Mistress of the Game

Chapter Twenty

THE DAWN OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM USHERED IN A PERIOD of great change in the business world. Companies that had once been seen as untouchable giants began to disintegrate, outpaced by minuscule dot-com start-ups. Greed was still the name of the game. But the rules of the game had changed.

On April 8, 1999, former housewares salesman Craig Winn became a billionaire...for a day or two. When his three-year-old Internet startup, Value America, went public, the stock price veered wildly from $23 a share to almost $75 a share, before settling at $55. The forty-five-year-old Winn went to bed that night with a paper fortune of $2.4 billion. Not bad for a company that had never made a profit - and never would.

Within a year, the share price had fallen to two dollars. Over half of Value America's employees had been fired and investors had lost millions. In August 2000, the company filed for bankruptcy.

In boardrooms across America, CEOs of what were now termed "old-economy" companies - giants like Kruger-Brent - watched these developments with dismay. Everything was changing. While the dot-com boom burned itself out in a spectacular fireball of ignorance and greed, the sands of world power were also shifting. China and India were on the up. The dollar began to falter. In investment banking and pharmaceuticals, two of Kruger-Brent's key profit sectors, companies were merging and acquiring one another faster than the analysts could keep up. In banking, many of the great names of the 1980s - Salomon Brothers, Bankers Trust, Smith Barney - disappeared literally overnight, swallowed up by bigger, often foreign, rivals. In pharmaceuticals, the likes of Glaxo and Ciba faded as new brands like Aventis and Novartis emerged. In car manufacturing, Ford went on an acquisition spree, buying Volvo and Mazda and Aston Martin, then turned on a dime and began selling, first Jaguar then Land Rover. Meanwhile, the prices of oil and land - real estate - continued to rise like floodwater. Every year, every month, economists predicted a correction, but it never seemed to come. Banks fell over themselves to offer cheap credit, pouring gas onto the flames of an already overheated market.

They were exciting times. And dangerous times. For Peter Templeton, it was all too much. In 2006, he retired quietly to Dark Harbor, alone at last with the memories of his beloved Alexandra. His departure caused barely a ripple in the market. Everybody knew that Peter had never been more than a puppet chairman of Kruger-Brent. Tristram Harwood quietly took the helm and corporate life continued much as before.

As head of Kruger-Brent's oil-and-gas division, Tristram Harwood had spent the past decade playing solitaire on his computer while his group's assets quadrupled in value. He applied the same sit-back-and-do-nothing philosophy to his chairmanship. After all, it was only going to last for three years.

In three years' time, the two Blackwell heirs, Max Webster and Lexi Templeton, turned twenty-five. According to the terms of Kate Blackwell's will, twenty-five was the age when one of them would take control of Kruger-Brent.

The general assumption was that that person would be Max.

But in the new economic world order, assumptions were made to be broken.

Within a week of starting work in the Internet division, Max knew he had made a mistake. During the summer of his and Lexi's last internships, it had looked like the Internet sector was about to enter into a second period of rapid growth. Real estate, by contrast, was long overdue a correction. This combined with the fact that it had always been one of Kruger-Brent's least dynamic businesses was what had prompted him to railroad Lexi into it.

Unfortunately, by the time the cousins graduated from business school and joined Kruger-Brent full-time, the market had performed another of its disconcerting backflips. Jim Bruton had done his best to stem the tide of losses. But when Max showed up for his first day at work, Kruger-Brent's Internet division was hemorrhaging money so fast, he was plunged into twenty-four-hour damage control.

Meanwhile, Lexi and August Sandford had galvanized the sleepy real-estate division and were making money hand over fist. Under August's guidance, Kruger-Brent extended its reach into Europe and Asia. While Max was locked away with auditors in a windowless office in Manhattan, Lexi was flying all over the world, to Tokyo, Paris, Hong Kong and Madrid, clinching deal after deal in property. She made sure the press knew about every one of her successes.

Lexi knew that media interest in her could be a double-edged sword. On the one hand, of course, it was flattering. When she was a teenager, paparazzi followed her everywhere. She was America's sweetheart: brave, beautiful and blessed. Her face was on the cover of countless magazines. All across the country, large numbers of baby girls were being christened Alexandra. Lexi could not remember a time when she hadn't been famous. She could not imagine what that might feel like, although she tried: to be anonymous, just another face in the crowd. Sometimes it seemed an appealing prospect.

Lexi was well aware that her fame had almost cost her her inheritance. Max had successfully used it against her, painting her to the Kruger-Brent board members as vacuous and a lightweight. It girl. Party girl. They had seemed like innocuous nicknames at first. But when Max outmaneuvered her for the Internet job, Lexi woke up with a jolt to just how damaging they could be.

I already have two strikes against me. I'm deaf. And I'm a woman. Three strikes and I'll be out.

From that day onward, Lexi worked hard to redefine her relationship with the media. Like all American heroines - all the ones who lasted, anyway - she was a mistress at the art of reinvention. Just as Madonna had gone from crucifix-wearing nymphomaniac to patron saint of Kabbalah in a heartbeat, so Party Girl Lexi was erased from America's memory and replaced by a new creation: Businesswoman Lexi. Her face was still on the covers of magazines. But instead of InStyle and Us Weekly, Lexi now gazed down from newsstands from the cover of Time and Forbes.

Max tried vainly to raise his own profile, but it was no good. He hadn't been kidnapped as a child. He hadn't fought back bravely after losing his hearing in an explosion. In America's eyes, he was just another rich, handsome trust-fund kid. Lexi was the star of the family, and her star was rising. Suddenly all the goodwill that Max had built up at Kruger-Brent in his teens seemed to count for nothing. Lexi had turned the tables, apparently without even trying. Unless something drastic changed soon, she was on course to become the firm's next chairman.

Antonio Valaperti handed Lexi a solid silver Montblanc pen and watched her sign the contract. A gratified smile spread across his face.

Such a beautiful girl. It's almost a shame to watch her signing away a fortune.

Almost...

Antonio Valaperti was the biggest property developer in Rome. Bigger even than the Mob. In his midsixties, with a vulpine face and small, watchful hazel eyes that missed nothing, he liked to boast at dinner parties that the last Roman to own as much of the city as he did was Julius Caesar. Antonio Valaperti had torn down slums and bulldozed churches. He had burrowed deep into the city's ancient earth to build parking garages, and redefined her skyline with his apartment and office buildings. Half of Rome admired him as an innovator and visionary. The other half loathed him as a vandal. Antonio Valaperti was arrogant, brilliant and ruthless. He was tight with money, but enjoyed the good things in life: fine food, fast cars, beautiful women. He did not like Americans. But in the case of Lexi Templeton, he was prepared to make an exception.

"Now that our business is concluded, bella, perhaps we can turn our minds to pleasure?"

His eyes crawled over Lexi's body like lice. She was wearing a formfitting Marchesa suit that did full justice to her voluptuous figure. Her cream silk blouse revealed the merest hint of lace detailing on her bra. Antonio Valaperti thought: She wants me. I've seen it a thousand times. She's young, but she's turned on by power. Perhaps that's why she's been so foolish with this deal? She's too concerned about getting her pussy licked.

Lexi watched the old man across the table and suppressed the urge to laugh out loud.

There's no fool like an old fool. He actually thinks I'm attracted to him!

After all the hype about Antonio Valaperti - the way August Sandford talked about him, you'd have thought the man had magical powers - Lexi was almost disappointed by how easy it had been to outsmart Rome's answer to The Donald. She had just sold Valaperti what he believed to be highly valuable land just south of Villa Borghese Park, in one of the city's most upscale residential areas. In fact, the forty-acre parcel was about to become all but worthless. With a few well-placed bribes, and the help of her trusty low-cut blouse - they should really put my cream silk Stella McCartney on the front page of Forbes, she thought. It's saved Kruger-Brent a lot more money on this trip than I have - Lexi had discovered that all development permits within a kilometer radius of the Spanish Steps were about to be rescinded.

Of course, it never occurred to Antonio Valaperti that an outsider, an American, might have greater access to Italy's corridors of power than he had. Especially not this pretty little slip of a girl young enough to be his daughter. Deaf, too, God bless her. Americans really did have some very strange ideas about how to run a business.

"Would that I could, Antonio. Would that I could." Every head in the restaurant of the Hotel Hassler swiveled to watch Lexi as she stood up to leave. "But I'm afraid I have pressing business in Florence tomorrow morning. I must get an early night. Good night."

Antonio Valaperti watched her leave, biting back his irritation.

Little tease. She thinks she's played me. He signaled to the waiter to bring him the check. When you find out how much that land is really worth, sweetheart, you'll see who's played whom.

Then you'll know what it feels like to get fucked in the ass by Antonio Valaperti.

At ten o'clock the next morning, Lexi checked in to the Villa San Michele, an idyllic former monastery turned luxury hotel perched high in the Florentine hills.

I love Italy, she thought as she stepped out of her traveling clothes and into the marble-tiled shower. She'd chosen the San Michele because its high walls made it impossible for the paparazzi to disturb her there. For once in her life, Lexi felt in need of a break from all the attention and this was the perfect place to get it. Robbie had told her that Italy was astonishingly beautiful. But not even his elaborate praise had done it justice. Rome was so spectacular Lexi found she was catching her breath at every turn in the road. It was like stepping back in time. But if the Villa San Michele was anything to go by, she had a suspicion she was going to enjoy Tuscany even more.

Her triumph over Valaperti was all the sweeter because August Sandford had been so sure she would fail. Lexi herself had had her doubts. She found lip-reading much harder with foreigners, who formed English words differently, and had even considered traveling to Italy with an interpreter.

Thank God I didn't. All those cozy dinners-a-deux with Valaperti were what clinched us the deal.

Over the past year, Lexi's relationship with August had thawed, somewhat. She still thought he was arrogant and sexist. He still resented her for being Kate Blackwell's great-granddaughter. But each of them had developed a grudging respect for the other's business skills. August was flying in to Florence that night, and for once Lexi was looking forward to having dinner with him.

Maybe now he'll admit I might actually make a good chairman. That I'm as capable of running Kruger-Brent as he is.

The restaurant at the Villa San Michele spilled out onto a medieval terrace covered with thick vines. From her table, Lexi could see the formal monastery gardens with their box hedges and gravel paths. Beyond the gardens lay the distinctive terra-cotta rooftops of Florence, spread out like a blanket in the warm, rosemary-scented evening air.

It's so romantic! How much nicer it would be to be having dinner with a lover here, instead of my boss.