Tilly Bagshawe 3-book Bundle: Scandalous, Fame, Friends and Rivals

Now she knew. They were spectacular.

Tomorrow she had a full schedule of team-building events with her staff at Ceres. It was hard to believe that the company was only a year old. Already they had blazed a trail through the industry so bright that competitors twice their size and with ten times their experience had been left blinded on the sidelines, wondering what the hell just happened as Ceres won contract after contract, deal after deal. The media gave Sasha full credit for their successes, hailing her as America’s new business genius, a female role model to rival Oprah or Martha Stewart. No one seemed to remember, or care, that she was, in fact, English. Not when she looked so ridiculously photogenic, standing arm in arm with her right-hand man, Raj Patel. A young woman and an Indian man; it was so politically correct, so perfect, it was as if Ceres had been dreamt up by someone at Central Casting. While the trade press salivated over Ceres’s profits and Sasha’s business acumen, the fashion magazines pored over her wardrobe choices, and the gossip rags speculated endlessly about her love life, or rather her mysterious lack thereof. A few months ago, someone had leaked the story of Sasha’s scandalous past, and her connection to Theo Dexter, to one of the tabloids. Sasha suspected Jackson Dupree. True to his word, Jackson had pulled every stunt in the book to try to undermine her, personally and professionally, since she left Wrexall, but so far Sasha had managed to stay one step ahead. The stolen-theory story could have been a serious blow to her reputation and credibility. But with the help of a woman named Gemma Driscoll, a senior partner at the PR giant Fleishman-Hillard (and as far as Sasha was concerned, a genius) the mountain had morphed back into a molehill, ‘Neutralized,’ as Gemma put it.

‘The trick is never to try to cover up a story,’ Gemma told Sasha. ‘If a dog’s got a juicy bone in its jaws and you start pulling, all he’s going to do is clamp down harder.’

‘So what do you do?’

Gemma smiled. ‘Toss him a juicier bone.’

This she did by the simple but devastatingly effective means of falsely linking Sasha romantically with a string of eligible, newsworthy men. First there was the senator whose house Sasha went to once for dinner.

‘I play tennis with his wife!’ she insisted. ‘He wasn’t even home.’

‘Ah, yes, but he might have been,’ said Gemma.

Then there was the pop star, the Broadway producer, the Italian prince and the twenty-one-year-old heartthrob from NBC’s new prime-time soap opera, Brooklyn Heights. Of course, there wasn’t a thread of truth to any of the rumours. Sasha slept alone, with only her BlackBerry for company. But the stories served their purpose of distracting tabloid attention. Gemma finished the job with a series of ‘teasers’ about Sasha and Raj Patel, photo opportunities and interviews that suggested they might be a couple. That was the most ridiculous one of all. But as Gemma pointed out, ‘The beauty of it is that it can run and run. You’ll continue to be seen together. People will keep guessing. You’re a public figure now, Sasha. You have to think of your life as a sort of reality show.’

‘Reality?’ Sasha laughed out loud. ‘But everything you’re doing is made up!’

‘Exactly. Like I said. A reality show. I write the scripts.’

It was new world for Sasha, and one that, though she loathed to admit it, she found she rather enjoyed. She’d started Ceres for the same reason she joined Wrexall, the same reason she transferred to business school and moved to America: to become rich and powerful enough to destroy Theo Dexter. But as the years wore on, particularly with Ceres succeeding so spectacularly right out of the gate, she found the business becoming more and more of an end in itself.

Then, of course, there was Jackson. Every time Sasha got close to a deal, every time she made a hire or sniffed around some land, there he would be, bribing, badmouthing, conniving, doing everything he could do scupper her chances. Ceres was on a high right now, but Sasha had no illusions. At some point their new-kid-on-the-block sheen would wear off. Wrexall had multiples of their balance sheet. There would be instances, many instances, where Jackson would be able to outgun her. The fact that it hadn’t happened yet only heightened the anxiety she felt daily, squatting in her chest like a loathsome toad, still and cold and heavy but always ready to pounce.

‘Beautiful evening.’

Sasha spun around so fast she almost jumped out of her skin. There, standing on the adjacent balcony, looking lean and tanned in an immaculately cut Spurr suit and Harvard tie, stood Jackson Dupree. It’s like I jinxed myself. I thought about him and made him appear. Like summoning an evil genie.

‘It was,’ she said coldly. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Stalking me?’

‘Hardly.’ Jackson smiled. Suddenly Sasha felt like Little Red Riding Hood. If he could he’d leap over here and eat me. ‘I have business here. A new hotel. Right opposite La Sagrada Família.’

‘You’ll never get permissions,’ said Sasha. He’s cut his hair! I don’t believe it. That’s like Samson cutting his hair. Or Steven Tyler from Aerosmith.

‘Already got ‘em.’

‘Land’ll be overpriced.’ It suits him though. I wonder if Lottie made him do it?

‘It’s a luxury hotel.’

‘Location’s far too tacky for a high-end hotel. La Sagrada’s the number-one attraction in the city. Fat kids in backpacks hanging around outside day and night, dropping chewing gum and crisp packets. It’s like building a Ritz Carlton in Trafalgar Square.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Jackson smoothly. ‘It’s been a while, Sasha.’

Sasha glared at him. ‘Not long enough.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. I was fine. Goodnight, Jackson.’ Turning on her heel, Sasha walked back into her suite, slamming the balcony doors behind her.

Arsehole. Luxury hotel, my arse. If he’s here on Wrexall business, I’m Mahatma Gandhi. He’s up to something.

She ordered room service and tried to settle down to the mountainous pile of work she had to get through before tomorrow. But knowing Jackson was in the suite next door made it impossible to concentrate. He looked so damn smug. What does he have to look smug about? At one point she was sure she heard his shower turn on. As hard as she tried, it was impossible not to picture him naked, lathering shampoo onto his newly short, preppy haircut. He looked different to how she remembered him. The suit, the hair, the manner. He’s less of a boy and more of a man. Sasha wondered whether that was Lottie’s influence, and felt a pang of something painful. She hoped that it was her missing Lottie’s friendship, but feared it might be something much more ugly: jealousy. Not that she was jealous of Lottie having Jackson. I wouldn’t want Jackson Dupree if he were the last man on the face of the earth. It can’t be that. Maybe I’m jealous of other people having love in their life. Of other people being happy.

On an impulse, she called Raj’s room, but there was no answer. Disappointed, and irritated with herself, she put the work aside, popped a sleeping pill and defiantly turned out the lights. It was only 8.30 p.m., but she had a big day tomorrow. Barcelona was her city, this was her off site, her conference, her time to shine. Jackson could try his childish mind games until he was blue in the face. But he wouldn’t ruin Barcelona for her. She wouldn’t let him.

Raj Patel sat at an outdoor table at a quiet coffee shop on Barcelona beach, wondering if he needed to get his ears syringed.

‘I’m sorry, Jackson. I think I must have misheard you. Did you just say fifteen million dollars? Fifteen as in one-five? Million as in million?’ Raj’s clipped British accent cut through the early-morning air like a scimitar.

Jackson sipped his espresso. ‘It’s a three-year package.’

‘Guaranteed?’

‘Of course. Guaranteed. Remember, you’d be running retail for us, lock stock and barrel. Given where we are today, and where I know we could be with you at the helm, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t out earn those numbers.’

Fifteen million dollars. Fifteen million, guaranteed. I could fuck up as much as I like, make every wrong decision in the book, and I’d still get paid. Raj had always thought of himself as a risk taker. No, to hell with that, he was a risk taker. He’d taken a huge chance, tying his star to Sasha’s and jumping to Ceres on nothing more than a wing and a prayer. That risk had paid off, in spades. Not only had it catapulted his career into the big leagues, but it had been a wild exhilarating ride, and Raj had loved every minute of it, the deals, the press attention, the camaraderie. Sasha Miller was a machine when it came to work – she never stopped – but somehow she still managed to make the atmosphere at Ceres fun. They were a young company, and a crazily young management team. No one missed the stuffiness at Wrexall, nor the bullying from the ageing, greedy board. Least of all Raj. There was more to life than money.

On the other hand …

‘You’re getting married, aren’t you?’ Jackson leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs languidly like the king that he was.

‘How’d you know that?’

‘A little bird. How does your fiancée feel about all the brouhaha in the papers about you and Sasha?’

Raj stiffened. ‘She couldn’t care less. She knows it’s all rubbish.’

‘Really?’ Jackson raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes, really. We’re colleagues, that’s all.’

For some reason, Jackson felt relieved. That’ll make it easier to land Raj, he told himself. If they really were lovers, no amount of money would shift him.

‘Talk to your fiancée about the offer,’ said Jackson. ‘See what she thinks you should do.’

Raj laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. “ Honey, should I accept a cheque for fifteen million dollars no questions asked, or keep working on commission for a beautiful woman that half of America thinks I’m boning? ” That’s what you want me to ask her, right?’

Jackson laughed back. He genuinely liked Raj. Talking to him this morning, he realized how much he missed having him at Wrexall. With Sasha and Lottie both gone too, all the excitement had been sucked out of the place. ‘Something like that,’ he admitted. ‘It’s the truth isn’t it? They tell me all the best marriages are based on trust.’

Raj’s face fell. ‘I’m tempted. Of course I am. But what about Sasha? She trusts me.’

Jackson put down his coffee and leaned across the table, like a chess grand master moving in for checkmate. ‘Sasha is a businesswoman. At least, that’s what she told me when she ripped the fucking guts out of my company, the company that gave her a start, the company that made her.’ Raj was silent. Jackson had a right to be angry, but even so, seeing his rage in action was frightening. It was like a living thing, a being in its own right, hovering in the air between them like some malevolent moth. ‘You’re a young guy, Raj.’

‘Young-ish. I’m thirty-three.’

‘You’re about to start a family and you have your own life to think about, your own career. Ceres has had an amazing start. You were a big part of that. But it will always be Sasha Miller’s baby, and you know it. I’m offering you a chance to be master of your own destiny, at a firm with a century-old brand behind it. All the autonomy, all the financial upside and none of the risk. Sasha, of all people, understands what it is to be made an offer you can’t refuse. This is it, my friend. This is it.’