‘How do you feel about Sasha Miller?’ another journalist shouted. ‘Will you be pursuing any legal action against her?’
Theo shook his head magnanimously. T think it’s clear that Miss Miller is a gravely troubled young person. I have no desire for vengeance. I wish her the best and I hope her family are able to get her the help she needs.’
As he finished speaking, Sasha emerged from the building, propped up like a drunk between her bewildered parents.
‘Are you going to make any statement, Sasha?’
‘Will you be going back to St Michael’s?’
‘The university has asked for a formal retraction. Any comment on that?’
‘No comment!’ Don Miller roared. It was like walking through a pack of wolves. ‘Get the hell away from my daughter.’
‘Are you sorry, Sasha?’
Sasha looked up. Am I sorry? Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Theo Dexter. I’m sorry I put my family through this. I’m sorry that none of you can open your eyes and see the truth.
The mob followed her to the car. Cameras clattered against the sides of Don’s tatty Volvo as the family drove away. Sasha stared out of the window at the colleges, their towers and steeples and portcullises bathed in late afternoon light. She remembered the day she had first arrived at St Michael’s, full of hope and promise and excitement, her head full of thoughts of Will Temple, the boy she’d left back home. It was only a year ago. But it felt like a lifetime.
That girl is gone forever, thought Sasha.
She knew she would never return to Cambridge again.
It was almost midnight before Theo had a chance to call Ed Gilliam. What with all the press to deal with, and the celebratory drinks party at the Master’s lodge, followed by a romantic, thank-you-for-standing-by-me supper with Theresa, he hadn’t had a second alone since the verdict.
‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’
Gilliam laughed. ‘Not likely. I’m so wired I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.’
‘So come on, put me out of my misery. How did you do it?’
‘Harold Grier, you mean?’
‘When I saw him after recess I thought we were sunk. How did you get him to change his mind?’
‘The same way you get anyone to change their mind. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’
‘Money?’
‘Better than that. I told him I’d get him a book deal for his new thesis. That and a sponsor for his next five years of research.’
‘But Grier’s research is impenetrable. Not even physicists can understand it.’
‘Hey, I didn’t say the book would sell. I told him we’d publish it.’
‘Who’s going to sponsor him?’
‘You are, Theo. Or rather, your TV production company. Once your show gets syndicated globally, believe me, the payments to dear old Harold will be a drop in the ocean.’
‘My show? What show?’
Ed Gilliam laughed out loud. ‘Get some sleep, Theo. You’re about to become a very, very busy man.’
New York, five years later
Jackson Dupree emerged from the elevator like a rock star walking on stage. With good reason. On Wall Street, Jackson Dupree was a rock star. And Wrexall Dupree, the commercial real estate giant founded by his great-grandfather, was his stage. Striding confidently towards the boardroom, past the desks of swooning secretaries, Jackson smiled. He was about to give the performance of his life.
A regular in the gossip columns and New York society press, Jackson Amory Dupree was one of America’s most eligible bachelors. The only son of real estate mogul Walker Dupree and his socialite wife, Mitzi, Jackson was born a prince. As befitted royalty, he was not only rich beyond most ordinary people’s imagination. He was also supremely gifted in every other aspect of his life: academically, physically, socially and, as he grew into adulthood, sexually. Despite being a brilliant sportsman – polo and tennis were his games of choice, but Jackson made the first team at everything – he was the antithesis of a jock. With his wild, jet-black hair, his lean, almost skinny figure, high cheekbones and sensual, predatory, almond eyes, Jackson looked more like the product of two passionate gypsy dancers than what he actually was: heir apparent to one of the oldest families on the east coast.
Now twenty-eight, Jackson’s reputation as the most lusted-after playboy of his generation was well established. Famously estranged from his father (Walker Dupree found his son’s womanizing and partying a grave embarrassment), Jackson’s exploits in the bedrooms (and bathrooms and kitchens and offices and cars) of some of the world’s most desirable women, many of them married, had become part of Manhattan folklore. Less well documented was his prowess as a scholar. Jackson graduated top of his section at Harvard Business School (despite spending two-thirds of his final semester satisfying the bottomless sexual demands of the dean’s wife, Karen). He was fluent in French, Italian, Spanish and German. A natural communicator, with an easy, unpretentious manner, Jackson won over friends, teachers and later clients as effortlessly as he alienated husbands across the land. Husbands and, it had recently emerged, the twelve-man board of Wrexall Dupree.
It’s my own fault, Jackson thought bitterly, the night he heard about the coup. I took my eye off the ball.
If it hadn’t been for Liana, the improbably proportioned personal assistant to Bob Massey, Wrexall’s irascible head of sales, he would never have known what the board was up to. As it was, Jackson was on the floor of Bob’s office last month, happily exploring the smooth, waxed heaven between Liana’s quivering thighs, when the girl burst into tears.
‘It’s all right, angel,’ Jackson said comfortingly. He was used to women sobbing after he brought them to orgasm. Who wanted to come down from that sort of high? ‘We can do it again in a minute.’
‘It’s not that,’ snivelled Liana. ‘It’s Mr Massey. I overheard him talking with Mr Peters and some of the other board members. He made me swear to keep it to myself. He said if I told anyone, I’d lose my job.’
‘Told anyone what?’ asked Jackson, bored, running the tip of his tongue over Liana’s left nipple. He wasn’t in the mood for careers counselling.
‘That they’re going to veto your promotion.’
Now she had Jackson’s attention. Dropping her breast like a dog that’s lost interest in its chew-toy, he sat bolt upright. ‘What do you mean “veto” it? They can’t. I have an automatic right of entry to Wrexall Dupree’s board after five years of service. It’s in the statutes.’
‘According to Mr Massey, there’s a sub-clause in there that says if you fail to meet some target or other, I can’t remember…and if the veto were to be unanimous…I shouldn’t have told you. But now that we’re a couple, you know…’ She reached for his cock.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст