Scandalous (52 page)

The noise was getting louder. Buzzing like a fly. No, a wasp. It was getting closer, so close she could feel the vibrations of its wings.
Oh My God it’s in my ear! It’s in my fucking ear!

Leaping to her feet, kicking over the kitchen chair, Sasha ran around the room, heart and head pounding, shaking her head like a dog that’d just been swimming. It took a long time—ten full seconds—for her to realize that there was no wasp in her ear. That the buzzing was coming from her cell phone, which had spilled out of her purse onto the table. She grabbed it, jabbing buttons frantically, anything to make the noise stop.

“Hello?”

On the other end of the line, a woman was screaming. Not shouting, or whooping or laughing. Screaming, as if someone were slicing a razor blade into her eyeballs. Sasha felt the first stirrings of panic. She also felt unbearably nauseous. She didn’t dare look at the whisky bottle to see how much she’d drunk, but as she had clearly passed out cold at the table it must have been a lot.

“Who is this?”

More screaming, then silence.

“If this is some sort of crank call, you have lousy timing,” said Sasha crossly, trying to make herself less afraid. At last the screaming stopped, or rather it morphed into a more familiar sound—laughter.

“I’m sorry. It’s only me.”

Relief flooded Sasha’s body. “Theresa?”

Theresa was laughing so hard on the other end of the line, she could hardly croak out a “yes.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Of course not,” she giggled. “I’m pregnant. What sort of an irresponsible mother do you think I am? Besides, that’s hardly an appropriate question to ask the master of your former college.”

“You got it?!” For the first time in three days, Sasha smiled.

“I got it. Thanks, I can only assume, to you, although God only knows how you did it. Tony Greville sounded like he was choking on a wasp when he told me!”

Wasp
…Sasha clutched her head again, then her stomach.

“That’s brilliant news, Theresa. I’m thrilled for you, really. But I’m afraid I
am
drunk. I have to go and throw up now.” She dropped the phone and ran, only just making it to the bathroom in time.

Ten minutes later, weak and exhausted, she crawled back into her bedroom. Pulling the covers up over her head, like she did when she was a child, she curled up into a ball and prayed for sleep. It was late, past midnight, and she was shattered, but her mind would not switch off. Through a woozy, whisky haze, she pictured Theresa celebrating and Theo Dexter, somewhere in Cambridge presumably, reeling from the shock. Would Anthony Greville tell him what had happened? Would he let Theo know that it was Sasha who had destroyed his chances, Sasha who had robbed him of him life’s ambition and made him look a prize fool into the bargain?
Of course he will, the vindictive old bastard. He won’t be able to help himself.
For a brief flicker of a second, the thought made her smile. But then the image of Theo’s furious face receded, replaced by Jackson Dupree’s scowl as he helped his wife into the cab this evening.

His wife. His pregnant wife.

Sasha fell into a fitful, broken sleep.

“C
AN
I
GET
you anything, sir? A glass of champagne perhaps? Or anything else?”

The British Airways stewardess was sexy in a used, slutty, overly made-up sort of way. Normally Theo would have taken her up on the “anything else” and slipped back to the galley for a quick blow job. Today, however, Gisele Bündchen could have dropped to her knees naked right in front of him and it wouldn’t have lifted his foul mood.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Theo was not fine. He was furious. He’d been humiliated, publicly and deeply embarrassingly. He’d been made to look a fool among his peers and to the British public at large. Even Dita, who this time last week had been so eager to please him and make amends, now seemed to look at him in a different light: the grim pallor of failure. It was not a look that suited him. Nor was it one that Theo intended to wear for long.

He was on his way to New York to have things out with Sasha Miller.

“I don’t know what you expect to happen,” Ed Gilliam had warned him, advising strongly against the trip. “The college has made its decision. The most you can expect from the woman is an apology, and given your history together I’d say you
were spectacularly unlikely to get even that. Forget it, Theo. Go home. Rebuild. No one outside of England has even heard of St. Michael’s College. It’s all a storm in a teacup.”

But Theo couldn’t forget it. When Ed said, “Go home,” he meant Los Angeles. But despite having lived there for half his adult life, LA would never be Theo’s home. He knew that now better than ever. Of course Dita was in seventh heaven, the children too. She’d got what she wanted without even having to try. But for Theo, losing the mastership, to
Theresa
of all people, was a bitter blow. He didn’t realize quite how keenly he’d wanted it until it was gone. When that shit Tony Greville had told him it was Sasha who had bought up the adjoining land, Sasha who had held a gun to his head and effectively foisted Theresa on the college council, it was as if someone had poured sulfuric acid into an open wound. By some sick twist of fate, Theresa and Sasha had apparently become unlikely BFFs, united in a desire to bring him down. Livid with rage, Theo stormed out of the Master’s Lodge and immediately placed a call to Ceres, only to be told that Sasha was on indefinite leave while some bloody merger was being finalized.

“Listen, you cretin, I don’t give a fuck about your merger,” Theo roared at the Ceres receptionist. “This is Theo Dexter calling.
Theo Dexter.
Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir,” came the weary reply. “You’re the TV space guy.”

That
was like a slap in the face. Theo visualized the words on his gravestone.

“I demand to speak to Ms. Miller, immediately.”

“I’m sorry, sir. As I’ve explained, that’s not possible. If you’d like to leave a message…”

Theo left a message. It was not a message to be repeated in mixed company, nor was it a message to which he had expected a reply. But to his surprise, not two hours later, Sasha returned his call.

“I’d be delighted to talk to you about Theresa’s success, or anything else you’d like to talk about. Unfortunately I’m rather tied up in New York at the moment.”

Her sangfroid had momentarily thrown him off guard. Theo knew about her achievements in the business world, of course. But in his mind, he still pictured her as the naive teenager he’d charmed into bed all those years ago.

“Fine,” he heard himself saying. “I’ll come to New York. I’d rather do this face-to-face anyway.”

“Perfect. I’ll expect you next week. We can have dinner at my apartment. Avoid the press.”

Theo stared out the grimy plastic porthole window at the anonymous cloudscape below. In five hours, he’d be in New York. In eight, he’d be sitting across the table from Sasha Miller. Ed Gilliam’s words came back to him. “I don’t know what you expect to happen…”

Theo didn’t know either. But if Sasha Miller, if
anyone
, thought that they could screw over Theo Dexter and walk away scot-free, they had another think coming.

Sasha woke up that morning with a renewed sense of purpose.

He’s coming. Not just to my city. To my apartment. He’s coming here to see me, to talk face-to-face.
It was a meeting that she had fantasized about for so long, that now that it was actually about to happen it felt completely unreal. While she was in Cambridge she’d prepared herself mentally for the possibility of bumping into Theo, not sure whether she hoped for such an encounter or dreaded it. But never in her wildest imaginings had she envisioned this scenario: that
he
would come looking for
her
. That he would come when he was defeated, angry, volatile, when he believed he had nothing to lose. But of course, he still had everything to lose. This was Sasha’s chance, perhaps her only chance, to make sure that he did. The tension was overwhelming.

The first thing she did was go back to Bergdorf’s, pushing all thoughts of Jackson and Lottie from her mind, and head straight for the lingerie department.

“I want something sexy, but understated. Nothing red, nothing crotchless, no tassels. I’m thinking silk, lace, tiny.”

The gay salesman’s eyes lit up. “Honey, you are
soooo
in the right place.”

After that it was downstairs to ready-to-wear. Sasha opted for a subtly clinging gray jersey dress from Donna Karan, the fastest way to look a million bucks without looking like you tried. The next stop was Dean & DeLuca for something simple and delicious—asparagus and mint salad, poached salmon, and a wicked-looking tiramisu—then on to Morrell’s wine store for two bottles of vintage white burgundy, Puligny-Montrachet. Theo had always been a crashing wine snob and would insist on white with the fish. Tonight, Theo Dexter would get everything he wanted. But he would get it at a price.

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, Sasha felt oddly calm. All the nervous energy she’d been running on since breakfast seemed to have magically evaporated. Both the underwear and the dress felt incredible next to her newly showered, moisturized skin. After trying on six different pairs of shoes, she decided to go barefoot. It wouldn’t do for him to think she’d gone to too much effort, and it made her feel sexier anyway. She’d just had time to pull out a couple of salad plates and check that the wine was properly chilled when, right on cue, the doorbell rang.

“You made it.”

“Of course.”

He was wearing dark jeans with a Brooks Brothers shirt and Hermès tie, like an investment banker on casual Friday, and he was scowling. Sasha studied his face. There were more lines, of course. The frown didn’t help. But like most men, maturity seemed to have improved Theo’s looks. Sasha had seen his face on the screen countless times over the years, but she was unprepared by how attractive he still was in the flesh. A little bland, perhaps, a little plastic. He had none of Jackson’s animal magnetism. And
yet she remembered, instantly and quite clearly, why it was she’d fallen in love with him.

Theo looked at Sasha, too, his seasoned eyes evaluating her figure the same way a farmer might evaluate a cow.
Her tits are still good. Flat stomach. You can tell she hasn’t had kids.
But it was her face that really surprised him. Used to Dita and all the legions of bleached-blonde LA girls who started Botox at twenty-one, it had been a long time since he’d seen such a naturally beautiful woman. Sasha’s skin positively glowed, as pale and creamy and smooth as it had been when she was nineteen. Her hair was the same gleaming black, and her eyes were still the two deep-set emeralds he remembered.

But he wasn’t about to let a pretty face distract him from his anger.

“I want to know what the hell you think you were playing at.”

Sasha smiled, gesturing toward the couch. “Come in. May I offer you a drink?”

“You blackmailed Anthony Greville! You forced him to back my ex-wife over me!”

“I did, yes,” said Sasha sweetly. Her demeanor was designed to irritate Theo, and it was working. She was acting as if they were discussing the weather.