“Who is that man?” she asked her husband.
“Which man? The blond?” Brett Graham glared at Theo. “He’s nobody.”
“No, really. You don’t know him?”
“No, I don’t know him. Which means he isn’t in the film business. I know everybody in the film business.” Brett Graham was used to having girlfriends hang off his every word. With Dita Andreas, it was different. He was constantly having to prove himself, to try to impress her and keep her interested. Every day he spent with her he felt his heart growing tighter and his dick growing harder. It was torture.
“He’s a physicist,” the man opposite Dita interjected helpfully. “Theo Dexter. He has a TV show on NBC.”
“You see?” said Brett, smugly. “I told you. He’s in TV. He’s nobody.”
Dita smiled at Theo and turned away.
Not long after dinner ended, Theresa was back at the bar, alone again. Dita Andreas and her entourage had already left. No doubt they had another, more important party to go to. Theresa had seen Theo talking to Dita earlier, introducing himself, but Dita’s husband had dragged her quickly away. If only I could control Theo like that, Theresa thought sadly. He was on the dance floor now with yet another young NBC staffer. Theresa watched the pair of them glide across the polished marble, their perfect bodies pressed close, feeling like Sandy watching Danny and Cha Cha win the dance-off in Grease. She downed another whisky.
“I’d go easy on that if I were you.” A distinguished-looking man in his early sixties appeared at Theresa’s side. “Take it from someone who knows. Drink isn’t the answer.”
Theresa looked up at him. He seemed kind. He was handsome too, for an old bloke. Like a tall Inspector Morse. Except that Inspector Morse would never have told anybody that drink wasn’t the answer. He would also never have come to a party full of posers at the Beverly Hills hotel. What am I talking about? I must be drunker than I thought.
The man followed her gaze to where Theo was dancing. “He’ll grow out of it. Believe me. Hollywood, fame, all this, it’s dazzling at first. He just needs to realize what a great thing he’s got going at home. You’re gorgeous.”
It was such a kind thing to say, Theresa felt her eyes well up with tears.
“Oh, God, sorry. I don’t know why I’m sniveling. I think I’m a little drunk. Then again, I think you must be too. Either that or blind. I’m the fattest woman here by a million miles.”
The man looked at Theresa’s glorious figure poured into her slinky silver dress and laughed. “Nonsense. You’ve lost your confidence, that’s all. Trust me, most men aren’t attracted to anorexic airheads with two bags of silicone glued to their ribcage. Not for more than a few seconds anyway. Harry Meister.”
“Theresa Dexter.” Theresa shook his hand. Harry was a TV presenter, also at NBC. It turned out he knew Theo slightly through mutual colleagues.
“So what is the answer, Mr. Meister?” Theresa asked him. “If it’s not to be found at the bottom of a bottle of Famous Grouse?”
“My advice? Get pregnant. I’ve seen hundreds of guys like your husband, new in town and all starry-eyed. Give them a family and they soon settle down.”
He couldn’t have known it was exactly the wrong thing to say. Theresa barely managed to mumble a “nice to meet you” before she ran outside into the parking lot. Slumped against the service doors to the kitchens, she broke down in tears.
He’s right! The one thing that could save my marriage is the one thing Theo knows I’ll probably never be able to give him.
Alone beneath the stars, Theresa wondered how much longer she would be able to hold her marriage together. Years? Months? Weeks? She tried to think back to where it had all begun to go wrong. Immediately one single, unforgettable image loomed in her mind.
It was Sasha Miller’s face.
CHAPTER NINE
SITTING IN THE front row at McCollum Hall, Harvard Business School’s newly renovated auditorium, Sasha Miller waited excitedly for her name to be read out. As the top graduate in her class, she would have a long wait. Her name, as was the tradition, would be called last, and would undoubtedly prompt a standing ovation from her classmates and professors. But that wasn’t why Sasha was excited.
She was excited because now, at last, she could take the first step toward fulfilling her destiny. The destiny that had brought her to Harvard in the first place. The destiny that had made her quit physics and take an MBA. The destiny that had brought her to America in the first place.
Now I can start to destroy Theo Dexter.
After the university ruled against her, things unraveled quickly for Sasha at Cambridge. She didn’t stick around to be formally expelled. She’d suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime. Instead she quietly dropped out, intending to write to the physics faculties at the five other universities who’d accepted her and finish her degree in peace.
It wasn’t to be. It took six months of pleading letters, phone calls, and personal references from every teacher she’d ever met to convince any university to admit her. In the end, University College London took pity on Sasha, mainly because the head of admissions, James Trethwick, used to go out with St. Agnes’s deputy headmistress, Diana Drew, and still held a torch for her.
“I don’t know what happened with this Dexter fellow, but Sasha’s never done anything remotely like this before,” Diana told James over dinner. “And the girl truly is the most gifted physicist I’ve ever taught.”
That much was true. But James Trethwick still came to regret his decision to admit her. With Theo Dexter’s star inexorably rising, media interest in Sasha refused to die. “She’s like Monica Lewinsky to Dexter’s Clinton,” James complained. “Dexter gets interviewed on Parkinson and suddenly there are a hundred photographers loitering outside our labs, trying to get a shot of the Miller girl looking sad or defiant or whatever story they’re peddling this week. It’s distracting.”
Luckily, Sasha’s fellow UCL students weren’t distracted for long. She graduated with honors less than a year after enrolling. Her parents took her out for a celebratory meal in Tunbridge Wells.
“What now, love?” Sue Miller asked. “You’ll be looking for a research fellowship, I suppose?”
“With your degree scores you can go wherever you like,” her dad said proudly. “You’ll be beating off offers with a stick.”
“Actually”—Sasha took a big slug of red wine to steady her nerves,—“I’ve decided to go to business school.”
“Business school?” Don Miller couldn’t have looked more horrified if she’d said she was enrolling in a pole-dancing academy or jetting off to a jihadist camp in Afghanistan. “That’s ridiculous. You’re a scientist, Sasha. You have been since you were knee high.”
Sasha shrugged. “Maybe I grew up.”
“No.” Don stood up. He was shaking. “I can’t let you do this. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life, Sasha. You can’t just give up on physics.”
Sasha looked at her father sadly. He’d never gotten to live out his own dream of becoming an astronomer. Instead, he’d lived through her. All her life, she’d been a channel for his hopes. Now she was about to dash them. But she knew she had no choice.
“I didn’t give up on physics, Dad. It gave up on me. It doesn’t matter how brilliant I am, how hard I work, how many times I prove myself. I’ll always be the girl who tried to steal her professor’s theory. I need to start again.”
Don opened his mouth to speak, but Sue interrupted him. Unlike Don, she had never been obsessed with their daughter’s academic career. All Sue Miller wanted was for Sasha to be happy. If that meant a change of direction, then so be it.
“Where were you thinking of going? For your MBA? Have you applied anywhere yet?”
Sasha took another slug of wine. This was going to be the hardest part of all.
“Actually, I’ve been accepted. At Harvard.”
“America?” This time her parents’ horror was mutual. “You’re going to America?
”
I am. Theo Dexter’s in America. I’m going to move there and work my ass off and make a success of my life. I’m going to become rich and powerful. Then I’m going to figure out a way to ruin that bastard’s life, the way he ruined mine.
Sasha’s only concern about going to Harvard was that it might remind her too painfully of St. Michael’s. She needn’t have worried. Cambridge’s charm lay in its slightly dilapidated old-worldliness. Everything was falling down, crumbling, and overgrown, from the lecture halls to the underpaid professors’ rickety bicycles. Harvard, especially the business school, was like a well-oiled corporation. Everything was new and perfect and gleaming. At St. Michael’s, the libraries smelled of dust, ancient stone, and woodworm. At HBS, they smelled of money.
No one, Sasha learned, studied business out of passion. It wasn’t like physics or history or literature. People came to business school for one reason and one reason only: because they wanted to be rich. Unlike in England, where the naked pursuit of wealth was considered vulgar and unseemly, here it was openly celebrated. Of course, there were a few deluded souls who liked to pretend to themselves and others that business really mattered. The “I want to make America great again” brigade, or the “I’m doing this for feminism, breaking the glass ceiling for the good of womankind” bores. For some inexplicable reason, the business ethics seminars were always oversubscribed. They’re trying to justify their greed, thought Sasha. She herself had no need of justification. She knew exactly why she wanted to be rich. She woke up every morning and looked at his picture, taped to her bathroom mirror.
While the rest of her classmates partied and slept around, availing themselves fully of the wild nightlife that Harvard had to offer, Sasha became more and more reclusive, studying by day and waitressing by night to help pay for her tuition. “Help” being the operative word. HBS was prohibitively, insanely expensive—another difference from Cambridge. After three years, becoming rich was no longer an option for most students but a necessity to pay off their six-figure student loans. At Sue’s Steak House, the restaurant where Sasha worked, customers hit on her nightly. Some of them were good-looking guys, but Sasha wasn’t interested. After Theo Dexter, her libido seemed to have evaporated completely. She’d had sex twice in four years, both one-night stands, both deeply unsatisfying. After that, she gave up.
I’m a born-again virgin. But who cares? I don’t need a man to keep me warm at night. I have the flames of my hatred and the fire of my ambition. I’m complete.
Already a Baker Scholar after her second year, no one was surprised when Sasha Miller graduated at the top of her class. Least of all Sasha herself. By the time her results came through, she’d already accepted a job at Merrill Lynch in New York. Not because she had the remotest interest in investment banking, but because it offered the highest starting salary and fastest track to directorship of anything else she’d been offered.
“Miss Sasha Miller.” The dean’s voice rang out around the auditorium. Sasha turned and smiled at her parents, seated a few rows behind. This wasn’t their dream, any more than it was hers. But they were here, and proud, their love for her unwavering. One day, Sasha thought, I’ll repay them for everything they’ve done for me. The little cottage in Frant where she’d grown up, and once been so happy, felt farther away than ever. It was almost inconceivable to think that tomorrow Don and Sue would be on a plane back there. And Sasha would be on a plane to New York.
All eyes were on Sasha as she made her way to the podium. One pair of eyes in particular thought, Now that’s a great-looking girl. Why haven’t we interviewed her? If she’s the brightest HBS graduate, she should be with us.
Jackson Dupree made a note in his BlackBerry. “Sasha Miller.” He would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
Jackson hadn’t really enjoyed his own years at Harvard. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was killing time, spinning his wheels until the real work of his life began at Wrexall. What he had enjoyed was the sex. All the girls from Harvard College and Wellesley wanted boyfriends from the biz school, rightly perceiving them to be the next generation of American superrich. Of course, New York had no shortage of stunning women. But at Harvard, the girls had been stunning and bright. Occasionally, bed-hopping from one airheaded Elite model to the next, Jackson missed his college lovers.
That was why he was here. He’d met Rachel at a party in the Hamptons last summer. She was eighteen then and due to start Harvard in the fall. After two blissful weeks of screwing in her stepfather’s guesthouse, they’d parted ways, but Jackson made a point of keeping in touch. When Rachel had called him last week to invite him up for the end-of-year celebrations, he’d jumped at the chance. After successfully quashing Bob Massey’s would-be coup and winning his place on Wrexall’s board, he deserved a vacation. The end-of-year celebrations at Harvard were always fabulous, debauched parties on the boathouses along the Charles, drunk, celebratory students running half-naked around Harvard Square, enjoying their brief window of freedom between their finals and the imminent beginning of working life. If he stopped by the business school to do a little recruiting, he could even expense the whole trip. How much would Massey and his cronies love that?
Landing on the lawn outside Spangler Hall in a royal-blue Wrexall Dupree chopper, Jackson arrived minutes before the graduation ceremony was due to commence. For once he’d dressed formally, in a dark Armani suit and gray Hermès silk tie, his wild black curls slicked into place and a crisp white handkerchief peeking the regulation half inch above his breast pocket. All the graduating students and their guests on the way to McCollum Hall turned and stared as Jackson jumped nimbly to the ground, the women lustfully and the men enviously.
“Who’s that?” Don Miller asked Sasha. “He loves himself a bit, doesn’t he?”
Sasha shrugged, bored. Over the course of the past three years she’d grown used to watching handsome young Americans chest-beating their way through college. Admittedly landing a helicopter on the lawn was pushing it to new extremes. But these men were the golden children, the chosen ones, and they knew it. Showing off was a way of life for them.
“Some trust-fund brat, I expect,” she said dismissively. “Come on. Let’s get you seats before all the good ones are taken.”
After the ceremony, Sasha put her parents in a taxi back to the hotel. Her mum was still jet-lagged and wanted a catnap before they met up again for dinner. She was just heading back to her own rooms in Baker Hall when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Spinning around, she found herself face-to-face with helicopter guy.
“Sasha, right? Sasha Miller?” Up close he was even more ridiculously handsome. And even more self-satisfied. “I’m Jackson Dupree.”
He didn’t elaborate. If the name was supposed to mean something to Sasha, it didn’t.
“Can I help you?”
“Actually I have a feeling I might be able to help you.” Jackson fixed his mesmerizing almond eyes on Sasha’s dispassionate, pale-green ones and waited for this to have the usual effect.
Nothing.
“I’m on the board of a little company named Wrexall Dupree. You may have heard of us?”
Sasha gave him a look, as if to say, And?
“Here.” Jackson handed her a business card. “Meet me for dinner tonight, and I’ll tell you a little more about us. For now, suffice it to say that we’re the best in our field. And we make it our business to hire the best. I know you’ll have had other offers. But I’m confident we can more than match them. I’m staying at the Ritz Carlton on Newbury Street. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
It was so breathtakingly arrogant that for once in her life Sasha was speechless. Not that it mattered anyway. By the time she’d come up with a suitably withering reply, Jackson had walked away, jabbering into his cell phone a mile a minute.
Dickhead, thought Sasha. No amount of money on earth would persuade her to work for a man like Jackson Dupree. Besides, she was already committed to her job at Merrill. She walked bac
k to her rooms without giving him a second thought.
“I don’t understand, Jacks. What sort of business? This is your first night. I made plans.”
Rachel pursed her adorable Cupid’s-bow lips into a pout and tousled her honey-blonde hair in irritation. They were in Rachel’s dorm room—her roommate, Helen, had thoughtfully agreed to evaporate for the four nights of Jackson’s visit, and Rachel had made the place as love-nesty as possible, throwing all her clothes into the laundry hamper and lighting scented candles on every inch of surface not covered with vases of flowers. Jackson walked over and slipped his hand inside Rachel’s American Apparel tank top, cupping a small but perfectly formed breast and gently caressing her nipple with his thumb. Despite herself, Rachel closed her eyes and moaned with pleasure.
“I promise you,” Jackson whispered, nuzzling her neck and softly kissing her earlobe, “this is the last piece of work I have to do here. I’ll be an hour. Two hours, tops,” he promised, mentally calculating how long it would take him to woo Sasha, get her up to his suite at the Ritz Carlton, fuck her, and persuade her to come and work at Wrexall. “After that I’m all yours.”
“What about before that?” Rachel’s lips parted, her pupils dilating with lust.
Jackson grinned, pushing her down on the neatly made twin bed. Maybe he did miss his college days after all?
“You should go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dad.” Sasha took her mother’s shopping bags as they crossed the street. Sue Miller wanted to do a “lightning” stop at Banana Republic and various other American stores before their farewell dinner at Marco’s. “I’m not interested in the job, and I’m certainly not interested in him.”
“How do you know you’re not interested in the job? He hasn’t told you what it is yet.”
“If it involves working within a ten-mile radius of Jackson Dupree’s ego, I’m not interested,” said Sasha firmly.
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