Scandalous

  Now she knew. They were spectacular.

  Tomorrow she had a full schedule of team-building events with her staff at Ceres. It was hard to believe that the company was only three years old. Already they had blazed a trail through the industry so bright that competitors twice their size and with ten times their experience had been left blinded on the sidelines, wondering what the hell just happened as Ceres won contract after contract, deal after deal. The media gave Sasha full credit for their successes, hailing her as America’s new business genius, a female role model to rival Oprah or Martha Stewart. No one seemed to remember, or care, that she was, in fact, English. Not when she looked so ridiculously photogenic, standing arm in arm with her right-hand man, Raj Patel. A young woman and an Indian man; it was so politically correct, so perfect, it was as if Ceres had been dreamt up by someone at Central Casting. While the trade press salivated over Ceres’s profits and Sasha’s business acumen, the fashion magazines pored over her wardrobe choices, and the gossip rags speculated endlessly about her love life, or rather her mysterious lack thereof. A few months ago, someone had leaked the story of Sasha’s scandalous past, and her connection to Theo Dexter, to one of the tabloids. Sasha suspected Jackson Dupree. True to his word, Jackson had pulled every stunt in the book to try to undermine her, personally and professionally, since she’d left Wrexall, but so far Sasha had managed to stay one step ahead. The stolen-theory story could have been a serious blow to her reputation and credibility. But with the help of a woman named Gemma Driscoll, a senior partner at the PR giant Fleishman-Hillard (and as far as Sasha was concerned, a genius) the mountain had morphed back into a molehill, “Neutralized,” as Gemma put it.

  “The trick is never to try to cover up a story,” Gemma told Sasha. “If a dog’s got a juicy bone in its jaws and you start pulling, all he’s going to do is clamp down harder.”

  “So what do you do?”

  Gemma smiled. “Toss him a juicier bone.”

  This she did by the simple but devastatingly effective means of falsely linking Sasha romantically with a string of eligible, newsworthy men. First there was the senator whose house Sasha went to once for dinner.

  “I play tennis with his wife!” she insisted. “He wasn’t even home.”

  “Ah, yes, but he might have been,” said Gemma.

  Then there was the pop star, the Broadway producer, the Italian prince, and the twenty-one-year-old heartthrob from NBC’s new prime-time soap opera, Brooklyn Heights. Of course, there wasn’t a thread of truth to any of the rumors. Sasha slept alone, with only her BlackBerry for company. But the stories served their purpose of distracting tabloid attention. Gemma finished the job with a series of “teasers” about Sasha and Raj Patel, photo opportunities and interviews that suggested they might be a couple. That was the most ridiculous one of all. But as Gemma pointed out, “The beauty of it is that it can run and run. You’ll continue to be seen together. People will keep guessing. You’re a public figure now, Sasha. You have to think of your life as a sort of reality show.”

  “Reality?” Sasha laughed out loud. “But everything you’re doing is made up!”

  “Exactly. Like I said. A reality show. I write the scripts.”

  It was a new world for Sasha, and one that, though she loathed to admit it, she found she rather enjoyed. She’d started Ceres for the same reason she’d joined Wrexall, the same reason she transferred to business school and moved to America: to become rich and powerful enough to destroy Theo Dexter. But as the years wore on, particularly with Ceres succeeding so spectacularly right out of the gate, she found the business becoming more and more of an end in itself.

  Then, of course, there was Jackson. Every time Sasha got close to a deal, every time she made a hire or sniffed around some land, there he would be, bribing, badmouthing, conniving, doing everything he could do sabotage her chances. Ceres was on a high right now, but Sasha had no illusions. At some point their new-kid-on-the-block sheen would wear off. Wrexall had multiples of their balance sheet. There would be instances, many instances, where Jackson would be able to outgun her. The fact that it hadn’t happened yet only heightened the anxiety she felt daily, squatting in her chest like a loathsome toad, still and cold and heavy but always ready to pounce.

  “Beautiful evening.”

  Sasha spun around so fast she almost jumped out of her skin. There, standing on the adjacent balcony, looking lean and tanned in an immaculately cut Spurr suit and Harvard tie, stood Jackson Dupree. It’s like I jinxed myself. I thought about him and made him appear. Like summoning an evil genie.

  “It was,” she said coldly. “What the hell are you doing here? Stalking me?”

  “Hardly.” Jackson smiled. Suddenly Sasha felt like Little Red Riding Hood. If he could, he’d leap over here and eat me. “I have business here. A new hotel. Right opposite La Sagrada Família.”

  “You’ll never get permission,” said Sasha. He’s cut his hair! I don’t believe it. That’s like Samson cutting his hair. Or Steven Tyler from Aerosmith.

  “Already got ’em.”

  “Land’ll be overpriced.” It suits him, though. I wonder if Lottie made him do it?

  “It’s a luxury hotel.”

  “Location’s far too tacky for a high-end hotel. La Sagrada’s the number-one attraction in the city. Fat kids in backpacks hanging around outside day and night, dropping chewing gum and potato-chip bags. It’s like building a Ritz Carlton in Trafalgar Square.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” said Jackson smoothly. “It’s been a while, Sasha.”

  Sasha glared at him. “Not long enough.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I was fine. Good night, Jackson.” Turning on her heel, Sasha walked back into her suite, slamming the balcony doors behind her.

  Asshole. Luxury hotel my ass. If he’s here on Wrexall business, I’m Mahatma Gandhi. He’s up to something.

  She ordered room service and tried to settle down to the mountainous pile of work she had to get through before tomorrow. But knowing Jackson was in the suite next door made it impossible to concentrate. He looked so damn smug. What does he have to look smug about? At one point she was sure she heard his shower turn on. As hard as she tried, it was impossible not to picture him naked, lathering shampoo onto his newly short, preppy haircut. He looked different from how she remembered him. The suit, the hair, the manner. He’s less of a boy and more of a man. Sasha wondered whether that was Lottie’s influence and felt a pang of something painful. She hoped that it was her missing Lottie’s friendship, but feared it might be something much more ugly: jealousy. Not that she was jealous of Lottie having Jackson. I wouldn’t want Jackson Dupree if he were the last man on the face of the earth. It can’t be that. Maybe I’m jealous of other people having love in their life. Of other people being happy.

  On an impulse, she called Raj’s room, but there was no answer. Disappointed, and irritated with herself, she put the work aside, popped a sleeping pill, and defiantly turned out the lights. It was only eight thirty p.m., but she had a big day tomorrow. Barcelona was her city, this was her off-site, her conference, her time to shine. Jackson could try his childish mind games until he was blue in the face. But he wouldn’t ruin Barcelona for her. She wouldn’t let him.

  Raj Patel sat at an outdoor table at a quiet coffee shop on Barcelona beach, wondering if he needed to get his ears syringed.

  “I’m sorry, Jackson. I think I must have misheard you. Did you just say fifteen million dollars? Fifteen as in one-five? Million as in million?” Raj’s clipped British accent cut through the early-morning air like a scimitar.

  Jackson sipped his espresso. “It’s a three-year package.”

  “Guaranteed?”

  “Of course. Guaranteed. Remember, you’d be running retail for us, lock, stock, and barrel. Given where we are today, and where I know we could be with you at the helm, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t outearn those numbers.”

  Fifteen million doll
ars. Fifteen million, guaranteed. I could fuck up as much as I like, make every wrong decision in the book, and I’d still get paid. Raj had always thought of himself as a risk taker. No, to hell with that, he was a risk taker. He’d taken a huge chance, tying his star to Sasha’s and jumping to Ceres on nothing more than a wing and a prayer. That risk had paid off, in spades. Not only had it catapulted his career into the big leagues, but it had been a wild, exhilarating ride, and Raj had loved every minute of it, the deals, the press attention, the camaraderie. Sasha Miller was a machine when it came to work—she never stopped—but somehow she still managed to make the atmosphere at Ceres fun. They were a young company, and a crazily young management team. No one missed the stuffiness at Wrexall, nor the bullying from the aging, greedy board. Least of all Raj. There was more to life than money.

  On the other hand…

  “You’re getting married, aren’t you?” Jackson leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs languidly like the king that he was.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “A little bird. How does your fiancée feel about all the brouhaha in the papers about you and Sasha?”

  Raj stiffened. “She couldn’t care less. She knows it’s all rubbish.”

  “Really?” Jackson raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, really. We’re colleagues, that’s all.”

  For some reason, Jackson felt relieved. That’ll make it easier to land Raj, he told himself. If they really were lovers, no amount of money would shift him.

  “Talk to your fiancée about the offer,” said Jackson. “See what she thinks you should do.”

  Raj laughed. “Oh, I get it. ‘Honey, should I accept a check for fifteen million dollars no questions asked, or keep working on commission for a beautiful woman that half of America thinks I’m boning?’ That’s what you want me to ask her, right?”

  Jackson laughed back. He genuinely liked Raj. Talking to him this morning, he realized how much he missed having him at Wrexall. With Sasha and Lottie both gone too, all the excitement had been sucked out of the place. “Something like that,” he admitted. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? They tell me all the best marriages are based on trust.”

  Raj’s face fell. “I’m tempted. Of course I am. But what about Sasha? She trusts me.”

  Jackson put down his coffee and leaned across the table, like a chess grand master moving in for checkmate. “Sasha is a businesswoman. At least, that’s what she told me when she ripped the fucking guts out of my company, the company that gave her a start, the company that made her.” Raj was silent. Jackson had a right to be angry, but even so, seeing his rage in action was frightening. It was like a living thing, a being in its own right, hovering in the air between them like some malevolent moth. “You’re a young guy, Raj.”

  “Youngish. I’m thirty-three.”

  “You’re about to start a family and you have your own life to think about, your own career. Ceres has had an amazing start. You were a big part of that. But it will always be Sasha Miller’s baby, and you know it. I’m offering you a chance to be master of your own destiny, at a firm with a century-old brand behind it. All the autonomy, all the financial upside, and none of the risk. Sasha, of all people, understands what it is to be made an offer you can’t refuse. This is it, my friend. This is it.”

  He was right. Of course he was right. When Raj left Wrexall he was on nine hundred grand a year. That was less than eighteen months ago. He stared into the dregs of his coffee cup. “I just don’t know how I’m going to tell Sasha…”

  “You aren’t,” said Jackson firmly. “I can have the contracts with you in an hour, but they’re contingent on complete confidentiality. You say nothing. I’ll handle Sasha.”

  Back at the Majestic, Sasha was having a thoroughly enjoyable day with the Ceres staff, going over the past year’s highlights and brainstorming their plans for the future. Raj had mysteriously disappeared, going for a run before breakfast and conspicuously failing to return. But Sasha was on too much of a high to care. Besides, Raj had earned the break. A large portion of her speech to the conference tomorrow would be dedicated to thanking him personally for his incredible contribution to Ceres’s early success. Without Raj there she was free to ask the rest of the team for suggestions, little jokes, and anecdotes that might help spice up her address. Though she wouldn’t have admitted it publicly, Sasha had a fear of public speaking that bordered on the pathological. It was one of the reasons—one of the many—that she could have done without Jackson Dupree’s presence. As if she weren’t nervous enough already, without having to see his spiteful face in the crowd, willing her to trip up or say something foolish.

  She’d half expected to see Jackson this morning at breakfast and had made sure she looked immaculate just in case, washing and blow-drying her hair and putting on her sexiest Myla underwear, a feminine touch that always made her feel powerful and in control. Nothing says world domination like a matching bra and underwear, she thought to herself, laughing because of course it was ridiculous, but then wasn’t everything about her life these days? When she walked into the breakfast buffet at eight thirty in a simple but sexy L’Wren Scott sheath dress, every male head turned to stare at her. But Jackson’s wasn’t one of them. After going to so much trouble, she felt oddly disappointed. Perhaps he really did have some hotel deal in the works and had simply chosen to stay at the Majestic to irritate her? Who cares what his motives are? Forget about him.

  She decided she would have dinner alone that night. Most of the Ceres crowd was heading into the old city for a night of drinking and dancing, but none of them had to give a speech tomorrow. Besides, Sasha had grown used to her own company over the years. She looked forward to eating alone, discovering new restaurants in exciting foreign cities, the way that other women might look forward to a romantic meal with a new boyfriend. Armed with a book or occasionally, as a guilty pleasure, a furtive copy of the New Scientist or Physics Today, she would settle down with a glass of Rioja and a plate of Parma ham and watch the world go by. Bliss.

  After showering and changing into a simple, pretty floral sundress and sandals, she came down into the lobby, sticking her head around the door at the last minute on the off chance of catching the elusive Raj. Instead she saw Jackson, leaning against the bar in jeans and a faded gray T-shirt. He was saying good-bye to an older man, a Spaniard. Sasha was just about to creep away when Jackson glanced up and saw her.

  “Sasha. Come on in. Can I offer you a drink?”

  All this faux niceness was disarming. If she refused, she would look churlish. If she accepted, he’d probably lace whatever she asked for with strychnine.

  “This is Manuel Hormaeche. He’s with Encerro, the company that sold us the land for that hotel I mentioned.”

  So there is a hotel.

  The Spaniard took Sasha’s hand and kissed it. From an American or a Brit the gesture would have seemed forward, even creepy, but the Spanish seemed to do these things with such elegance. “I look forward very much to your speech tomorrow, Miss Miller.” He pronounced it “Mealer.” “You ’ave done miraculous things with Ceres.”

  “Thank you.” Sasha blushed. Jackson watched her as she chatted politely to Sr. Hormaeche, exchanging business cards before the older man left. She looked different tonight. Perhaps it was the girlish dress? That and the lack of makeup, the flat shoes, the sweet, almost shy way she accepted the Spaniard’s compliments. He had rarely seen this side to Sasha, the vulnerable, feminine side. It disturbed him.

  “Two glasses of champagne please,” he heard himself saying. For some reason, he didn’t want Sasha to leave.

  “What are we celebrating?” Warily, she sat down beside him. “Did you two finalize the deal?”

  Jackson’s stomach lurched. For one mad moment he thought she was talking about Raj Patel. Then he realized she couldn’t be. She must mean Hormaeche and the La Sagrada hotel. “Not yet. But we will.” The drinks arrived. He handed an ice-cold flute to Sasha. “Manuel knows it?
??s the best offer he’s going to get for that land. He’s playing hard to get, but he’ll give in eventually.”

  Their eyes met. Sasha looked away first.

  Since the night Sasha left Wrexall—the night Jackson had kissed her and she’d pulled away; the same night he’d gotten together with Lottie—Jackson had worked hard to stifle his desire for her. From that night onward, he’d grown up. It was really very simple: Lottie was good for him. Sasha was bad. Lottie was loyal and supportive and loving. Sasha was a snake, a backstabber, a dangerous competitor who needed to be destroyed. Channeling all his sexual frustration into his efforts to undermine Ceres and rebuild Wrexall, he’d convinced himself that Sasha Miller no longer meant anything to him personally. But watching Hormaeche flirt with her before, he’d suddenly felt like a sixteen-year-old again. It was all he could do not to get up and punch the guy.

  You need to beat her, that’s all. Then she’ll be out of your system.

  Raj Patel’s defection would devastate Sasha. Springing it on her here, tomorrow, in front of the entire industry, would ensure that the blow had maximum impact. It was the revenge Jackson had been waiting for, planning and fantasizing about for twelve long months. So why did he suddenly feel as if all the pleasure had been sucked out of it?