‘More wine?’
Sasha looked across the table at the man sitting opposite her. In the soft glow of the candlelight he looked even better than he had in the gym last week, when he’d asked her out after spinning class. Tall, athletic, faintly rugged in a hotplumber-from-Desperate-Housewives sort of way.
Positives: He’s seen me at my worst, hyperventilating and dripping with sweat, and he still fancies me.
He’s handsome, charming and a good conversationalist.
He hasn’t tried to grope me or stick his tongue down my throat … yet.
Negatives: His name is Grover.
Grover! What possessed people to do that to a perfectly innocent little baby? Sasha tried to imagine herself screaming it out in the throes of passion. ‘Oh, Grover, that’s so good! Don’t stop, Grover!’
‘You’re laughing. What, do I have spaghetti sauce on my chin?’
‘Oh, no!’ Sasha blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I was, er … I was thinking about something else. Please, go on.’
‘Go on with what?’ Grover cocked his handsome head to one side, puzzled.
‘With what you were saying.’
‘I wasn’t saying anything. I was offering to refill your glass, but maybe you’ve had enough? Is everything OK, Sasha?’
Oh God, thought Sasha. I mustn’t sabotage this. I mustn’t. OK, so his name was Grover. And he did over-use the word ‘awesome’. And vote Republican. But really, he was a decent, solvent, straight and apparently kind man, and he’d asked her out on a date, and for once she’d actually gone because if she didn’t have sex again soon she was pretty sure some weird biological process would start to kick in and she wouldn’t be able to do it …
‘Sasha?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Just a lot going on at work, you know. It’s hard to switch off.’
It was ironic. In her professional life, Sasha was completely together and successful and brilliant. For the last year, she’d specialized exclusively in retail development, and had become one of Wrexall Dupree’s biggest producers. In business meetings Sasha had no trouble conquering her inner-geek, the social awkwardness that had dogged her since childhood. She was charming, funny, professional, a natural sales-woman. But put her in a purely social situation – like a date with hot gym guy for example – and she flailed around helplessly like a fish out of water.
Theo Dexter still her haunted her dreams at night. She was still no nearer exacting her revenge. With every passing season Theo seemed to become more famous, more successful, more happy with his film-star girlfriend and more out of Sasha’s reach. But by day it was Jackson Dupree who consumed all her mental energy. The rivalry between Wrexall’s future chairman and Sasha Miller, the firm’s undisputed star, was an open secret on Wall Street. Within Wrexall itself, the sparring between Jackson and his one-time protégée acted as a sort of atomic generator at the heart of the company, spewing out energy and igniting a feverish fireball of deal-making that had catapulted them to the top of the market. Jackson’s ‘team’ were the hotel and residential divisions. The relationship between his executives and Sasha’s retail group was akin to gang warfare, with both sides vying daily and hourly to out-perform the other. At first, the rest of the board was wary of the open hostility that blazed between Jackson and Sasha. But as the results rolled in and the stock price continued to rise, they backed off. A controlled nuclear explosion was clearly exactly what Wrexall Dupree needed.
Between fighting with Jackson, building her business and obsessing about Theo Dexter, Sasha had had neither the time nor the energy for a personal life. But it was January, and her New Year’s resolution was to stop turning down flat every male who approached her and to force herself to go on at least three dates a month.
The first one had been a disaster: a lawyer called Simon Tooley who had been on the other side of one of Sasha’s M&A deals. At work he’d seemed completely normal, blond, clean cut, perhaps even a little preppy. But over a four-hundred-dollar dinner at Masa, a pretentious Japanese restaurant with no menu in the Time Warner Center, he waxed suicidal over the edamame about his broken marriage, drank his bodyweight in sake, then collapsed in tears, confessing to Sasha that he was a life-long cross dresser and how would she feel about maybe letting him wear her panties later? When Sasha politely declined, he took umbrage and stung her for half the bill.
Grover Hammond was a lot better, not that that was hard. He was thirty-five, worked in publishing, had never been married and (at least by the time dessert arrived) had not asked to borrow any of Sasha’s clothing, not even her outerwear.
Grover had just started telling her a funny story about one of his authors’ diva-fits when the door to the restaurant opened and a mind-blowingly attractive redhead sashayed in. Close to six feet tall and pin thin, she was obviously a model. Even dressed down in Hudson jeans and an Abercrombie polo neck sweater, with no visible make-up, she was the sort of beauty people couldn’t help but stare at. Every man, woman and child turned to look at her, including Sasha.
‘Wow,’ she said admiringly. Sasha wasn’t given to envy. ‘I think that may be the best-looking human being in the universe.’ But her smile faded when she saw the redhead’s date walk in behind her, and wrap a possessive arm around her waist.
‘We’d like your best table.’ Jackson’s arrogant voice jarred on Sasha’s nerves like nails on a blackboard.
‘I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing available at the moment. As you can see, we’re fully booked. Did you have a reservation?’
‘I don’t make reservations. Tell Marcel I’m here, he’ll make room. And you can bring us two glasses of Cristal while we wait.’ Pulling the redhead closer, Jackson turned around to survey the room, smiling proudly, like a tribal king showing off his latest bride to his adoring subjects. His eyes soon fell on one less-than-adoring subject, however, and the smile vanished. He walked over to Sasha’s table.
‘Sasha.’
‘Jackson.’
‘I’m surprised to see you out and about so late. Surely you should be hanging upside down in a cave somewhere by now? Or home polishing your cauldron?’
In vintage Levi’s and a thick, blue cashmere Ralph Lauren sweater, with snowflakes still clinging to his wild black hair, Jackson looked as effortlessly desirable as the stunner he’d walked in with. Unlike the girl though, who seemed sweet if a little bit vacant, Jackson knew it. He positively radiated vanity.
‘Waiting on a table for three, are you, Jackson? Just you, your lady friend and your ego. How romantic.’ Sasha turned back to Grover. To his surprise, she took his hand. ‘Jackson, this is Grover Hammond, a friend of mine. Grover’s a publisher.’
Jackson nodded a curt acknowledgement.
‘Grover, this is Jackson Dupree, a work colleague. Jackson’s a penis.’
It was so unexpected, and so totally rude, Grover burst out laughing. Jackson glanced over his shoulder to see if the redhead had heard, but she was engrossed in her BlackBerry. At that moment Marcel, the restaurant owner, rushed over and began fawning over Jackson, clapping his fat little hands excitedly as a new table and linens were carried out from the kitchens. Jackson contemplated firing a shot back at Sasha. If she wanted to embarrass him in front of his date, two could play that game. But the moment had passed. Besides, he’d look a lot cooler to Leilani, the redhead, if he laughed it off and didn’t stoop to Sasha’s level.
Once Jackson and Leilani were seated, at the opposite end of the room, Grover asked Sasha, ‘What was that about? You just blew that guy out of the water. Is he an ex or something?’
‘An ex?’ Sasha looked disgusted. ‘Eeeugh. I wouldn’t