Scandalous (36 page)

“I will be discreet,” said Jackson, knocking back the last of his sake and ordering another. “I’ll discreetly get him to sign his offer in Barcelona. Then I’ll discreetly hold a press conference about it the morning of Sasha’s speech and pull the rug out from under her Manolos.”

Lottie sighed. There was no reasoning with him in this mood: drunk and determined. She wished she could love away all the
stress and anger Jackson seemed to carry around with him, like a backpack full of cement. Like him, in her darkest moments, she feared that there was something missing between them. There had to be, or he would have let go by now, given himself to her completely. But like him, Lottie put her fears aside.
I love him
, she thought.
He’s already changed so much, come so far from the old playboy Jackson. This vendetta with Sasha is the last piece of the puzzle. He’ll figure it out eventually, I just have to be patient.

Sasha stepped out onto her balcony into the warm, Spanish night air and sighed a deep sigh of contentment. Barcelona had been one of her favorite cities since she came here as a teenager, on a school trip with St. Agnes’s. She remembered the wonder she’d felt back then at the spectacular Gaudi architecture and the Plaça de Catalunya, not to mention the natural beauty of the ocean. There was a palpable sense of vibrancy in Barcelona, a feeling of life and youth and art that seemed to shimmer in the warm air along with the scent of jasmine and the mixed, mouthwatering smells of garlic and chorizo floating up from the tapas kitchens. As a schoolgirl, she and her friends from St. Agnes’s had stayed in a gritty little youth hostel, but Sasha had still adored the city. Now, returning not just as an adult but as a millionairess, a success beyond her or anyone’s wildest dreams, she was staying in the most expensive suite at the Hotel Majestic, a neoclassical gem on Passeig de Gràcia that lit up at night like Harrods at Christmastime. Wealthy and famous visitors flocked to the Majestic to sample the Michelin-starred cuisine at the hotel’s famed Drolma restaurant, widely considered one of the finest in Spain, and to enjoy its dated grandeur and old-world luxury. Sasha chose it because she remembered walking past it as a kid and wondering what the views must be like from the penthouse.

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 dollars. 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?”