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

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      ‘Oh God.’ Jackson put his head in his hands. ‘That’s what hurts the most. Everything that bitch Sasha said to me is true. I set myself up. I did. I let this happen, and all for a few hours of lousy sex with a pair of …’

      ‘OK, enough.’ Lottie clamped both hands over her ears. ‘I don’t want to know.’

      Jackson looked taken aback.

      ‘I’ll try to be your friend and to listen. I’ll try to give you advice, if that’s what you want, not that you ever listen to it, and I’ll happily make you coffee and lend you my blanket, but I will not stand here in my own kitchen while you talk about your … your …’ she struggled for the appropriate word, ‘… your sexploits with God knows who, twins or whatever ridiculous thing it was. I mean, really. Really. I don’t want to know.’

      She was so awkward and outraged and sweet, Jackson couldn’t bear it. He moved towards her, an unmistakably predatory look in his eye. ‘You’re lovely.’

      ‘No.’ Lottie backed away. ‘Stop it. You’re drunk. This isn’t fair.’

      ‘I am drunk,’ Jackson admitted. ‘But I’m drunk for the last time. As of today, I’m gonna be a changed man. No more booze. No more partying. No more sexploits.’ He was still moving closer. Lottie pressed her back against the kitchen counter.

      ‘I’m happy to hear that, Jackson, I really am. But …’

      He kissed her. ‘I think we should be together.’ Lottie started to protest but he stopped her. ‘Please, hear me out. You’re good for me. When I’m around you I feel calm. I feel content.’

      And when I’m around you I feel like I’m about to burst into flames. Oh God, Jackson, I want you so much, can’t you see it?

      ‘I thought you said you’d make a lousy husband?’ Lottie whispered. Jackson’s body was pressed against hers now. She could feel what little resolve she’d had crumbling like stale wedding cake.

      ‘We’ll work up to the husband part,’ he grinned. ‘One step at a time.’ Slipping a hand under Lottie’s sweater he reached for her bra strap, unclasping it with consummate ease. Lottie tried not to think about how many times he’d done that before and with how many women. There were a hundred and one reasons not to do this: Jackson was her boss, he was drunk, he was vulnerable, he was an inveterate womanizer who would sleep with her once, regret it and move on. Then his other hand slipped beneath her panties and none of the reasons meant anything.

      ‘Jesus.’ He looked up at her, startled. ‘When did you get that done?’

      Lottie blushed. She’d forgotten about the rather extreme Brazilian wax she’d had in Park City, the same day she dyed her hair. She’d been on such a high that day. But perhaps it was a bit slutty. ‘Don’t you like it?’

      Jackson grinned. ‘Are you kidding? I love it. It wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all.’

      Lottie closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the heavenly feelings washing over her. ‘That makes two of us!’ she gasped.

      It was the last words either of them spoke that night.

      Across town, Sasha lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, whipsawed with frustration. It should have been one of the happiest nights of her life, the start of an exciting new chapter. But instead of focusing on her bright future, Sasha’s head was full of images of two men.

      Professor Theo Dexter: still happy, still rich and famous and successful, still living the dream that he stole from her.

      And Jackson Amory Dupree, who’d kissed her, whose lips she could still taste on her own, whose body heat still burned every inch of her skin. Jackson who had threatened to destroy her.

      ‘I’m going to crush you. I’m go to blow Ceres out of the water.’

      Sasha closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, the same prayer she’d said every night for the last ten years. Help me, Lord. Help me to destroy Theo Dexter. But this time she added a codicil. And if it’s not too much trouble Lord, help me forget about Jackson Dupree.

PART THREE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       Tokyo, five years later

      Theo Dexter looked straight at camera, raising one eyebrow like Roger Moore’s Bond and smouldering as only he knew how.

      ‘Driven,’ he whispered huskily, holding up a bottle of cheap-looking cologne. ‘The smell of success.’ He stood for five more seconds, his face frozen mid-smoulder, till the energetic Japanese director yelled, ‘Cut!’ Instantly Theo’s features relaxed into their more familiar, petulant scowl.

      ‘Very good, very good.’ The director clapped his hands enthusiastically, and the Japanese crew did the same. ‘All finish. Very good take, all finish.’

      Thank Christ for that. Theo loathed Japan. A few years ago, Asia had excited him with its otherworldliness, its air of adventure. But by this point in his career, the novelty had well and truly worn off. If he closed his eyes and said the word Asia, four things sprang to mind. Humidity, cockroaches, stinking traffic and carbohydrates. (How the Japanese stayed so thin was a mystery to Theo. They seemed to eat rice or noodles with everything. He’d even come across a chicken noodle toothpaste, although that might have been intended as a joke item. You could never tell in Japan.) Despite staying at the uber-luxurious Park Hyatt, the hotel featured in the movie Lost in Translation, in a penthouse suite with spectacular views across the city all the way to Mount Fuji, he felt distinctly hard done by. Not least because Dita and the children were with him.

      ‘Just think of the money,’ Ed Gilliam told him cheerfully. Now in his late sixties and richer than ever thanks to his star client, Theo’s agent still had the hunger for the next big deal. ‘This commercial’s earning you more than your entire last season’s paycheck on Dexter’s Universe, and three times what you made on Space Suits.’

      Mentioning the name of Theo’s last, ill-fated, straight-to-DVD feature film put him in an even worse mood. That was another thing he had to blame Dita for, pushing him into movies like some goddamn dancing monkey.

      ‘I don’t care. It’s embarrassing. I feel like a used-car salesman.’

      ‘Yes, well, get over it,’ said Ed. ‘All the big stars endorse over here. Clooney, Pitt, Cruise.’

      ‘Maybe. But they don’t have to live with Dita while they’re doing it.’

      After seven years with Dita, six of them married, the novelty of her celebrity had well and truly worn off. Not that Theo didn’t still revel in the attention, the ubiquitous paparazzi who followed them everywhere, the throngs of screaming fans. But he resented the fact that his fame and Dita’s had become so inextricably linked in the public imagination. Being one half of Hollywood’s golden couple was wearing, particularly when the reality of Theo and Dita’s domestic life was, at best, strained.

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