Scandalous (43 page)

Horatio missed the literary reference, but he got the gist of what she was saying. He looked almost as horrified by the prospect of Theo Dexter’s return as Theresa had ten hours earlier. “Dexter’s coming here?
Moving
here? Why, for God’s sake?”

Theresa told him the whole sorry story. By the time she’d finished she was fighting back tears again. Without thinking, Horatio leaned over and hugged her. Misinterpreting her distress, he said sadly, “You still love him, don’t you?”

“No!” Theresa pulled back, surprised by the vehemence of her own reaction. “No, I don’t still love him. Not in the least. In fact at this precise moment there’s a possibility I might even hate him. And I make it a policy never to hate people.”

“A policy. I see. Like your ‘policy’ not to date students, you mean?”

All of a sudden Theresa was aware of how close he was. She could see the stubble on his chin and jawline, smell the faint scent of aftershave on his skin. She looked up and his eyes were boring into her. This was
not
the Horatio Hollander she remembered. This version was a man, not a boy. And he was smoldering.

When she spoke, her voice cracked. “Yes. Like that.”

“You have too many policies, Professor O’Connor.”

The kiss was so fast, and so bold, Theresa told herself she had no time to resist. The truth was, she didn’t want to. It was
so long since she’d been with a man, so long since she’d even thought of herself as a sexual being, she’d convinced herself that that part of her was dead. Apparently not. Horatio’s desire was intoxicating, far more of an aphrodisiac than the alcohol or the roaring fire or the romantic snowflakes still falling softly outside the window. He kissed her again, his hands caressing the back of her neck, then sliding down under her shirt, reaching for her breasts, stroking them briefly—too briefly—before he sat up.

“No!”
Was that my voice?
thought Theresa. “Don’t stop.”

Horatio grinned. “I’m not stopping.”

Pulling his jumper off over his head along with his T-shirt and wriggling out of his jeans like an eager puppy, he was naked in seconds, revealing a body surprisingly strong and athletic. In the flickering firelight he looked like a marble sculpture, alabaster pale but exquisitely beautiful. It was a different body than Theo’s. Taller. Leaner.
Younger.
Theresa tried not to look at his dick, but it was impossible, like walking around Trafalgar Square and ignoring Nelson’s Column.

“Your turn.”

She started to unbutton her blouse, but Horatio was too quick for her, his fingers working expertly, opening the wet cloth to reveal an embarrassingly old gray bra.

“Sorry,” Theresa blushed.

“For what?” he asked incredulously. “You are so fucking perfect I could cry.” And she knew in that moment that he meant it. That he wanted her,
really
wanted her, not as some passing student crush, but as a man, wanting a woman. She relaxed then, and he seemed to sense it, slowing down his movements, undressing her slowly, not tentatively, but with infinite care and wonder. Pulling away the pillow from beneath her head, he gently lifted her up and laid her naked on the floor. The worn Persian rug felt coarse against her back, but Theresa soon forgot any discomfort as Horatio stretched out above her, stroking the hair back from
her forehead, and began kissing her cheeks, neck, and breasts, working his way down slowly to her stomach. By the time she felt his warm breath between her legs, she was already squirming with excitement, longing for him to do what she knew
he
was longing to do.

“Please,” she murmured, “now. Do it now.”

Horatio didn’t need to be asked twice. Sliding back up so his face was over hers, he slid inside her and began to rock gently back and forth. “OK?” For the first time all night, he looked nervous.

“Perfect,” sighed Theresa. And it was. In that moment it was completely perfect. Perfect, and quick. Horatio had waited so long, and so hopelessly, it was all he could do not to jump for joy when he felt Theresa’s breath quicken and her muscles tighten gloriously around him. He came the second she did, collapsing onto the floor next to her, afraid to open his eyes in case he discovered it was all a dream.

“Time for a policy review, don’t you think?” he said playfully, once he’d got his breath back. But Theresa didn’t answer.

She lay sprawled out beside him, soundly, drunkenly asleep.

“I’m not going.”

Dita Andreas was screaming. The veins on her forehead looked like they were about to burst through the skin, and her usually flawless porcelain complexion had turned an ugly shade of purplish red.

“I’m not going and neither are the children. I want a divorce!”

“You can have a divorce,” said Theo equally. They were sitting in a “private” rooftop cabana at the SLS hotel in Beverly Hills, although Dita’s decibel level ensured that nothing about their conversation was private. “Half of all my worldly goods—and debts. And good bloody luck to you.” Just
to increase Dita’s fury, he lit a cigarette. “As for the children, you can have Milo. But I’ll fight you for Franny, and don’t think I won’t.”

Dita gasped, genuinely shocked. “That’s a wicked thing to say.”

“Yeah, well, so’s ‘I want a divorce.’ You’re the would-be home-wrecker here, Dita, so quit trying to make me the bad guy. I made this move for all of us, not just me. You’ll love Cambridge.”

“Oh no I won’t. Because I’m
NOT GOING
!
”

Theo sighed. This was getting them nowhere. “Look. The actual election’s not till April,” he said, trying to make his tone more conciliatory. “It’s not like we have to leave tomorrow. We have time to sort out schools, find a decent house, all of that business. It’s not forever, sweetheart,” he added, bending to kiss Dita’s flat stomach as she lay rigid on the sun lounger. That was a lie. If he got the mastership—when he got it—it
would
be forever. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Moving his head lower, he started to peel down Dita’s Missoni bikini bottoms and felt her writhe with anticipation, her thighs parting automatically. Oddly, the worse things got between them as a couple, the more thrilling the sex seemed to become. “You can still fly back to LA regularly for work. We both can,” he purred, gently parting her newly Brazilianed labia and teasing her with butterfly kisses. Dita gasped.

“I hate you,” she whispered, her fingers massaging Theo’s scalp and her back arching with pleasure.

Theo felt himself getting hard. “I hate you too.”

Maybe in Cambridge, away from all the Hollywood craziness, he’d finally be able to break away? If nothing else, he would get rid of Dita’s entourage and decimate her spending. St. Michael’s had been surprisingly flexible about accommodating his filming schedule—“Should you be elected, of course.” But both the college fellows and Theo knew that that was a foregone conclusion. Theo could open doors for St. Michael’s, in terms of funding and global PR, that no other candidate could possibly hope to match.

A uniformed waiter poked his head around the canvas walls of the cabaña just as Dita started to orgasm. Ever the exhibitionist, she turned and looked right at him, her pupils dilating wildly. He blushed scarlet.

“Oh my God! I…I’m so sorry, Ms. Andreas.” He started backing out.

Theo looked up. “Don’t be sorry,” he said, deadpan. “She loves it.”

Sasha heard the news that Theo Dexter had applied for the mastership of St. Michael’s on Christmas Day.

Home alone in her Upper East Side apartment, more depressed than she cared to admit, she was sitting at her computer, gorging herself on Fortnum & Mason mince pies from the luxury basket she’d had delivered to herself, when her thoughts turned to England and home. Remembering the conversation she’d had with her dad a few months ago about St. Michael’s, she googled “St. Michael’s Cambridge Master Election” and there it was.

“I don’t believe it,” she said aloud. Her first reaction was horror. It was bad enough that Theo should still be alive, never mind richer and more famous and successful than ever. But that he should go back to Cambridge, and not just to Cambridge but to
St. Michael’s
? That he should be welcomed back into the academic and scientific fold? That was too much to bear. Sasha would have given away Ceres and every penny she had to stop it from happening. But as ever, she was powerless.

Angry, frustrated, and bitterly depressed, she pulled on her warmest Donna Karan cashmere coat and fur-lined boots and trudged out into the snow.
I’m like Mr. Scrooge
, she thought, biting back her irritation as she watched smiling families building snowmen on the sidewalks and tried not to glare openly at the
elderly couple who wished her a Merry Christmas on their way home from church.
I have more money than I know what to do with, but I’m miserable as sin and all alone.

Stalking past the cheery West Village storefronts with their bright holiday displays, Sasha tried not to think about Jackson and Lottie and how they were spending the day, but it was like trying to turn back the tide. She pictured them like Jim Carey in the scene from
Dumb and Dumber
, in an idyllic log cabin somewhere, with Jackson in a snowflake sweater, gazing adoringly at Lottie as she sat by the fire looking wifely and blissful. She was probably pregnant already. Twins most likely, perfect, adorable little Jackson clones.

Turning the corner, she was mercifully distracted by the incongruous sight of a group of protesters. There were only ten or twelve of them, stomping their feet against the cold as they waved their homemade placards in the air, but their disgruntled faces cheered Sasha inordinately.
My people. The kind of people who bitch on Christmas Day.
She could have hugged them.

Crossing the street to get a better look, she saw that the placards read “No Condos on Holy Ground!” and felt slightly less warmly disposed. Bible-thumpers had never been Sasha’s cup of tea, and as a real-estate developer she found it hard to muster enthusiasm for the no-building brigade either. But curiosity got the better of her.

“What’s this about?” she asked one of the protesters, a pale, skinny girl with unfortunately prominent buckteeth.

“They want to build apartments on that lot over there, next to the church. The city’s said they’re gonna consent, because it’s vacant land. But there are people buried there. It’s consecrated!” She imbued the last word with as much outraged awe as her dental challenges would allow.

“Couldn’t they move the bodies?” asked Sasha innocently. “To some other consecrated ground?”

The girl looked as if she might burst into tears. “How would you like it, if someone dug you up and dumped you someplace else, like some hunk of garbage? What if it was
your
mother down there?”

Thinking privately that, as she’d be dead, she’d probably be past caring, Sasha murmured something supportive and continued on her way. It was only after she’d gone another two blocks and was thinking about heading home for a sixth mince pie and some DVDs of
The Office
, that it suddenly hit her. An idea so radical, and yet so obvious, so
simple
! Running back to where the protesters were standing, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills, thrusting them into the bucktoothed girl’s bewildered hands.

“Thank you!” she beamed. “Thank you, and good luck with your campaign! And Merry Christmas!” she added for good measure, skipping toward her apartment, her heart still racing.

“Er…you’re welcome?” said the girl, watching the beautiful girl in the couture coat twirl her way down the street. She was sure she recognized her from somewhere.

Back in her apartment, Sasha kicked off her boots, dropped her coat on the floor, and ran to her bedroom, bouncing up and down on the bed like a five-year-old, whooping and laughing until she was out of breath.

After all these years, just like that, she’d done it.

She’d figured out a way to get her revenge on Theo Dexter.

It wouldn’t be easy, of course. Plenty of things could go wrong. But it was a chance, a plan, a window of opportunity she’d come to believe she would never be granted.