Scandalous (49 page)

“Sasha. Thank God.”

It was Doug Carrabino, her CFO and one of her top right-hand men at Ceres.

“I take it you heard the news?”

“What news?” Sasha picked up a towel from the floor and wrapped it around her shivering body. “I just woke up. Hold on, isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?”

“Yeah, it is, but none of us are getting much sleep. Wrexall is launching a bid for us.”

Sasha’s heart skipped a beat. Was he kidding?

“We won’t get the official numbers until markets open tomorrow, but word is they’re pulling out all the stops.”

“Jackson,” Sasha muttered.
I don’t believe it. I thought all that was behind us. I thought we’d buried the hatchet.

“Actually, I understand that Jackson Dupree fought his own board on this,” said Doug. “That’s the rumor, anyway, that he doesn’t want us back, after all the bad blood.”

“Of course he wants us!” Sasha snapped. “We’re the best.”

“Maybe. But we’re vulnerable, and they know it,” Doug countered. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing over there, Sasha—nor does the market, that’s the problem. But if you want us to have a fighting chance of beating Wrexall off, you need to come back to New York. Right now.”

He was right, of course. Sasha had left herself wide open, and Jackson had taken a shot. Why wouldn’t he? It was business, after all. Hadn’t that always been her mantra?

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said guardedly.

“As soon as you can? What does that mean?” Doug Carrabino was incredulous. “Call a taxi and get to the nearest airport, for God’s sake. We’ll have to give a statement by the end of the day tomorrow…I mean today. We need you, Sasha.”

“I know,” said Sasha.
But I need to do this. I’ve waited my whole adult life to get my revenge on that bastard. I can’t stop now.
“Whatever their offer is, we rebuff it. I’ll draft you a statement right now. I’ll be there soon, Doug, OK? I promise.”

She hung up.

Yesterday, everything had been falling into place. Today, all her carefully laid plans were crumbling into dust. Ceres was
under attack. Theresa was pulling out of the mastership race. Theo was going to get what he wanted after all. And Jackson…no, she mustn’t think about Jackson.

Marching to the wardrobe, Sasha pulled out her smartest cream wool Dior business suit and the killer Jonathan Kelsey heels that made her feel like Alexis Colby on a mission.

She was on her way to St. Michael’s. It was time to close the deal.

Back at Willow Tree Cottage, Theresa had put the phone down feeling more confused than ever. Sasha still wanted her to go to the lunch at St. Michael’s, but how could she? Everyone would be staring at her, judging her. She’d be a laughingstock.

She picked up the
Varsity
piece and read it again. The headline alone was enough to bring on her nausea: “S
T
. M
IKE’S
H
OPEFUL
P
REGNANT AFTER
A
FFAIR WITH
S
TUDENT.
”

“
Theresa O’Connor, a respected university Shakespeare professor and contender for the Mastership of St. Michael’s—in competition with her famous ex-husband, Dr. Theo Dexter—is reportedly four months pregnant, after an affair with one of her students. While
Varsity
has learned the name of the student, we understand from our sources that the young man himself may not be aware of Professor O’Connor’s condition, and for this reason we have declined to identify him. We can reveal, however, that he was directly supervised by Professor O’Connor, and that he is more than twenty years the professor’s junior.”

Who? How? Jenny would never have said anything, that much she was sure of. Walking upstairs in a dream, she pulled on a T-shirt and sweater, both of them inside out, and a pair of corduroy gardening trousers. She tried to clean her teeth but gagged when she realized she’d squeezed moisturizer on the toothbrush. The moment she finished spitting it out, the doorbell rang.

“Go away!” Theresa wailed, putting her hands over her ears. “Whoever you are I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Too bad,” a voice shouted back at her. “I want to talk to you.”

Horatio! Oh Christ.
He sounded angry. Of course he was angry! He must be bloody furious, poor boy. She’d deliberately deceived him. But she’d done it for his own good, for both their goods…

“Open the door, Theresa.”

She ran downstairs and opened the door. Horatio was still in his pajamas, with a pair of Wellington boots, a sweater, and a raincoat pulled on over the top. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. But on him it looked…perfect. Normal. Theresa longed to throw herself into his arms. Instead she said meekly, “You’d better come in.”

“Is it true?” He stood in the hallway dripping, a small puddle forming on the flagstones at his feet.

Theresa nodded miserably.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes. No. I suppose so. I don’t know.” She sat down on the wooden chair in the hallway, then remembered it was covered with mail and stood up again, wringing her hands awkwardly. “I hadn’t thought it through that far. It was a shock.”

“A disappointment.” The bitterness in his voice was heartbreaking. “The end of your mastership hopes! Is that why you kept it secret?”

“I couldn’t care less about the stupid mastership!” Theresa’s eyes welled up with tears. She could take censure from anyone but Horatio. For him to think that she was disappointed by the baby, that she didn’t want it…it was unbearable.

“You couldn’t care less about me either, could you? What was I, just some sad sperm donor? Go for someone young and healthy with a decent IQ, never mind about
his
life,
his
feelings…”

“I did mind about your feelings! Very much. I’m over the moon about the baby, but what right did I have to saddle you
with a child and a family, at your age? And with
me
, twenty years your senior as whoever wrote that article so graciously pointed out! It was a mistake, Horatio.
My
mistake.”

“
Our
mistake, actually.” Standing in the hallway, shaking with emotion like a tall, wet tree, he suddenly looked a lot older than twenty-three. “You’re keeping it?”

Theresa nodded. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Then I want to be involved.”

“All right.” There didn’t seem much else to say. He hadn’t said “I love you” or “Let’s get married” or any of the things she’d feared. But now that he was actually here, in her house,
not
saying those things, she realized with horror that she wanted him to say them. She had no right to the fairy tale, to steal his youth just for her own happiness. But in that instant, Theresa knew that she wanted it. She wanted
him
. But it was too late.

“Will you still stand as master?”

She shook her head. Horatio nodded, absorbing the information.

“Will you stay in Cambridge?”

“No. Probably not.” As she said the words, Theresa realized that they were true. She had no idea where she would go. But she couldn’t stay here. Not now. “We can talk, later,” she said. “But I have to go. I…I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

“Fine.” He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, he just turned and opened the door.
He hates me
, thought Theresa.
I’ve ruined his life.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed as he marched off down the path.

Horatio turned. Theresa couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was rain pouring down his face. “Me too.”

Dita Andreas admired her reflection in the full-length antique mirror. In a vintage Dior suit, navy blue with red piping, red
leather gloves and a smart navy-blue pillbox hat, she looked understated but sexy. “How do I look?”

“Very Carla Bruni.” Theo kissed her approvingly. “You look perfect, actually.”

He’d been so wound up after his dinner last night and his tense conversation with Anthony Greville, that he’d driven himself straight back to Cambridge and spent the night in his rented townhouse on Portugal Place. He’d been woken at seven a.m. by Dita’s arrival, confidently expecting her string of complaints to begin the moment she dragged her six Louis Vuitton suitcases through the door. Instead she’d climbed quietly into bed beside him, having evidently already showered and beautified herself in the first-class lounge at Heathrow, and proceeded to give him one of the best blow jobs he’d had in years. As if that weren’t miraculous enough, she then got up, went downstairs, opened the fridge with her own perfectly manicured hands, and cooked him a full English breakfast, bringing it back up to the bedroom on a tray.

“What happened?” said Theo, eyeing his plate of bacon and eggs appreciatively. “I thought you were furious with me for dragging you here.”

“I was.” Dita shrugged. “But I got over it. I’m tired of being a bitch. For the moment. And I realized I’ve missed having sex with you. It has been four weeks, you know.”

“I know,” said Theo, noticing the fact that she’d said she’d missed having sex
with him
, and wondering who else she’d been warming their marital bed with while he was away. He was surprised to find that the thought of Dita with another man made him simultaneously jealous and horny. That was the amazing thing about Dita. Every time you thought you were finally over her, she would turn around and surprise you. It was disconcerting, but, this morning anyway, rather delightful.

“So what time’s this lunch?” Dita asked, applying a slick of bright-red movie-star lipstick to her bee-stung pout. “And is your dreary ex-wife going to be there?”

“One o’clock, and yes, probably.” Theo straightened his tie. “Do
not
make a scene.”

“A scene?
Me?
” Dita fluttered her false eyelashes innocently. “How is dear old Theresa these days?”

“Fat,” said Theo. “Fat, old, and disheveled the last time I saw her. It’s really a shame. She was a terrific-looking girl in her day.”

“I suppose it’s all relative,” sniffed Dita.

“Something else you should know. The current master, Anthony Greville, has got himself into some hot water about a piece of land he sold years ago. To cut a long story short, he’s trying to sting me for the money to buy it back. Last night he threatened to withdraw his support for me if I didn’t write him a check on the spot.”

Dita’s face lit up. “How Machiavellian! What did you do?”

“I told him to stick it, obviously. But things might be a little tense today. I need you to charm them all, darling. Will you do that? For me?” Theo walked over and pulled her violently toward him. Yanking up her skirt, he slipped a hand inside her panties and began to stroke her possessively. Dita’s eyes glazed over with lust, her pupils dilating wildly. Thank God she’d left the children behind! They needed this.

“Of course, Theo,” she murmured. “Charm’s my middle name.”

When St. Michael’s College pulled out all the stops for a special event, there was nowhere more beautiful in England. Due to the misty weather and intermittent rain, today’s lunch had been moved indoors, to Formal Hall. The long oak refectory tables had been polished until they gleamed like newly opened chestnuts and set with a dazzling array of the college’s finest silverware. Glass vases of white roses overflowed onto the three-hundred-year-old Flemish lace tablecloths. The air was filled with riches
and history along with the mouthwatering scents of côte du boeuf and fresh white truffles, imported from Italy especially for the occasion. After lunch, the fellows, guests, and invited members of the media would wander out into the flower-filled courts, where tented canopies had been erected to help shield them from the elements. Champagne would be served and entertainment provided by some of St. Michael’s many world-class musicians, actors, and dancers. There would be punting on the river, and traditional games for the children present, including horseshoes and pin the tail on the donkey.