had been assigned, to make sure she was comfortable. The gesture was not lost on Alexandra's fellow workers.
Everyone in the agency was on a first-name basis—except for Alexandra. She was Miss Blackwell to everyone.
'Alexandra,' she said.
'Right.'
And the next time they addressed her, it was 'Miss Black-well.'
Alexandra was eager to learn and to make a contribution. She attended think-tank meetings where the copywriters brain-stormed ideas. She watched art editors draw up their designs. She listened to Lucas Pinkerton tear apart the copy that was brought to him for approval. He was a nasty, mean-spirited man, and Alexandra felt sorry for the copywriters who suffered under him. Alexandra found herself shuttling from floor to floor for meetings with department heads, meetings with clients, photographic sessions, strategy discussion meetings. She kept her mouth shut, listened and learned. At the end of her first week, she felt as though she had been there a month. She came home exhausted, not from the work but from the tension that her presence seemed to create.
When Kate asked how the job was going, Alexandra replied, 'Fine, Gran. It's very interesting.'
'I'm sure you'll do well, Alex. If you have any problems, just see Mr. Berkley or Mr. Mathews.'
That was the last thing Alexandra intended to do.
On the following Monday Alexandra went to work determined to find a way to solve her problem. There were daily morning and afternoon coffee breaks, and the conversation was easy and casual.
'Did you hear what happened over at National Media? Some genius there wanted to call attention to the great year they had, so he printed their financial report in The New York Times in red ink!'
'Remember that airline promotion: Fly Your Wife Free'! It was a smash until the airline sent letters of appreciation to the wives and got back a flood of mail demanding to know who their husbands had flown with. They—'
Alexandra walked in, and the conversation stopped dead.
'Can I get you some coffee, Miss Blackwell?'
'Thank you. I can get it.'
There was silence while Alexandra fed a quarter into the coffee machine. When she left, the conversation started again.
'Did you hear about the Pure Soap foul-up? The angelic-looking model they used turned out to be a porno star ...'
At noon Alexandra said to Alice Koppel, 'If you're free for lunch, I thought we might—'
'Sorry. I have a date.'
Alexandra looked at Vince Barnes. 'Me, too,' he said.
She looked at Marty Bergheimer. 'I'm all booked up.'
Alexandra was too upset to eat lunch. They were making her feel as though she were a pariah, and she found herself getting angry. She did not intend to give up. She was going to find a way to reach them, to let them know that deep down under the Blackwell name she was one of them. She sat at meetings and listened to Aaron Berlcley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton tongue-lash the creators who were merely trying to do their jobs as well as they could. Alexandra sympathized, but they did not want her sympathy. Or her.
Alexandra waited three days before trying again. She said to Alice Koppel, 'I heard of a wonderful little Italian restaurant near here—'
'I don't eat Italian food.'
She turned to Vince Barnes. 'I'm on a diet.'
Alexandra looked at Marty Bergheimer. 'I'm going to eat Chinese.'
Alexandra's face was flushed. They did not want to be seen with her. Well, to hell with them. To hell with all of them. She had had enough. She had gone out of her way to try to make friends, and each time she had been slapped down. Working there was a mistake. She would find another job somewhere with a company that her grandmother had nothing to do with. She would quit at the end of the week. But I'm going to make you all remember I was here, Alexandra thought grimly.
At 1:00 p.m. on Thursday, everyone except the receptionist at the switchboard was out to lunch. Alexandra stayed behind. She had observed that in the executive offices there were intercoms connecting the various departments, so that if an executive wanted to talk to an underling, all he had to do was press a button on the talk box where the employee's name was written on a card. Alexandra slipped into the deserted offices of Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton and spent the next hour changing all the cards around. Thus it was that early that afternoon Lucas Pinkerton pressed down the key that connected him to his chief copywriter and said, 'Get your ass in here. Now!'
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Norman Mathews's voice bellowed, 'What did you say?'
Pinkerton stared at the machine, transfixed. 'Mr. Mathews, is that you?'
'You're damned right it is. Get your fucking ass in here. Now!'
A minute later, a copywriter pressed down a button on the machine on his desk and said, 'I've got some copy for you to run downstairs.'
Aaron Berkley's voice roared back at him. 'You what?'
It was the beginning of pandemonium. It took four hours to straighten out the mess that Alexandra had created, and it was the best four hours that the employees of Berkley and Mathews had ever known. Each time a fresh incident occurred, they whooped with joy. The executives were being buzzed to run errands, fetch cigarettes and repair a broken toilet. Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton turned the place upside down trying to find out who the culprit was, but no one knew anything.
The only one who had seen Alexandra go into the various offices was Fran, the woman on the switchboard, but she hated her bosses more than she hated Alexandra, so all she would say was, 'I didn't see a soul.'
That night when Fran was in bed with Vince Barnes, she related what had happened.
He sat up in bed. 'The Blackwell girl did it? I'll be a sonofa-bitch!'
The following morning when Alexandra walked into her office, Vince Barnes, Alice Koppel and Marty Bergheimer were there, waiting. They stared at her in silence. 'Is something wrong?' Alexandra asked.
'Not a thing, Alex,' Alice Koppel said. 'The boys and I were just wondering if you'd like to join us for lunch. We know this great little Italian joint near here ...'
From the time she was a little girl, Eve Blackwell had been aware of her ability to manipulate people. Before, it had always been a game with her, but now it was deadly serious. She had been treated shabbily, deprived of a vast fortune that was rightfully hers, by her scheming sister and her vindictive old grandmother. They were going to pay in full for what they had done to her, and the thought of it gave Eve such intense pleasure that it almost brought her to orgasm. Their lives were now in hei hands.
Eve worked out her plan carefully and meticulously, orchestrating every move. In the beginning, George Mellis had been a reluctant conspirator.
'Christ, it's too dangerous. I don't need to get involved in anything like this,' he argued. 'I can get all the money I need.'
'How?' Eve asked contemptuously. 'By laying a lot of fat women with blue hair? Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life? What happens when you put on a little weight and start to get a few wrinkles around your eyes? No, George, you'll never have another opportunity like this. If you listen to me, you
and I can own one of the largest conglomerates in the world. You hear me? Own it.'
'How do you know this plan will work?'
'Because I'm the greatest living expert on my grandmother and my sister. Believe me, it will work.'
Eve sounded confident, but she had reservations and they concerned George Mellis. Eve knew she could do her part, but she was not sure George would be able to do his. He was unstable, and there was no room for error. One mistake, and the whole plan would fall apart.
She said to him now, 'Make up your mind. Are you in or out?'
He studied her for a long time. 'I'm in.' He moved close to her and stroked her shoulders. His voice was husky. 'I want to be all the way in.'
Eve felt a sexual thrill go through her. 'All right,' she whispered, 'but we do it my way.'
They were in bed. Naked, he was the most magnificent animal Eve had ever seen. And the most dangerous,
