Sidney Sheldon - Mistress of the Game

“I hate sodding Africa. I want to go home.”

Gabe was slumped on a bar stool in an Irish pub in Camps Bay. Did they have Irish pubs on the moon yet? Probably. At least one McGinty’s. He’d been in Cape Town for a week, during which time he’d been mugged at gunpoint, had his wallet and passport stolen, developed a mysterious stomach bug that had him on his knees over the toilet bowl every night, and failed to find a place to live. Oh, and had every square inch of his white Scottish skin bitten to death by mosquitoes the size of small bats.

“Why don’t you, then?”

The girl was American. A brunette with merry green eyes and a full, womanly body that Gabe couldn’t take his eyes off of. After eight years in prison, he’d learned an even deeper appreciation of the female form, and this girl’s form was exquisite.

She introduced herself as Ruby.

“Why don’t you go home?”

“I can’t.” Gabe hoped he wasn’t blushing. Christ, she was gorgeous. “I only just got here. I can’t go home till I’m rich enough to pay everybody back.”

“You’re not rich, then?”

“Not yet.”

“Why d’you hate Africa?”

“How long have you got?” Gabe locked his gray eyes onto Ruby’s green ones and decided he hated Africa a lot less than he did two minutes ago. “Let me buy you a drink and I’ll tell you about it.”

They chatted for more than hour. Ruby was from Wisconsin. She’d come to Cape Town ten years ago to model.

“Ten years ago? How old were you then? Six?”

Ruby smiled. “I was thirteen. I quit the business at seventeen.”

“Why?”

“Too old.”

Gabe roared with laughter.

“And too short. At seventeen, your growing days are over.”

Gabe glanced down at her endless legs.

“You realize there are NBA pros shorter than you? Hell, there are probably apartment buildings shorter than you.”

Ruby laughed, a low throaty chuckle that made Gabe want to rip her clothes off there and then. He told her his own story, leaving out the part about living with a string of older women. No need to completely shoot himself in the foot. But everything else was the truth: his addiction, prison, Marshall Gresham, his family connections to South Africa.

“You’re related to the Jamie McGregor? Kruger-Brent? You’re not putting me on?”

“I swear on my mother’s life. Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’m not from the Blackwell side of the family. My lot got nothing. That’s why I’m here-to make my own fortune.”

Gabe told Ruby about his ambitions for a career in real estate.

“I might be able to help you there. A friend of mine, a guy named Lister, is a developer out in Franschloek. He’s still relatively small-scale, but I know he’s on the lookout for a partner.”

Gabe’s eyes danced with excitement. At last! A contact. A start.

Ruby’s hand was on his leg. Her eyes were on the bulge in his jeans.

Gabe blushed. “Sorry. It’s been a long time.”

Ruby grinned. He was even better-looking when he got flustered. “No need to apologize on my account.” She downed the last of her drink. “Let’s go to bed.”

Gabe lived with Ruby for six months, the happiest six months of his life. Ruby introduced him to her friend Damian Lister, a local architect-turned-developer, and the two men hit it off instantly. Damian was tall and rake thin with a prominent nose and Adam’s apple. He reminded Gabe of a Dr. Seuss drawing come to life. Luckily for Gabe, Damian was a soccer fan, which helped break the ice. They talked about Celtic’s lackluster performance this season, and whether Ashley Cole deserved his place on the Arsenal squad, and suddenly they were old friends. Damian’s own brother, Paul, had spent five years inside for embezzlement, so Damian was relaxed about Gabe’s criminal record.

“We all make mistakes. The important thing is to learn from them. You’ve clearly learned from yours.”

Damian Lister was developing a new residential estate in Franschloek, a popular wine-route town and tourist destination about an hour outside Cape Town. He’d done well on similar investments in Stellen-bosch and Bellville, both local commuter towns.

“My problem is the bloody banks, you know? The rand’s on the upswing, but they’re still so cautious about lending, even to someone with a track record like mine.”

“Why not borrow from a foreign bank?” Gabe asked. “I’m sure the Americans would finance you.”

“I could,” Damian agreed. “But I prefer to have a partner. Someone who I know and trust. Someone who won’t pull the rug out from under me as soon as the blacks start kicking off again, making our economy look unstable.”

The one negative thing about Damian was his racist way of talking. Gabe put it down to his culture and upbringing. You couldn’t wipe out centuries of prejudice overnight.

Besides, it’s a terrific stroke of luck for me that he wants a partner. With his local knowledge and contacts, I’ll get a far bigger return on Marshall’s money than I would on my own.

Gabe spent his days on-site at Franschloek, overseeing the construction, while Damian stayed in his Cape Town office, managing the finances. Gabe loved watching the development take shape, running his hands lovingly over the bricks and mortar that were going to make his fortune. Marshall had taught him so much, but it had all been book learning. This was the real deal. It filled Gabe with an exhilaration almost as strong as a heroin rush.

At night, Gabe went home to Ruby. She would cook them something simple, steak and salad or oven-baked fish with rosemary roast potatoes, and they would eat on the terrace of her light-filled apartment overlooking the ocean. After a glass or two of Cape wine, usually Stel-lenbosch, they would talk for hours about their lives, hopes and dreams. Ruby said little about her past. She talked only vaguely of her family, in broad brushstrokes. After a few weeks, Gabe realized that, despite all their talks, he knew almost nothing about the minutiae of Ruby’s daily life when he wasn’t with her. She was an art dealer and spoke about wanting to open a gallery in Spain one day. But Gabe never saw any paintings or heard her take a business call.

When he pressed her for more details, Ruby laughed and asked him: “Does it matter? I live in the moment. The now. When I’m with you, you and I are all that matters. It’s the key to happiness.”

Making love to her on the beach under the stars, Gabe began to believe it. So what if he didn’t know what galleries she represented or the name of her first dog? Ruby was the most loving, sensual, incredible woman he had ever met. She had transformed South Africa from a nightmare into a dream. He should be grateful, not pestering her with questions.

The one-hour drive from Cape Town to Franschloek in the morning was the best part of Gabe’s day. Rattling through the mountains and vineyards in his ancient Fiat Punto-determined not to waste a penny of Marshall’s money, Gabe had bought himself the cheapest car he could find-he never failed to be moved by the breathtaking scenery. Franschloek means “French corner,” named after the persecuted French Huguenots who first settled its steep slopes over three hundred years ago. They brought with them a culture and cuisine for which the town was still famous. Being a Scot, Gabe knew little of either culture or cuisine, but he still felt an affinity with the Huguenots. Like him, they were outcasts, come to this strange, distant place to make a fresh start. Most lunchtimes Gabe sat and ate his sandwich by the Huguenot monument at the top of the village. Main Street was packed with enticing coffee shops and restaurants offering some of the best food in the country, but Gabe always packed his own lunch. Until he had paid everyone back-Marshall, Claire, Angus Frazer-he had no right to indulge in luxuries.