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.
“What the hell business was it of yours?” he snarled. “And since when were you and Theresa so tight?”
“Since we realized we had a lot in common,” said Sasha, handing him a chilled glass of white. Theo took the wine and sat down. He knew he had to rein in his temper, especially if he were going to persuade Sasha to admit what she’d done. He’d convinced himself that if it became public knowledge that the mastership vote was effectively rigged, Theresa’s appointment might be declared void.
He looked around the apartment. It spoke eloquently of the life of its owner. Everything in it was expensive, from the imported antique lighting to the hand-sewn velvet curtains. The couch he was sitting on was B&B Italia, a model Theo had considered buying himself. But at the same time the room was stark, barren, empty. She’s lonely, he thought. Sasha sat down next to him, and instinctively he put a hand on her leg. Close up her body really was quite extraordinary, and gift wrapped to perfection in that tight gray dress she was wearing.
“To the casual observer, I’d say you and Theresa had nothing in common.” His voice was deep and gravelly. The desire was unmistakable. “You look terrific.”
“Thank you.”
Sasha felt her heart pounding. They hadn’t even had dinner yet! She’d hoped Theo would make a pass at her at some point in the evening, that she’d be able to play him, win him around—that was part of the plan—but not even she had expected a move in the first five minutes. She wasn’t ready.
“Will you excuse me just a moment? I need to see to something in the kitchen.”
Theo waited while she clattered around behind him in the open-plan room. He took a sip of wine and began, slowly, to relax. This evening was going to go better than he’d expected. Not only had Sasha chosen a damn good burgundy—another surprise—but she was clearly still attracted to him. That much was evident from her flustered response on the couch just now, the way she’d let his hand stay on her leg but then got nervous and made an excuse to get up. Perhaps this whole business with the mastership had just been an elaborate attempt to get his attention? If so, it had succeeded admirably. He would make love to her first, taking his time, savoring every inch of that incredible body. Then, once he’d shown her what she’d been missing, he would figure out exactly how he would get her to help him unravel this mess back in Cambridge.
“There we are. Done.” She was back on the couch, flushed (blushing?) and wearing freshly applied makeup. He was almost disappointed it was going to be this easy. Like taking candy from a baby.
“You know, I was so angry when I came here,” he whispered, taking her hand. “I’d almost forgotten how fucking sexy you are.”
Sasha looked down at her lap. She was trembling. “It’s been a long time, Theo.”
Gently, he reached under her chin and lifted her face to his. Then he kissed her, a long, slow, teasing kiss. She kis
sed him back, passionately at first, her hands stroking his face, exploring, rediscovering. But then, just as suddenly, she pulled away.
“What’s the matter?” He snaked a hand around her waist, edging slowly upward toward her breasts. I wonder if they’ll be as good once I get her bra off? “Are you nervous? Come on, Sasha. You know you want it as much as I do.”
His hand was on her shoulder now, peeling down the top of her dress. Jesus, thought Sasha helplessly, I do want it! She hated him, loathed him like she had never loathed another human being. But at the same time the power rush it gave her, knowing she was turning him on, knowing how desperately he wanted to fuck her in that moment, was almost stronger than the hate. It was a physical force, like an orgasm but better. It took all Sasha’s willpower to focus on what she needed to do.
Straddling him, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “I don’t trust you.”
Theo kissed her neck. He could feel himself getting hard. His appetite for conversation was dwindling by the second.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Reaching down, Sasha stroked the outline of his rock-solid erection through his jeans. Theo groaned. “You know why not, Professor Dexter.”
“Stop talking.” He flipped her over, pushing her down onto the couch. “I want you now.”
“No.”
The violence of her voice surprised him. He stopped, pushing himself up on his forearms, looking at her with a combination of curiosity and intense frustration.
“Not until you apologize.”
He laughed. “Me apologize? For what? You’re the one that screwed me out of the mastership just so you could get me back into your life. Into your bed.”
His arrogance was so breathtaking, Sasha stifled a gasp. She mustn’t break the spell now, she mustn’t ruin the moment. “You stole my theory. I want you to admit it. I want you to admit you took the credit for my idea and that you set me up.” She wriggled out from under him until she was sitting on the floor. Theo, still on the couch, sat up and ran his hands through his hair. Fucking little prick-tease.
“Sasha. Are we really going to go over all this again? Look at where you are in life, sweetheart. Look at what you’ve achieved. Surely, whatever happened back then worked out for the best, for both of us?”
Sasha said nothing. Instead, very, very slowly, she began to peel off her dress. Limb by limb her lithe, silken body emerged from its gray cocoon. Theo stared, mesmerized as she stripped down to her underwear: a minuscule bra in the softest gray-pink lace with matching panties, which showed the faintest shadow of neatly trimmed pubic hair beneath the silk. She eased one bra strap down over her shoulder, then the other. Theo could hardly breathe. Reaching back to undo the clasp, she stopped, looking him right in the eye.
“I want to hear you say it,” she whispered. “The truth.”
“Fine.” His mouth was so dry he could hardly get the words out. “I lied. I lied to you, I lied to everybody, OK? I stole your theory and I claimed it for my own. And you know what, Sasha? I’d do it again. I’d do it again in a fucking heartbeat. How’s that for an apology?” Leaping off the couch like a cheetah, he pounced on top of her, tearing off her clothes and his own, deranged with excitement and his eagerness to get inside her.
Sasha was excited too. She wanted this as much as he did. In fact, she wanted it more. Closing her eyes, she screamed with pleasure as he pushed himself into her body, fucking her with the passion that only hatred could inspire. Theo hated her, and Sasha hated Theo. Hated him! But it was the best, most animal sex of her life. Better even than it had been with Jackson. When she came, she sobbed, her climax seeming to go on forever.
I’ve got you, you bastard. She hugged him tightly, biting down hard on his shoulder. I’ve got you.
Behind her, on the kitchen counter, a Dictaphone silently turned, hidden behind the food they’d never had time to eat.
It had recorded every word.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Three weeks later, Los Angeles
Dita Andreas was having an awesome day. She woke up late to blazing sunshine pouring through the bedroom window (nothing unusual there) and a note from Theo on the pillow: “Taken Milo to softball. Back around 2.” (Very unusual.)
The fact that Milo was well enough to make softball practice was miracle enough in itself. But for his dad to take him, willingly and without being asked? That was unheard of. Theo had certainly been in a strangely good mood since he got back from his New York business trip. Before New York, Dita had wondered if he would ever get over this whole debacle with the Cambridge job. There had always been a direct link, like an invisible fishing line, between Theo’s confidence and her attraction to him. After the old fogeys at St. Michael’s College turned on him, Theo’s temper had soared but his confidence had plummeted to new lows and looked set to take their marriage with it. He and Dita barely spoke on the plane home to LA. But then he’d dashed off to New York to meet some production company or other and returned two days later energized and positive, his libido raging. Life with Theo had always been a roller coaster, but that was what kept it interesting.
Rolling out of bed and into the shower, Dita dressed and came downstairs to find a note from the nanny. She and Fran had left hours ago for the playground. Dita had the day to herself. Feeling like a teenager again, she grabbed the keys to her white Porsche Boxter and headed for Beverly Hills. A stack of gossip magazines, a pedicure on Rodeo, a hot stone massage at the Peninsula and a spot of light shopping at Barney’s on Wilshire. What could be more perfect?
There was a newsstand just outside Bristol Farms supermarket. Slipping on her largest, starriest shades and a headscarf, Dita pulled up and began scooping up all the week’s new editions: US Weekly, People, Star, OK, Life & Style. It wasn’t until she got to the cash desk that she noticed the picture of Theo.
“You wouldn’t believe it, would you?” said the cheerful young Mexican cashier. “Married to Dita Andreas and he’s still playing around.”
Dita felt her heart tighten. Theo’s affairs were no surprise to her. All men were the same in that regard. But she did expect him to be discreet, as she was.
“And that’s not the worst of it. Have you listened to the tapes?”
Dita pulled her headscarf lower over her face. “What tapes?”
“There’s a telephone number in there,” said the man helpfully. “You can call in and listen. Apparently Dexter stole the theory that made him famous from this woman.” He pointed to a picture of Sasha Miller, looking businesslike and serious in a black Armani Privé suit. “He admits it all on tape. Dexter’s Universe, the whole thing—it was someone else’s idea! Can you believe that?”
Somehow Dita made it to the car. Shaking, she turned to page six of the magazine and dialed the three-dollar-per-minute number they had so thoughtfully provided.
Two minutes later, she called Theo.
“Hi, honey. Milo’s doing great. You should see him out here on the—”
“You idiot.”
“What?” Theo sounded annoyed. “What’s the problem? I thought you’d be pleased I took him to practice.”
“She taped you, you moron! Your new girlfriend. The tabloids are charging a fortune for people to call a hotline and hear you admit you stole her theory. You’re a fraud, Theo! You’re a fucking fraud!”
The line went dead. In Brentwood Park, Theo Dexter watched a softball soar high into the blue sky then tumble inevitably to the ground. It was his life, flashing before his eyes.
“Get in here, honey! You should see this.”
Two days later, Lottie Dupree was watching TV in her apartment, calling to Jackson in his study. “Sasha’s wiping the floor with this guy.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Jackson had tried to avoid the coverage of the Sasha Miller–Theo Dexter scandal, but it was impossible. Not since Tiger Woods was caught with his pants down had the nation been so gripped by a story. Even Jackson had to admit it did have all
the elements of a good soap opera: a glamorous heroine, a charming but dastardly villain, a lie perpetrated for decades and finally avenged thanks to an illicit sexual affair, a betrayed movie-star wife. The irony was that Jackson had known about Sasha’s history with Dexter forever, since the earliest days of their rivalry at Wrexall. He’d chosen not to believe her when she protested her innocence—yet another of his poor choices where Sasha Miller was concerned—but it turned out she’d been telling the truth all along.
In the last forty-eight hours, Theo Dexter had seen his wife leave him, been fired by two major television networks, and been dropped by all but one of his commercial sponsors. He’d been roundly condemned by the scientific community and lampooned by every late-night talk show host in the country. While his embattled lawyer gave statement after statement, protesting his client’s innocence, Sasha had been on every televised couch from Barbara Walters to Ellen, telling her side of the story. Right now she was on Oprah. Lottie was glued.
“Jackson, come on. She’s talking about their affair now. The first one. This is killer stuff.”
Jackson stood stiffly beside the couch, listening to Sasha talk about how Dexter had seduced her as a teenager and admitting that they had slept together again the night she taped his confession.
“I’m sure it’s hard for people to understand how that happened. It’s hard for me to understand. This was the man who destroyed my life, after all. But maybe it’s because of that. There’s always been a connection between us.”
“Do you regret it?” Oprah asked. Lottie held her breath.
“I do,” Sasha said somberly. “I regret that part of it. He was married, after all. It was wrong, but it happened. It will certainly never happen again!”
The audience laughed. So did Lottie. Jackson felt his jaw tighten like a vise.
“But you know, maybe without that he would never have opened up the way that he did? I needed to hear him admit that he’d lied. I needed the world to know that I hadn’t lied. And Dita Andreas has called me since, offering her support.”
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