“The same way you get anyone to change their mind. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Money?”
“Better than that. I told him I’d get him a book deal for his new thesis. That and a sponsor for his next five years of research.”
“But Grier’s research is impenetrable. Not even physicists can understand it.”
“Hey, I didn’t say the book would sell. I told him we’d publish it.”
“Who’s going to sponsor him?”
“You are, Theo. Or rather, your TV production company. Once your show gets syndicated globally, believe me, the payments to dear old Harold will be a drop in the ocean.”
“My show? What show?”
Ed Gilliam laughed out loud. “Get some sleep, Theo. You’re about to become a very, very busy man.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York, five years later
Jackson Dupree emerged from the elevator like a rock star walking onstage. With good reason. On Wall Street, Jackson Dupree was a rock star. And Wrexall Dupree, the commercial real estate giant founded by his great-grandfather, was his stage. Striding confidently toward the boardroom, past the desks of swooning secretaries, Jackson smiled. He was about to give the performance of his life.
A regular in the gossip columns and New York society press, Jackson Amory Dupree was one of America’s most eligible bachelors. The only son of real estate mogul Walker Dupree and his socialite wife, Mitzi, Jackson was born a prince. As befitted royalty, he was not only rich beyond most ordinary people’s imagination. He was also supremely gifted in every other aspect of his life: academically, physically, socially, and, as he grew into adulthood, sexually. Despite being a brilliant sportsman—polo and tennis were his games of choice, but Jackson made the varsity team at everything—he was the antithesis of a jock. With his wild, jet-black hair, his lean, almost skinny figure, high cheekbones, and sensual, predatory, almond eyes, Jackson looked more like the product of two passionate gypsy dancers than what he actually was: heir apparent to one of the oldest families on the East Coast.
Now twenty-eight, Jackson’s reputation as the most lusted-after playboy of his generation was well established. Famously estranged from his father (Walker Dupree found his son’s womanizing and partying a grave embarrassment), Jackson’s exploits in the bedrooms (and bathrooms and kitchens and offices and cars) with some of the world’s most desirable women, many of them married, had become part of Manhattan folklore. Less well documented was his prowess as a scholar. Jackson graduated top of his class at Harvard Business School (despite spending two-thirds of his final semester satisfying the bottomless sexual demands of the dean’s wife, Karen). He was fluent in French, Italian, Spanish, and German. A natural communicator with an easy, unpretentious manner, Jackson won over friends, teachers, and later clients as effortlessly as he alienated husbands across the land. Husbands and, it had recently emerged, the twelve-man board of Wrexall Dupree.
It’s my own fault, Jackson thought bitterly, the night he heard about the coup. I took my eye off the ball.
If it hadn’t been for Liana, the improbably proportioned personal assistant to Bob Massey, Wrexall’s irascible head of sales, he would never have known what the board was up to. As it was, Jackson was on the floor of Bob’s office last month, happily exploring the smooth, waxed heaven between Liana’s quivering thighs, when the girl burst into tears.
“It’s all right, angel,” Jackson said comfortingly. He was used to women sobbing after he brought them to orgasm. Who wanted to come down from that sort of high? “We can do it again in a minute.”
“It’s not that,” sniffed Liana. “It’s Mr. Massey. I overheard him talking with Mr. Peters and some of the other board members. He made me swear to keep it to myself. He said if I told anyone, I’d lose my job.”
“Told anyone what?” asked Jackson, bored, running the tip of his tongue over Liana’s left nipple. He wasn’t in the mood for career counseling.
“That they’re going to veto your promotion.”
Now she had Jackson’s attention. Dropping her breast like a dog that’s lost interest in its chew toy, he sat bolt upright. “What do you mean ‘veto’ it? They can’t. I have an automatic right of entry to Wrexall Dupree’s board after five years of service. It’s in the statutes.”
“According to Mr. Massey, there’s a subclause in there that says if you fail to meet some target or other, I can’t remember…and if the veto were to be unanimous…I shouldn’t have told you. But now that we’re a couple, you know…” She reached for his cock.
All Jackson knew was that he had to reread the company statutes. Almost knocking her out in his rush to get out of there, he stood up, pulled on his clothes, and ran out the door. Liana gazed longingly after him. I hope I haven’t made a mistake.
An hour later, back home at his loft apartment on Broadway and Bleecker, Jackson found the passage Liana had been referring to. He’d been praying she’d somehow got her wires crossed. After all, she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. But no. Here it was in black and white.
“If the nominated family representative should fail to generate revenue equivalent to a minimum of five times his annual compensation; and if such a decision is unanimously supported by all members of the governing board; the said representative’s appointment to board level may be denied. This would in no way affect the representative’s rights as a shareholder.”
Bastards, thought Jackson. They set me up. Another part of him thought, Maybe I deserved it.
The truth was that Jackson was one of the biggest revenue producers at Wrexall. In his first year alone he’d brought in twenty-five million dollars. Unfortunately, he was also one of the highest earners. Bob Massey, in particular, had encouraged him to take the maximum allowable bonus in the last three years.
“Why not?” he told Jackson genially. “You’re only young once. Besides, you’ve earned it. Go buy a yacht or twenty.”
Jackson grinned. “I’m tempted. But won’t it look bad? Aren’t we all supposed to be showing corporate restraint this year?”
“Says who? Look, sure, the media’s up in arms about big payouts. But aren’t they always?”
The rest of the board had concurred. All this time I thought they were being generous. But all this time they were just waiting to stiff me.
Wrexall Dupree had long been famous on Wall Street as a snake pit, one of the most aggressive, unpleasant, macho firms on the street. To that extent, it was not surprising to see Wrexall board members turn on one another. What was surprising was to have all twelve of them unite against a member of the family.
The truth was that while Jackson Dupree had the charm of the devil when he wanted to, and was undeniably good at his job, he could also be insufferably arrogant. At twenty-eight, Jackson was a decade younger than the youngest Wrexall MD, but he’d never made so much as a token effort at humility. Swaggering into the office at ten or eleven in the morning, having clearly just rolled out of some model’s bed, he would typically put in a few hours of phone calls (at least half of them to women), before taking off for some spurious lunch meeting from which he frequently never returned. The fact that he made as much money as his superiors while blatantly putting in a fraction of the effort did not endear him to anyone.
Tonight, reading the company statutes, Jackson had a rare moment of self-awareness. I fucked this up. All twelve of them hate me. But he didn’t dwell on it. Getting out a pen and paper, he made a quick calculation. There were two weeks to go until his board appointment was supposed to become official. How much more revenue do I need to bring in to stop the veto?
He wrote down the number. It was huge. Short of selling a hotel chain for twice what it was worth, he had no chance of…a slow smile spread over Jackson Dupree’s face. He picked up the phone.
Bob Massey stretched out his short legs, leaning back smugly in his leather-backed chair. Today was the day he was going to nail that arrogant little turd
Dupree’s balls to the floor. Jackson was late for the meeting as usual, but this time Bob Massey didn’t care. Nothing could dim the pleasure he was going to have in bursting the boy’s bubble once and for all.
At first Bob Massey had worried he might not have been able to persuade the whole board to back him. Especially Lucius Monroe, the chairman. Lucius was an old friend of Jackson’s father, Walker. Doing the dirty on Walker Dupree’s only son might make things a little awkward at the golf club. Then again, it might not. Old man Dupree was said to be wildly disapproving of his son’s dilettantism, however much he might love him. But Lucius, like the others, had needed no persuading.
“The boy’s a liability. He’s crass, he’s flashy. Did you see that piece on page six last week? About Jackson driving away naked from Senator Davis’s mansion?”
“Oh God, yes.” Dan Peters frowned disapprovingly. “The senator came home to find Dupree in bed with his wife and the Puerto Rican housekeeper. At it like rabbits, the three of them. Davis came at him with a shotgun, apparently.”
“I don’t blame him. Wasn’t Jackson dating the daughter at one point? Lorna? Lorretta?”
“Lola. Lola Davis. Yeah. That was the week before.”
Jackson’s embarrassing public sexploits gave the board the moral high ground. The company statutes gave them the legal high ground. But everyone knew the real reason behind Bob Massey’s coup: Jackson Dupree was an insufferable, arrogant prick. This would be the last day they’d have to put up with his entitled, self-satisfied swagger. The last day they would have to hear their secretaries salivating over how much they wanted to go to bed with him. The last day…
“Sorry I’m late.” Jackson loped into the boardroom with his usual sheepish grin. He was wearing torn drainpipe jeans, a vintage T-shirt, and a black Spurr jacket. His dark hair was even more wildly disheveled than usual, and a dark shadow of stubble matched the circles under his eyes. He couldn’t have looked more postcoital if he’d come in wrapped in a sheet and holding a used condom. “Rita Halston got into town last night. She needed a lot of entertaining.”
Twelve pairs of envious eyes bored into Jackson as he took his seat. Rita Halston was a well-known “adult entertainment” actress. There wasn’t a man in America who hadn’t fantasized about banging Rita, and the Wrexall board members were no exception. Her body was a Manga cartoon made flesh, and her face, with those ludicrously full lips and innocent Bambi-brown eyes, made Angelina Jolie look sexless. Since she’d bought a string of West Village townhomes last year, Rita Halston was also officially a Wrexall client. Specifically, she was Jackson’s client, which meant spending the morning in bed with her could be classified as “work.”
Gloat while you can, jerk-off, thought Bob Massey. By the end of this meeting we’ll have wiped that smile off your face.
Lucius Monroe launched into the order of business. Most of Wrexall’s profits came from US commercial real estate: time-share condominiums in Florida; strip malls and business centers across the country in Denver, Dallas, Atlanta, Seattle; prime retail in Manhattan and Beverly Hills. Occasionally they did residential work, like Jackson’s acquisitions for Rita Halston, or took pieces of real estate deals abroad, in Europe or Asia. Around the table, each board member updated the group on his division’s progress. At the end of the meeting, Jackson’s accession to the board would be formally ratified. Or so he thinks. It was all Bob Massey could do to not rub his hands together with glee.
At last Darryl Jeffries finished his deathly dull update on the latest retail deal. It was time. Bob Massey glanced triumphantly at Jackson. He was furious to see that the boy had fallen asleep at the table and was snoring quietly with his head in his hands.
“Are we boring you, Mr. Dupree?” Lucius Monroe’s voice shook with anger.
“Huh? Oh, sorry.” Jackson grinned disarmingly. “I must have nodded off. Is it time yet, for the big announcement? I guess we should get this over with. So, I’m very grateful to all of you, yada yada yada, it’s a huge honor and all that. But I’d really like to get back to bed.”
Prick.
Bob Massey stood up. “Actually, Jackson, there’s been a change of plans.” The smile he’d been suppressing for the last hour and a half spread across his face now like a fungus. “You may not be aware of this, but in the company’s founding statutes there are a couple of stipulations concerning your appointment to the board.”
“There are?” Jackson feigned ignorance.
“I’m afraid so. One of them concerns the ratio of your revenues to earnings.”
“You don’t say. Well, what does it say?”
Bob Massey lifted a piece of paper from the pile in front of him. He began to read, slowly, savoring every word. Around the table, his colleagues smiled and nodded. By the time Bob had finished, they were positively glowing with triumph. “I have your numbers here, Jackson. And I’m sorry to say, they don’t look good.”
Lucius Monroe got to his feet. “Well, in the light of this, I suppose it’s my duty to put Jackson’s promotion to a vote. Would all those in favor of appointing Jackson Dupree to full membership of this board, with immediate effect, please raise their hands now.”
Nobody moved.
Bob Massey looked as if he might spontaneously combust with joy.
“I see. And all those against?”
Twelve hands shot into the air.
“Well,” Lucius Monroe sat down again, “I realize this must be quite a shock for you, Jackson. You’ll need some time to consider your options. Whether you wish to continue at Wrexall, in a more junior position of course, or…”
“If I could just interrupt you there, Lucius.” Jackson got calmly to his feet. “No discredit to the detailed research that you’ve obviously done, Bob.” He smiled sweetly at Massey. “But I think you’ll find you’ve made a small error in your figures.” The door opened, and Liana sashayed into the room, carrying twelve newly bound documents. “Thank you, angel.” Jackson kissed her on the cheek, eliciting a blush of pleasure. He passed the documents around the table.
“What’s this?” Bob Massey snarled. He’d been over those figures hundreds, thousands of times. There was no mistake.
“A new transaction I’ve been working on, turning around a chain of failing beach hotels in Hawaii. Great land, crappy businesses. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull it off. But as you can see, it’s a whopper. Two hundred and eighty-five million dollars, to be precise.”
Jackson watched as the twelve men turned the pages. With each line they read, more color drained from their faces. Fucking Rita Halston last night had been fun. But it was nothing compared to this.
“But how…” spluttered Dan Peters.
“This price…it makes no sense,” said Darryl Jeffries. “Why would anyone pay that for these hotels? They’ve been making a loss for five years.”
“Yes. It was rather a good price, wasn’t it?” Jackson beamed. “I had to put in a lot of…what should I call it? Groundwork. Yes. A lot of groundwork with the buyer. But she was happy to do the deal in the end.”
She. Of course it was a she.
Bob Massey’s face had turned a color that Jackson had never seen before. He was pretty sure it didn’t occur in nature.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said through tight lips. “It’s too late. The deadline for your revenues to improve was this morning. There’s no way the funds could have cleared in that time.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Jackson. “But Alana’s been terribly organized about it all. We closed the deal on Wednesday. The money hit Wrexall’s account at eleven o’clock last night.”
“Alana?” Lucius Monroe looked up. “You don’t mean Alana Davis? Senator Davis’s wife?”
“That’s right.” Jackson smiled. “It turns out she’s hugely wealthy in her own right. Why? Do you know her? I’m meeting her tonight, as it happens, for a celebration dinner. I’ll give her your best, shall I?”
Later that nigh
t, in bed at Jackson’s apartment, Alana Davis closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time she had felt so alive. Feeling Jackson’s huge dick inside her and his powerful thighs clamped around her own, rippling with strength and power and virility and youth, she gasped with pleasure, surrendering to her third orgasm of the night.
“That was incredible, baby,” she purred.
“You’re incredible,” said Jackson, nuzzling into her neck.
At forty-five Alana Davis had believed that the days of mind-blowing sex were behind her. But in the space of a few short weeks Jackson Dupree had changed all that. On the nightstand, her mobile phone started to buzz. Alana turned it off.
“The senator?”
“No. My lawyer. He’s been getting dreadfully antsy about this hotel deal. You are going to do that buyback on Monday, aren’t you darling?”
“Of course,” Jackson assured her. “As soon as my board approval’s official, I’ll take them off your hands. I’m sure I can turn them around for a small profit eventually. Somewhere in the twenty million range with any luck.”
“If you turn me around”—Alana looked at him naughtily—“you can make a big profit right away.”
Jackson Dupree grinned. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERESA DEXTER STROLLED across the UCLA campus toward the parking lot, where her hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes convertible gleamed in the sunshine. Above her, a perfectly blue California sky stretched cloudlessly to the horizon. Theresa thought, I’ve just given a seminar on Shakespeare to a packed lecture hall. I’m rich. I’m healthy. I’m doing my dream job in a beautiful, sun-drenched city, and I’m married to the most gorgeous man in the world.
She had never felt more unhappy in her life.
It had been four years since Theresa and Theo Dexter moved to LA. Four years in which Theo had gone from being a minor British celebrity (his first TV series for Channel Four, Space, had started shooting days after his dispute with Sasha Miller ended and had quickly become a ratings winner) to a world-famous television star. At first Theo had been reluctant to leave England, dividing his time between Cambridge, where he still taught a half-weekly schedule at St. Michael’s, and London; he reveled in the sensation of being the biggest fish in a relatively small pond. Unlike Theresa, who avoided it as much as possible, Theo found the London media scene wildly exciting. He joined the Groucho Club and Soho House and got invited to private screenings at the BBC and book launch parties at the V&A. His book, The New Universe, had kept its position in the Sunday Times top ten bestseller list for a record twenty-two consecutive weeks, and ITV was already bidding against Channel Four for a second series of Space. Then TV Times magazine described him, much to Theo’s chagrin, as “Science’s answer to Alan Titchmarsh”—referring to England’s most televised—and boring—gardening expert. The comparison compelled Theo to take Ed Gilliam’s entreaties seriously.
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