatter. She seemed genuinely interested in him. Tony found himself attracted to this quiet, sensitive woman. He could not help wondering how much of that attraction was due to the thought that it would spite his mother.

"When do you go back to Germany?"

"Next week," Marianne replied. "I'm getting married."

Her words caught him off guard. "Oh," Tony said lamely. That's great. Who is he?"

"He's a doctor. I've known him all my life." Why had she added that? Did it have some significance?

On an impulse, Tony asked, "Will you have dinner with me in New York?"

She studied him, weighing her answer. "I would enjoy that."

Tony smiled, pleased. "It's a date."

They had dinner at a little seashore restaurant on Long Island. Tony wanted Marianne to himself, away from the eyes of his mother. It was an innocent evening, but Tony knew that if his mother learned about it, she would find some way to poison it This was a private thing between him and Marianne, and for the brief time it existed, Tony wanted nothing to spoil it. Tony enjoyed Marianne's company even more than he had anticipated. She had a quick, sly sense of humor, and Tony found himself laughing more than he had laughed since he left Paris. She made him feel lighthearted and carefree.

When do you go back to Germany?

Next week... I'm getting married

During the next five days, Tony saw a great deal of Marianne. He canceled his trip to Canada, and he was not certain why. He had thought it might be a form of rebellion against his mother's plan, a petty vengeance, but if that had been true in the beginning, it was no longer true. He found himself drawn to Marianne more and more strongly. He loved her honesty. It was a quality he had despaired of ever finding.

Since Marianne was a tourist in New York, Tony took her everywhere. They climbed the Statue of Liberty and rode the ferry to Staten Island, went to the top of the Empire State Building, and ate in Chinatown. They spent an entire day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and an afternoon at the Frick Collection. They shared the same tastes. They carefully avoided speaking of any personal things, and yet both were conscious of the powerful sexual undercurrent between them. The days spilled into one another, and it was Friday, the day Tony was to leave for the Wyatt Ranch.

"When do you fly back to Germany?"

"Monday morning." There was no joy in her voice.

Tony left for Houston that afternoon. He could have gone with his mother in one of the company planes, but he preferred to avoid any situation where he and Kate would be alone together. As far as he was concerned, his mother was solely a business partner: brilliant and powerful, devious and dangerous.

There was a Rolls-Royce to pick up Tony at the William P. Hobby Airport in Houston, and he was driven to the ranch by a chauffeur dressed in Levi's and a colorful sport shirt.

"Most folks like to fly direct to the ranch," the driver told Tony. "Mr. Wyatt's got a big landin' strip there. From here, it's 'bout an hour's drive to the gate, then another half hour before we git to the main house."

Tony thought he was exaggerating, but he was wrong. The Wyatt Ranch turned out to be more of a town than a ranch. They drove through the main gate onto a private road, and after thirty minutes they began to pass generator buildings and barns and corrals and guest houses and servants' bungalows. The main house was an enormous one-story ranch house that seemed to go on forever. Tony thought it was depressingly ugly.

Kate had already arrived. She and Charlie Wyatt were seated on the terrace overlooking a swirriming pool the size of a small lake. They were in the midst of an intense conversation when Tony appeared. When Wyatt saw him, he broke off abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Tony sensed that he had been the subject of their discussion.

"Here's our boy! Have a good trip, Tony?"

"Yes, th-thank you."

"Lucy was hopin' you'd be able to catch an earlier plane," Kate said.

Tony turned to look at bis mother. "Was sh-she?"

Charlie Wyatt clapped Tony on the shoulder. "We're puttin' on a whoppin' barbecue in honor of you and Kate. Everybody's flyin' in for it."

'That's very k-kind of you," Tony said. If they're planning to serve fatted calf he thought, they're going to go hungry.

Lucy appeared, wearing a white shirt and tight-fitting, well-worn jeans, and Tony had to admit she was breathtakingly lovely.

She went up to him and took his arm. "Tony! I was wondering if you were coming."

"S-sorry I'm late," Tony said. "I had some b-business to finish up."

Lucy gave him a warm smile. "It doesn't matter, as long as you're here. What would you like to do this afternoon?"

"What do you have to offer?"

Lucy looked him in the eye. "Anything you want," she said softly.

Kate Blackwell and Charlie Wyatt beamed.

The barbecue was spectacular, even by Texas standards. Approximately two hundred guests had arrived by private plane, Mercedes or Rolls-Royce. Two bands were playing simulta-neously in different areas of the grounds. Half a dozen bartenders dispensed champagne, whiskey, soft drinks and beer, while four chefs busily prepared food over outdoor fires. There was barbecued beef, lamb, steaks, chicken and duck. There were bubbling earthen pots of chili, and whole lobsters; crabs and com on the cob were cooking in the ground. There were baked potatoes and yams and fresh peas in the pod, six kinds of salads, homemade hot biscuits, and corn bread with honey and jam. four dessert tables were laden with freshly baked pies, cakes and puddings, and a dozen flavors of homemade ice cream. It was the most conspicuous waste Tony had ever seen. It was, he supposed, the difference between new money and old money. Old money's motto was, If you have it, hide it. New money's motto was, If you have it, flaunt it.

This was flaunting on a scale that was unbelievable. The women were dressed in daring gowns, and the display of jewelry was blinding. Tony stood to one side watching the guests gorging themselves, calling out noisily to old friends. He felt as though he were attending some mindless, decadent rite. Every time he turned around, Tony found himself confronted with a waiter carrying a tray containing large crocks of beluga caviar or pate or champagne. It seemed to Tony that there were almost as many servants as guests. He listened to conversations around him.

"He came out here from New York to sell me a bill of goods, and I said, 'You're wastin' your time, mister. No good oil deal gets east of Houston ...'"

"You gotta watch out for the smooth talkers. They're all hat and no cattle..."

Lucy appeared at Tony's side. "You're not eating." She was watching him intently. "Is anything wrong, Tony?"

"No, everything's fine. It's quite a party."

She grinned. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, pardner. Wait until you see the fireworks display."

"The fireworks display?"

"Uh-huh." She touched Tony's arm. "Sorry about the mob scene. It's not always like this. Daddy wanted to impress your mother." She smiled. 'Tomorrow they'll all be gone."

So will I, Tony thought grimly. It had been a mistake for him to come here. If his mother wanted the Wyatt Oil amp; Tool Company so badly, she would have to figure out some other way to get it. His eyes searched the crowd for his mother, and he saw her in the middle of an admiring group. She was beautiful. She was almost sixty years old, but she looked ten years younger. Her face was unlined, and her body was firm and trim, thanks to exercise and daily massage. She was as disciplined with herself as with everyone around her, and in a perverse way, Tony admired her. To a casual onlooker, Kate Blackwell seemed to be having a marvelous time. She was chatting with the guests, beaming, laughing. She's loathing every moment of this, Tony thought. There isn't anything she won't suffer to get what she wants. He thought of Marianne and of how much she would have hated this kind of senseless orgy. The thought of her was a sudden ache in him.

I'm marrying a doctor. I've known him all my life.

Half an hour later when Lucy came looking for Tony, he was on his way back to New York.

He called Marianne from a telephone booth at the airport. "I want to see you."

There was no hesitation. "Yes."

Tony had not been able to get Marianne Hoffman out of his thoughts. He had been alone for a long time, but he had not felt lonely. Being away from Marianne was a loneliness, a feeling that a part of him was missing. Being with her was a warmth, a celebration of life, a chasing away of the ugly dark shadows that had been haunting him. He had the terrifying feeling that if he let Marianne go, he would be lost. He needed her as he had never needed anyone in his life.

Marianne met him at his apartment, and as she walked in the door, there was a hunger in Tony that he had thought forever dead. And looking at her, he knew the hunger was hers, too, and there were no words for the miracle of it.

She went into his arms, and their emotion was an irresistible riptide that caught them both up and swept them away in a glorious explosion, an eruption, and a contentment beyond words. They were floating together in a velvety softness that knew no time or place, lost in the wondrous glory and magic of each other. Later they lay spent, holding each other, her hair soft against his face.

"I'm going to marry you, Marianne."

She took his face in her hands and looked searchingly into his eyes. "Are you sure, Tony?" Her voice was gentle. 'There's a problem, darling."

"Your engagement?"

"No. I'll break it off. I'm concerned about your mother."

"She has nothing to do with—"

"No. Let me finish, Tony. She's planning for you to marry Lucy Wyatt."

"That's her plan." He took her in his arms again. "My plans are right here."

"She'll hate me, Tony. I don't want that."

"Do you know what I want?" Tony whispered.

And the miracle started all over again.

It was another forty-eight hours before Kate Blackwell heard from Tony. He had disappeared from the Wyatt Ranch without an explanation or good-bye and had flown back to New York. Charlie Wyatt was baffled, and Lucy Wyatt was furious. Kate had made awkward apologies and had taken the company plane back to New York that night. When she reached home, she telephoned Tony at his apartment. There was no answer. Nor was there any answer the following day.

Kate was in her office when the private phone on her desk rang. She knew who it was before she picked it up.

"Tony, are you all right?"

'I'm f-fine, Mother."

"Where are you?"

"On my h-honeymoon. Marianne Hoffman and I were m-married yesterday." There was a long, long silence. "Are you there, M-mother?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"You might s-say congratulations, or m-much happiness or one of those c-customary phrases." There was a mocking bitterness in his voice.

Kate said, "Yes. Yes, of course, I wish you much happiness, Son."

"Thank you, M-mother." And the line went dead.

Kate replaced the receiver and pressed down an intercom button. "Would you please come in, Brad?"

When Brad Rogers walked into the office, Kate said, "Tony just called."

Brad took one look at Kate's face and said, "Jesus! Don't tell me you did it!"

"Tony did it," Kate smiled. "We've got the Hoffman empire in our lap."

Brad Rogers sank into a chair. "I can't believe it! I know how stubborn Tony can be. How did you ever get him to marry Marianne Hoffman?"

"It was really very simple," Kate sighed. "I pushed him in the wrong direction."

But she knew it was really the right direction. Marianne would be a wonderful wife for Tony. She would dispel the darkness in him.

Lucy had had a hysterectomy.

Marianne would give him a son.

Six months from the day Tony and Marianne were married, the Hoffman company was absorbed into Kruger-Brent, Ltd. The formal signing of the contracts took place in Munich as a gesture to Frederick Hoffman, who would run the subsidiary from Germany. Tony had been surprised by the meekness with which his mother accepted his marriage. It was not like her to lose gracefully, yet she had been cordial to Marianne when Tony and his bride returned from their honeymoon in the Bahamas, and had told Tony how pleased she was with the marriage. What puzzled Tony was that her sentiments seemed genuine. It was too quick a turnaround, out of character for her. Perhaps, Tony decided, he did not understand his mother as well as he thought he did.

The marriage was a brilliant success from the beginning. Marianne filled a long-felt need in Tony, and everyone around him noticed the change in him—especially Kate.

When Tony took business trips, Marianne accompanied him. They played together, they laughed together, they truly enjoyed each other. Watching them, Kate thought happily, I have done well for my son.

It was Marianne who succeeded in healing the breach between Tony and bis mother. When they returned from their honeymoon, Marianne said, "I want to invite your mother to dinner."

"No. You don't know her, Marianne. She—"

"I want to get to know her. Please, Tony."

He hated the idea, but in the end he gave in. Tony had been prepared for a grim evening, but he had been surprised. Kate had been touchingly happy to be with them. The following week Kate invited them to the house for dinner, and after that it became a weekly rituaL

Kate and Marianne became friends. They spoke to each other over the telephone several times a week, and lunched together at least once a week.

They were meeting for lunch at Lutece, and the moment Marianne walked in, Kate knew something was wrong.

"I'd like a double whiskey, please," Marianne told the captain. "Over ice."

As a rule, Marianne drank only wine.

"What's happened, Marianne?"

'Tve been to see Dr. Harley."

Kate felt a sudden stab of alarm. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No. I'm just fine. Only ..." The whole story came tumbling out.

It had begun a few days earlier. Marianne had not been feeling well, and she had made an appointment with John Harley.

"You look healthy enough," Dr. Harley smiled. "How old are you, Mrs. Blackwell?" "Twenty-three."

"Any history of heart disease in your family?" "No."

He was making notes. "Cancer?" "No." "Are your parents alive?"

"My father is. My mother died in an accident."

"Have you ever had mumps?"

"No."

"Measles?"

"Yes. When I was ten."

"Whooping cough?"

"No."

"Any surgery?"

"Tonsils. I was nine."

"Other than that, you've never been hospitalized for anything?"

"No. Well, yes—that is, once. Briefly."

"What was that for?"

"I was on the girls' hockey team at school and during a game I blacked out. I woke up in a hospital. I was only there two days. It was really nothing."

"Did you suffer an injury during the game?"

"No. I—I just blacked out."

"How old were you then?"

"Sixteen. The doctor said it was probably some kind of adolescent glandular upset."

John Harley sat forward in his chair. "When you woke up, do you remember if you felt any weakness on either side of your body?"

Marianne thought a moment. "As a matter of fact, yes. My right side. But it went away in a few days. I haven't had anything like it since."

"Did you have headaches? Blurred vision?"

"Yes. But they went away, too." She was beginning to be alarmed. "Do you think there's something wrong with me, Dr. Harley?"

"I'm not sure. I'd like to make a few tests—just to be on the safe side."

"What kind of tests?"

"I'd like to do a cerebral angiogram. Nothing to be concerned about. We can have it done right away."

Three days later, Marianne received a call from Dr. Harley's

nurse asking her to come in. John Harley was waiting for her in his office. "Well, we've solved the mystery."

"Is it something bad?"

"Not really. The angiogram showed that what you had, Mrs. Blackwell, was a small stroke. Medically, it's called a berry aneurysm, and it's very common in women—particularly in teenage girls. A small blood vessel in the brain broke and leaked small amounts of blood. The pressure is what caused the headaches and blurred vision. Fortunately, those things are self-healing."

Marianne sat there listening, her mind fighting panic. "What—what does all this mean, exactly? Could it happen again?"

'It's very unlikely." He smiled. "Unless you're planning to go out for the hockey team again, you can live an absolutely normal life."

"Tony and I like to ride and play tennis. Is that—?"

"As long as you don't overdo, everything goes. From tennis to sex. No problem."

She smiled in relief. "Thank God."

As Marianne rose, John Harley said, 'There is one thing, Mrs. Blackwell. If you and Tony are planning to have children, I would advise adopting them."

Marianne froze. "You said I was perfectly normal."

"You are. Unfortunately, pregnancy increases the vascular volume enormously. And during the last six to eight weeks of pregnancy, there's an additional increase in blood pressure. With the history of that aneurysm, the risk factor would be un-acceptably high. It would not only be dangerous—it could be fatal. Adoptions are really quite easy these days. I can arrange—"

But Marianne was no longer listening. She was hearing Tony's voice: I want us to have a baby. A little girl who looks exactly like you.

"... I couldn't bear to hear any more," Marianne told Kate, 'I ran out of his office and came straight here."

Kate made a tremendous effort not to let her feelings show. It was a stunning blow. But there had to be a way. There was always a way.

She managed a smile and said, "Well! I was afraid it was going to be something much worse."

"But, Kate, Tony and I want so much to have a baby."

"Marianne, Dr. Harley is an alarmist. You had a minor problem years ago, and Harley's trying to turn it into something important. You know how doctors are." She took Marianne's hand. "You feel well, don't you, darling?"

"I felt wonderful until—"

"Well, there you are. You aren't going around having any fainting spells?"

"No."

"Because it's all over. He said himself that those things are self-healing."

"He said the risks—"

Kate sighed. "Marianne, every time a woman gets pregnant, there's always a risk. Life is full of risks. The important thing in life is to decide which risks are the ones worth taking, don't you agree?"

"Yes." Marianne sat there thinking. She made her decision. "You're right. Let's not say anything to Tony. It would only worry him. We'll keep it our secret."

Kate thought, I could bloody well kill John Harley for scaring her to death. "It will be our secret," Kate agreed.

Three months later, Marianne became pregnant. Tony was thrilled. Kate was quietly triumphant. Dr. John Harley was horrified.

"I'll arrange for an immediate abortion," he told Marianne.

"No, Dr. Harley. I feel fine. I'm going to have the baby."

When Marianne told Kate about her visit, Kate stormed into John Harley's office. "How dare you suggest my daughter-in-law have an abortion?"

"Kate, I told her that if she carries that baby to term, there's a chance it might kill her."

"You don't know that. She's going to be fine. Stop alarming her."

Eight months later, at four a.m. in early February, Marianne's labor pains began prematurely. Her moans awakened Tony.

He began hurriedly dressing. "Don't worry, darling. I'll have you at the hospital in no time."

The pains were agonizing. "Please hurry."

She wondered whether she should have told Tony about her conversations with Dr. Harley. No, Kate had been right. It was her decision to make. Life was so wonderful that God would not let anything bad happen to her.

When Marianne and Tony arrived at the hospital, everything was in readiness. Tony was escorted to a waiting room. Marianne was taken into an examining room. The obstetrician, Dr. Mattson, took Marianne's blood pressure. He frowned and took it again. He looked up and said to his nurse, "Get her into the operating room—fast!"

Tony was at the cigarette machine in the hospital corridor when a voice behind him said, "Well, well, if it isn't Rembrandt." Tony turned. He recognized the man who had been with Dominique in front of her apartment building. What had she called him? Ben. The man was staring at Tony, an antagonistic expression on his face. Jealousy? What had Dominique told him? At that moment, Dominique appeared. She said to Ben, "The nurse said Michelline is in intensive care. We'll come—" She saw Tony, and stopped.

"Tony! What are you doing here?"

"My wife is having a baby."

"Did your mother arrange it?" Ben asked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dominique told me your mother arranges everything for you, sonny."

"Ben! Stop it!"

"Why? It's the truth, isn't it, baby? Isn't that what you said?"

Tony turned to Dominique. "What is he talking about?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Ben, let's get out of here."

But Ben was enjoying himself. "I wish I had a mother like yours, buddy boy. You want a beautiful model to sleep with, she buys you one. You want to have an art exhibition in Paris, she arranges it for you. You—"

"You're crazy."

"Am I?" Ben turned to Dominique. "Doesn't he know?"

"Don't I know what?" Tony demanded.

"Nothing, Tony."

"He said my mother arranged the exhibition in Paris. That's a lie, isn't it?" He saw the expression on Dominique's face. "Isn't it?"

"No," Dominique said reluctantly.

"You mean she had to pay Goerg to—to show my paintings?"

'Tony, he really liked your paintings."

"Tell him about the art critic," Ben urged.

"That's enough, Ben!" Dominique turned to go. Tony grabbed her arm. "Wait! What about him? Did my mother arrange for him to be at the exhibit?"

"Yes." Dominique's voice had dropped to a whisper.

"But he hated my paintings."

She could hear the pain in his voice. "No, Tony. He didn't. Andre d'Usseau told your mother you could have become a great artist."

And he was face to face with the unbelievable. "My mother paid d'Usseau to destroy me?"

"Not to destroy you. She believed she was doing it for your own good."

The enormity of what his mother had done was staggering. Everything she had told him was a lie. She had never intended to let him live his own life. And Andre d'Usseau! How could a man like that be bought? But of course Kate would know the price of any man. Wilde could have been referring to Kate when he talked of someone who knew the price of everything, the value of nothing. Everything had always been for the company. And the company was Kate Blackwell. Tony turned and walked blindly down the corridor.

In the operating room, the doctors were fighting desperately to save Marianne's life. Her blood pressure was alarmingly low, and her heartbeat was erratic. She was given oxygen and a blood transfusion, but it was useless. Marianne was unconscious from a cerebral hemorrhage when the first baby was delivered, and dead three minutes later when the second twin was taken.

Tony heard a voice calling, "Mr. Blackwell." He turned. Dr. Mattson was at his side.

"You have two beautiful, healthy twin daughters, Mr. Black-well."

Tony saw the look in his eyes. "Marianne—she's all right, isn't she?"

Dr. Mattson took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. She died on the—"

"She what?" It was a scream. Tony grabbed Dr. Mattson's lapels and shook him. "You're lying! She's not dead."

"Mr. Blackwell—"

"Where is she? I want to see her."

"You can't go in just now. They're preparing her—"

Tony cried out, "You killed her, you bastard! You killed her." He began attacking the doctor. Two interns hurried in and grabbed Tony's arms.

"Now take it easy, Mr. Blackwell."

Tony fought like a madman. "I want to see my wife!"

Dr. John Harley hurried up to the group. "Let him go," he commanded. "Leave us alone."

Dr. Mattson and the interns left. Tony was weeping brokenly. "John, they k-killed Marianne. They m-murdered her."

"She's dead, Tony, and I'm sorry. But no one murdered her. I told her months ago if she went ahead with this pregnancy it could kill her."

It took a long moment for the words to sink in. "What are you talking about?"

"Marianne didn't tell you? Your mother didn't say anything?"

Tony was staring at him, his eyes uncomprehending. "My mother?"

"She thought I was being an alarmist. She advised Marianne to go ahead with it. I'm so sorry, Tony. I've seen the twins. They're beautiful. Wouldn't you like to—?"

Tony was gone.

Kate's butler opened the door for Tony.

"Good morning, Mr. Blackwell."

"Good morning, Lester."

The butler took in Tony's disheveled appearance. "Is everything all right, sir?"

"Everything is fine. Would you make me a cup of coffee, Lester?"

"Certainly, sir."

Tony watched the butler move toward the kitchen. Now, Tony, the voice in his head commanded.

Yes. Now. Tony turned and walked into the trophy room. He went to the cabinet that held the gun collection, and he stared at the gleaming array of instruments of death.

Open the cabinet, Tony.

He opened it. He selected a revolver from the gun rack and checked the barrel to make sure it was loaded.

She'll be upstairs, Tony.

Tony turned and started up the stairs. He knew now that it was not his mother's fault that she was evil. She was possessed, and he was going to cure her. The company had taken her soul, and Kate was not responsible for what she did. His mother and the company had become one, and when he killed her, the company would die.

He was outside Kate's bedroom door.

Open the door, the voice commanded.

Tony opened the door. Kate was dressing in front of a mirror when she heard the door open.

"Tony! What on earth—"

He carefully aimed the gun at her and began squeezing the trigger.

The right of primogeniture—the claim of the first-born to a family title or estate—is deeply rooted in history. Among royal families in Europe a high official is present at every birth of a possible heir to a queen or princess so that should twins be born, the right of succession will not be in dispute. Dr. Mattson was careful to note which twin had been delivered first.

Everyone agreed that the Blackwell twins were the most beautiful babies they had ever seen. They were healthy and unusually lively, and the nurses at the hospital kept finding excuses to go in and look at them. Part of the fascination, although none of the nurses would have admitted it, was the mysterious stories that were circulating about the twins' family. Their mother had died during childbirth. The twins' father had disappeared, and there were rumors he had murdered his mother, but no one was able to substantiate the reports. There was nothing about it in the newspapers, save for a brief item that Tony Blackwell had suffered a nervous breakdown over the death of his wife and was in seclusion. When the press tried to question Dr. Harley. he gave them a brusque, "No comment."

The past few days had been hell for John Harley. As long as he lived, he would remember the scene when he reached Kate Blackwell's bedroom after a frantic phone call from the butler. Kate was lying on the floor in a coma, bullet wounds in her neck and chest, her blood spilling onto the white rug. Tony was going through her closets, slashing his mother's clothes to shreds with a pair of scissors.

Dr. Harley took one quick look at Kate and hurriedly telephoned for an ambulance. He knelt at Kate's side and felt her pulse. It was weak and thready, and her face was turning blue. She was going into shock. He swiftly gave her an injection of adrenaline and sodium bicarbonate.

"What happened?" Dr. Harley asked.

The butler was soaked in perspiration. "I—I don't know. Mr. Blackwell asked me to make him some coffee. I was in the kitchen when I heard the sound of gunfire. I ran upstairs and found Mrs. Blackwell on the floor, like this. Mr. Blackwell was standing over her, saying, 'It can't hurt you anymore, Mother. I killed it.' And he went into the closet and started cutting her dresses."

Dr. Harley turned to Tony. "What are you doing, Tony?"

A savage slash. "I'm helping Mother. I'm destroying the company. It killed Marianne, you know." He continued slashing at the dresses in Kate's closet.

Kate was rushed to the emergency ward of a midtown private hospital owned by Kruger-Brent, Ltd. She was given four blood transfusions during the operation to remove the bullets.

It took three male nurses to force Tony into an ambulance, and it was only after Dr. Harley gave him an injection that Tony was quiet. A police unit had responded to the ambulance call, and Dr. Harley summoned Brad Rogers to deal with them. Through means that Dr. Harley did not understand, there was no mention in the media of the shooting.

Dr. Harley went to the hospital to visit Kate in intensive care. Her first words were a whispered, "Where's my son?"

"He's being taken care of, Kate. He's all right."

Tony had been taken to a private sanitarium in Connecticut.

"John, why did he try to kill me? Why?" The anguish in her voice was unbearable.

"He blames you for Marianne's death."

"That's insane!"

John Harley made no comment.

He blames you for Marianne's death.

Long after Dr. Harley had left, Kate lay there, refusing to accept those words. She had loved Marianne because she made Tony happy. Everything I have done has been for you, my son. All my dreams were for you. How could you not know that? And he hated her so much he had tried to kill her. She was filled with such a deep agony that she wanted to die. But she would not let herself die. She had done what was right. They were wrong. Tony was a weakling. They had all been weaklings. Her father had been too weak to face his son's death. Her mother had been too weak to face life alone. But I am not weak, Kate thought. I can face this. I can face anything. I'm going to live. I'll survive. The company will survive.