OK, so the guy was an asshole who totally deserved it. But why couldn’t I have held my tongue?
As much as she longed for the day when she would set up on her own, Sasha knew that right now she was too young and too inexperienced to attract the sort of serious investors she would need to get her own business off the ground. It wasn’t about talent. It was about a proven track record. This Goldman deal would have been a major feather in her cap, a big step toward the type of experience she needed. It wasn’t just that she had angered Jackson and put her job at risk. She’d also thrown away money and kudos. Jackson had offered her a big step up the ladder, and she’d pulled out a hacksaw and cut off the crucial rung.
Depressed, she flipped on the TV. One of the many things Sasha missed about England was the television. Where was a good old BBC period drama when you needed one? Where were Judy Dench and Julia Sawalha? The only British face you saw on American screens was Simon Cowell’s, which was enough to put anyone off their ice cream. That and, of course, Theo Dexter’s.
Unable to stop herself, like a child scratching a chicken pox sore, Sasha turned on her TIVO and clicked on the latest episode of Dexter’s Universe. The show, originally based on her theory, had since morphed into a general look at space and the planets and was a huge ratings puller. Visually it was a work of art, an intergalactic version of David Attenborough’s acclaimed Planet Earth. Although of course, in place of Attenborough’s comfortable, fireside manner, there was Theo, young, impossibly handsome, energetic, funny, full of enthusiasm and joie de vivre. No wonder American women were all in love with him.
“Astronomy is like a drug.” Theo was talking directly to camera. “More than that. It’s like a love affair. For physicists like me, the universe is not just infinite. It’s infinitely beautiful. There are many times when I’ve thought I’d rather give up breathing than give up science. Because it is breathing. It is life.”
Yes, Sasha thought bitterly. And you stole my life from me.
She looked at the cheap IKEA clock on the wall. Seven o’clock. Switching off the TV, she jumped off the couch. If she dressed quickly, she might just make it.
Morgan Graham was preparing to leave the office for the day. He was meeting Anna, his new Russian mistress, for dinner at Elaine’s, a prospect that would normally have put a smile on his face, however bad his work day. But today’s meeting with Jackson Dupree and the girl from Wrexall had soured his mood beyond repair.
Tall, distinguished, and (he flattered himself) quite attractive in a powerful, older-man sort of way, Morgan Graham was used to having young women fall at his feet. Admittedly, he wasn’t a stud like Jackson Dupree. But with two hundred million in the bank, a division of a hundred and fifty people reporting to him, and a reputation as one of the sharpest deal-makers on Wall Street, Morgan Graham expected adulation and demanded respect. But this girl, Sasha, this child, had torn a strip off him in front of his team, as if he were some idiot she’d met at a bar! In his own office, too!
What rankled most was that the girl was extremely sexy. Morgan had always loved that dark-haired, green-eyed, Catherine Zeta-Jones look. He’d also heard rumors that she was immune to Jackson Dupree’s charms and that Jackson was secretly livid at this rejection. For months now, Morgan had nursed a fantasy of bedding Sasha Miller, purely so that he could boast he had succeeded where the legendary young Dupree had failed. He’d been going to invite Sasha out to dinner tonight, in front of Jackson, to seal the finalizing of their long-awaited joint venture. Instead, he’d been made to look a fool and a laughingstock. The jokes were already doing the rounds on the trading floor.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Graham.”
“Then why are you disturbing me?” Morgan Graham bit his assistant’s head off. “I’m going home, Kate. Whatever it is it’ll have to wait until the morning.”
“There’s a young lady here, sir. She says it’s urgent.”
Morgan Graham frowned. If he’d told Anna once, he’d told her a thousand times. He did not like being surprised at the office. He did not want to walk home with her and talk about his day, as if they were man and wife. Morgan Graham had just gotten rid of a wife, his third. All he wanted from Anna was for her to keep her weight under a hundred and twenty pounds and to open her legs whenever, and wherever, he told her to.
“May I come in?”
The secretary stepped aside. Sasha Miller stood in the doorway. In a backless black Ralph Lauren dress and spiked Jonathan Kelsey heels, her dark hair pulled starkly back in a ponytail and her exquisite, mint-green eyes ringed with smudged black liner, she looked more like a supermodel than a real-estate executive. For a second, Morgan Graham forgot to be angry, standing and staring like a schoolboy. But he quickly regained his composure.
“What do you want?” he barked. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble for one day?”
“I want to do the deal,” said Sasha coolly. “I think you do, too.”
Morgan Graham laughed in her face. “Forget it. I wouldn’t work with Wrexall now if you were the last firm on earth. You think I need you? I don’t need you. We’re Goldman Sachs. We can get another partner like that.” He clicked his fingers imperiously.
“You could,” agreed Sasha, walking slowly toward him. “I know you don’t need us. But that’s not the point, is it, Mr. Graham?” She was only two feet away from him now, close enough for Morgan to see her flawless skin against the clinging black jersey of her dress and to smell her Rive Gauche perfume. He stopped packing away his papers and looked at her, his eyes sweeping hungrily over her glorious body. “The point is,” Sasha paused for effect, “do you want us? And I think you do.”
Morgan Graham thought about Anna. He thought about the way Sasha had humiliated him today. He thought about the joint venture with Wrexall, and how excited he’d been about it until this afternoon. Finally he thought about Sasha’s body, and how much he wanted to see her out of that expensive dress.
“If I sign”—he ran his hand languorously down her bare back—“will you sleep with me?”
Wow, thought Sasha. This guy doesn’t beat around the bush. She flashed him her best come-hither smile.
“Put it this way, Mr. Graham. If you don’t sign, I won’t sleep with you.”
Morgan Graham grinned. He liked a woman he could spar with, a woman who liked the chase. Anna’s attempt at playing hard to get was wearing panties under her dress. And he did want to do this deal with Wrexall…
“Do you have the paperwork with you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Let’s see if you can convince me over dinner, shall we?” Morgan Graham’s mistress was in for a long, lonely evening at Elaine’s.
“You’re sure this is what you want, Jackson?”
“Quite sure.”
Bob Massey was depressed. He didn’t want to lose Sasha Miller. Not only was she a superstar in the making, not to mention easy on the eye, but she’d halved Bob’s personal workload since she’d joined his division. The girl appeared to have no life whatsoever outside the office and cheerfully put in sixteen-hour days whenever they had a deal on. But even Bob Massey had to admit that yesterday’s fuckup was a firing offense. It was Dupree’s deal that the girl had nuked. Which meant it was ultimately his decision.
“Couldn’t we stop her bonus and, I don’t know, give her a written warning or something? If we fire her she’ll go straight to one of our competitors. In a few years she’ll be a huge revenue generator for someone.”
“I don’t care,” Jackson said stubbornly. “If I see her face around here anymore, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
He’d had a fitful night’s sleep. The sex with Pascale had been terrible, largely because Jackson couldn’t get Sasha out of his mind. He was still livid about her outburst at Graham. What made him even angrier was the way she got under his skin sexually. He never knew it was possible to dislike someone so much and want them so much at the same time. In the end Pascale had gotten up
and gone home in the small hours of the morning, and Jackson knew he wouldn’t be seeing her again. Before long word would no doubt be spreading throughout Elite: Jackson Dupree had lost his touch. Yet another thing he blamed Sasha Miller for.
It was time to face facts. Yes, she was bright, but hiring Sasha had been a huge mistake. She was too willful, too much of a wild card.
Jackson’s phone started buzzing. Morgan Graham Cell flashed across the screen. That’s all I need, thought Jackson, another ear bashing from Graham. He turned it off. “Let’s get her in here. I want to get this over with.”
A few minutes later, a sober-looking Sasha walked into the boardroom. Ignoring Jackson, she smiled at Bob Massey and a couple of her other board-level supporters. They all avoided eye contact. Uh-oh, thought Sasha. This is it, then.
If only she’d been able to seal the deal with Morgan Graham last night! She had come so close. She had felt him weakening. But in the end, she realized, it was the power game he was interested in. He’d toyed with her all through dinner, but he wasn’t going to sign the paperwork unless Sasha went home with him. No deal was worth that.
“I imagine you know why you’re here?” Lucius Monroe, the chairman, said grimly.
“Actually, no.” Sasha looked at Jackson. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. If you want to fire me, then go ahead and fire me. I’m not falling on my sword to save you the trouble.
“This firm lost a very valuable piece of business yesterday, Sasha,” said Monroe. “Now we’ve heard Mr. Dupree’s version of events. Before we take any definitive action, we’d like to hear yours.”
“Why?” asked Sasha. “Do you think Mr. Dupree might be lying?”
Jackson exploded. “OK, that’s it.” He got to his feet. “I’ve given you every chance, Sasha. We all have. But this is the end of the line. You’re fired.”
“Hold on a minute, Jackson…” said Bob Massey. But Sasha didn’t need a defender.
“And what am I fired for exactly?” She glared defiantly at Jackson. “Losing us the Goldman deal? Or refusing to go to bed with you?”
“What?” Jackson roared. “In what alternate universe do you think I would want to sleep with a ball-breaker like you?”
“Jackson!” Old man Monroe had gone white. He was imagining the sexual discrimination lawsuit. Sasha Miller standing outside the Supreme Court with a fifty-million-dollar Wrexall check in her hands.
“It’s all right,” said Sasha. “I’m used to it. And to think, I’m the one being fired because I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.” She knew she was in the wrong. That this wasn’t about Jackson’s ego, it was about her screwup. But guilt and anger at herself only fueled her aggression. Besides, what did it matter now? They were firing her anyway.
“Excuse me.” Lottie Grainger burst in looking flushed. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I don’t mean to intrude. But have you seen this?” She waved a piece of paper at Jackson. Taking it from her, he saw it was a printout from Bloomberg news. It was less than a minute old.
“I don’t believe it.” He read it twice more before handing it wordlessly around the table. Sasha watched the board members’ faces light up one by one, like a string of Christmas lights. Jackson turned to her accusingly. “How the hell did you pull that off?”
Sasha looked at him blankly. “What are you talking about?”
“Goldman Sachs Private Equity Group just put out a press release,” explained Lottie. “Morgan Graham said he signed a joint venture with Wrexall Dupree this morning. He says he’s excited to be moving into the growing boutique hotel market and that he’s looking forward to working closely with the Wrexall team. He even mentions you by name.” Lottie beamed at Sasha.
So it’s a reprieve! No wonder Jackson looks so pissed off.
“Does this mean I’m unfired?”
Bob Massey hugged her. “It certainly does. Congratulations, Sasha. You can go back to your desk now. We still have some other business to discuss.”
Twenty minutes later, Jackson stormed out of the boardroom with a face like thunder. He found Sasha by the water cooler and pulled her to one side.
“That must have been quite a blow job you gave Morgan Graham,” he hissed.
“How dare you!” said Sasha.
“Oh, cut the Pollyanna crap, would you,” Jackson shot back. “The rest of them might not see through you, but I do. Hiring you was the worst decision I ever made.”
“Why? Because now you have to interact with one woman who doesn’t think you’re God’s gift? Anyone else would be pleased I salvaged that deal.”
“It’s because of you that it needed salvaging!” snapped Jackson. “You get to keep your job. For now. But you will have no further part in this joint venture.”
“You can’t do that!” Sasha flushed with indignation. “I worked my ass off on that deal.”
“I can do whatever I like. This is my company,” said Jackson. “And I don’t want to work with you. The sooner you get that through that thick, feminist skull of yours the better.” He looked at her, and for a moment Sasha saw a flash of genuine pity in his eyes. “You know, whoever the guy was who did a number on you? He really screwed you up.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Sasha blushed.
“Sure you do,” said Jackson. “Some guy broke your heart and you’ve never gotten over it. Well guess what, sweetheart? It wasn’t me. Maybe if you pulled your pretty head out of your ass sometime, you’d realize that.”
After he walked away, Sasha stood by the water cooler, shaking.
She ought to feel happy. Morgan Graham had caved, without her having to sleep with him. She would keep her job. She would keep her bonus. But Jackson’s words stuck in her heart like a switchblade. “Some guy broke your heart and you’ve never gotten over it.”
He thinks I’m a victim.
Jackson’s anger she could take. In some twisted way, she even enjoyed it. But his pity? That was unbearable. Even more unbearable was the fact that he was right. Everything came back to Theo Dexter in the end. Until she made Theo suffer as she had suffered, she would never be able to move on. But the truth was she still had no idea how to do it.
Sasha was lost.
And Jackson Dupree knew it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“AND EASE FORWARD into downward dog.”
The yoga teacher’s voice wafted mellifluously through the light-filled room. Theresa Dexter stuck her bottom in the air and thought that “ease” was probably not the word she would have chosen. Yoga was about as much fun as having root canal work. She couldn’t understand why everyone kept smiling.
“Breathe. Find your center.”
My center. Presumably that’s somewhere under all the rolling layers of fat?
It was the Make-A-Wish ball that had prompted Theresa to sign up for the torturous Ashtanga class at Maha Yoga in Brentwood. She’d left the house that night feeling like a million dollars, then realized that, even at her best, she was still an appalling blubbery heifer compared to every other woman in Los Angeles. Her depression was compounded by a visit to Dr. Yeardly’s office the following morning. Stanford Yeardly was the top fertility specialist in Beverly Hills, and he’d spoken to Theresa sharply about what he called her “lifestyle choices.” She could hear his disapproving, headmasterly voice now as she contorted her limbs into the even more torturous plough pose.
“I’m struggling to understand why anyone who’s serious about having a baby is still drinking,” he looked down at his notes, “two to three drinks a day, and getting zero exercise.”
Because they’re homesick, lonely, and depressed, their husband’s too busy fucking around to come home at night, and if it weren’t for the double gin and tonic at six o’clock, they’d probably have jumped out of a window two years ago? thought Theresa. Out loud she mumbled something about work pressure and promised to join a gym. Not that it mattered. Since starting yoga again four weeks ago, Theo hadn’t come near her sexually. Short of an
immaculate conception, there would be no baby, however many early nights she had or wheatgrass shots she gagged on.
“Hold on to that strength now as we move into plank pose.”
Theresa’s upper arms began to shake. She could feel a collective sneer from the limber, flat-bellied blondes all around her. It’s not just for a baby. It’s for Theo. And for me. If I don’t get a grip soon I’ll lose him.
Tomorrow morning Theo was leaving for a promotional tour in Asia. He’d be gone for almost three weeks, signing books, making public appearances, and trying to sell Dexter’s Universe’s third season to all the major networks in China and Singapore. To Theresa’s utter amazement and joy, he was also going to visit two orphanages in Singapore, having done a complete about-face on the idea of adoption.
“Maybe we should consider it,” he said one morning at breakfast, out of the blue, pouring skimmed milk over a half bowl of Kashi Go Lean cereal. Theresa almost choked on her bacon sandwich.
“Really?”
“Sure. Ed thinks I need to soften my image, particularly in the Far East. I mean, I wouldn’t want to go crazy and adopt an entire Benetton advertisement. But one kid…you could cope with one kid, couldn’t you?”
It wasn’t exactly the romantic outpouring of paternal love Theresa had fantasized about. But she still danced onto campus that morning. He wants a child! He wants a child with me! Surely Theo wouldn’t have brought up adoption if he were contemplating divorce? It wasn’t too late after all.
The Asia tour was three weeks long. If she went on a properly hard-core crash diet, laid off the booze and went to yoga every single day, Theresa reckoned she could lose fifteen pounds in that time and tone herself up. By the time Theo came home she’d be a new woman. He would have met an orphan child and fallen in love. Harry Meister’s words still rang in Theresa’s ears: Get pregnant. Give him a family and he’ll soon settle down. She couldn’t get pregnant. But she could give Theo a family. When he sees what a loving, devoted mother I’ll be, he’ll fall in love with me all over again.
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