Scandalous

‘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.’

PART TWO (#ulink_d9af7704-e036-5fa5-bd9e-9f8013cb368e)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_37eaf330-2a91-5895-91b1-a591cc4573ba)

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.