The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy

Prada and Prejudice

Love and Liability

Mansfield Lark

Katie Oliver

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Katie Oliver 2014

Katie Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474007498

Version date: 2018-07-23

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prada and Prejudice

Blurb

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

Love and Liability

Blurb

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Mansfield Lark

Blurb

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prada and Prejudice

Katie Oliver

He’s a man in possession of a large fortune….but is he in want of a wife?!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Natalie Dashwood loves to shop. After all, as the heiress to the renowned London department store Dashwood & James she’s been wearing designer shoes since she could walk! But a socialite’s life isn’t as perfect as you might imagine… Natalie’s spending is spiraling slightly out of control, her rock star boyfriend is engaged to someone else, and it seems the family business is in financial crisis.

New high-flying business exec Rhys Gordon has been brought in to save the company from ruin, but what are his motives? And infuriatingly even a shoe-shopping spree can’t take her mind off his distracting and oh-so-charming smile…

Couture and confetti mix with scandal and intrigue in this wonderful tale of retail, romance and redemption.

Katie Oliver

loves romantic comedies, characters who “meet cute”, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in northern Virginia with her husband and three parakeets, in a rambling old house with uneven floors and a dining room that leaks when it rains.

Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully, better) stories. She even finishes most of them.

So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com, and have a look.

Here’s to love and all its complications…

To my husband, Mark, who always knew I’d do it; to my family (you know who you are); to my good friends (and beta readers), Jane, Michael, Karen, Danielle, Margaret, Ian, and Leigh; to Helen Williams and Lucy Gilmour at HQ Digital UK/Harlequin for their editing expertise; and to my agent, Nikki Terpilowski…without your unswerving support, this book would never have happened.

Chapter 1

Honestly, Natalie Dashwood thought irritably as she folded a stack of knickers on the display table for the third time, if I hear ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ one more time, I’ll put my head in the loo. And hold it there. Until I drown…

Five too many glasses of champagne at her sister Caroline’s birthday party last night had left her head throbbing and her outlook decidedly un-festive. And the relentless blare of Christmas carols over the department store’s tinny sound system did nothing to improve matters.

If grandfather hadn’t been desperate – an outbreak of flu had left Dashwood and James’ flagship department store seriously short-staffed – she wouldn’t be here, working in the lingerie department a week before Christmas. Natalie hadn’t worked in the family store since she was seventeen, nearly six years ago. But she couldn’t possibly say no to Sir Richard.

Besides, if she refused, he might cut off her quarterly allowance. And that wouldn’t do at all.

Her mobile phone vibrated. With a furtive glance round – mobile phones were strictly forbidden on the sales floor – she took it out and glanced at the screen.

“Grandfather! Good morning. I’m so glad you called. The new ‘Poppy’ handbag just arrived in Smart Accessories.” She was breathless with excitement.

“What in God’s name is a ‘Poppy’ handbag?”

Natalie opened her mouth to explain that Poppy and Penelope Simone were the two hottest ‘It’ girl sisters in London – correction, in the world – and that Poppy’s new handbag was destined to become a classic, but she refrained.

Grandfather would never understand.

“It’s a very coveted handbag,” she said instead. “I know I shouldn’t ask—” guilt stabbed her, but she ignored it “—but might I put it on my store account? Please?”

“How many handbags do you need?” Sir Richard asked reprovingly. “You have dozens already.”

“If you let me put it on account,” she pleaded, “I promise I’ll never ask you for another thing.”

They both knew this was utter bollocks, but Sir Richard refrained from comment. “You need to learn economy, Natalie. You know the stores are in serious financial trouble.”

Natalie’s gaze swept over the store’s selling floor. Although the first floor was busy at the moment, she knew it was only because this was the last week before Christmas, and the smell of fake pine and desperation hung heavy in the air. In years past, shoppers thronged the aisles during the holidays. The line for Santa’s Grotto wound twice around the third floor and required a special permit from the fire safety inspector.

She sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. That’s horribly selfish of me, isn’t it? Forget I asked.”

“Excuse me.”

Natalie looked up to see a man, late twenties, possibly thirty, dark blond-brown hair, standing before her. Under his jacket (Barbour) he wore a cashmere sweater (brand uncertain, but definitely expensive) and jeans; sunglasses hid his eyes.

He looked like a celebrity. But if he was a celebrity, he must be a B-lister, she decided dismissively, because no self-respecting A-lister would shop in Dashwood and James.

She indicated the phone at her ear. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He pressed his lips together but said nothing.

Sir Richard sighed. “Very well, get your handbag. I’ll allow it this once. But no more,” he warned her. “And you must promise me that you’ll come to the board meeting on Monday morning. It’s imperative that you attend.”

“Oh? Why is that?” Natalie asked, her heart sinking. She usually avoided the board meetings; they were horribly dull, and – to her, at least – a complete waste of time.

“I’ve hired a new Operations Manager. I’m introducing him at the meeting, and I want you there.”

“Excuse me, please. I need assistance.” Barbour jacket was growing impatient.

“And I said I’ll be with you in a moment,” Natalie snapped. She’d forgotten what a pain in the arse customers could be.

She returned her attention to Sir Richard. “Sorry, grandfather. Of course I’ll be there.”

“Good. We start at nine o’clock, in the fourth floor conference room. Mind you’re not late.” And he rang off.

Blast. She flung her mobile aside and turned back to her customer – he looked more than a bit irate now, actually – and fixed a polite smile to her lips. “Sorry. How may I help you?”

“Ah, help at last! How very kind. I thought I might have to chew my own arm off or relieve myself on the carpet to get a bit of attention.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Natalie said, her words frosty. “Did you wish to buy a gift for someone?”

“That was my intention, but God knows, I don’t wish to inconvenience you.” He scowled. “I’m looking for something upscale, and suitable for a lady.”

“Upscale?” She glanced doubtfully around the department, which hadn’t changed since 1982. “I’d go to Agent Provocateur, then. You won’t find much that’s upscale here.”

“But I’m here now, so let me see what you have, please.” His mobile vibrated; he thrust a hand in his jacket pocket to retrieve it. “Yes, Tom,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Sorry. I’m dealing with a store clerk at the moment.”

She glared at him. He plainly equated store clerks with lower life forms…single-celled organisms incapable of thought or, God forbid, intelligence.

She turned away and strode across the carpeted floor to the glass display case where the better lingerie was located. There was no ring on his finger, so the gift must be for a girlfriend. As she bent down to unlock the case and pulled out some lacy, sexy underclothes, she tried (and failed) to ignore the jackhammer pounding of her head.

Back at the counter, she laid out a half-dozen bras and knickers for his inspection. “These are very nice,” she informed him. “Notice the lace detailing.”

He prodded at a pair of knickers with his free hand and, with a cursory glance, shoved them aside as if they were £1.99 cotton pants. “These won’t do. Let me see your nightgowns.”

She bent down with a put-upon sigh and withdrew several negligees from beneath the counter. “These ones are lovely—”

“I need those cost overrun estimates ASAP,” he said into the phone, and dropped the mobile back into his Barbour. “Haven’t you anything that doesn’t look as if it came out of a stripper’s closet? The lady’s tastes are conservative.”

“Well in that case,” Natalie said with barely concealed irritation, “we have a nice assortment of flannel granny gowns.”

He leaned forward, his expression combative. “Show me something else.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

As Natalie glared back, her mobile came to life, vibrating on the counter behind her. “Excuse me.” Before he could object, she dove back under the counter to (1) look for the least sexy nightgown she could find and (2) take her call.

The moment she saw Dominic’s name on the screen, Nat pressed ‘Answer’. “Dom!” she hissed. “Where were you last night?” His side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.

“Went back to mine,” he said, and yawned. “I had a few pints with the boys, got pissed, passed out.”

This, Natalie knew, was probably a lie. Not the ‘went back to mine’ part, but the ‘passed out’ part. He’d likely spent the night in bed with his latest slag du jour.

“Don’t forget, Alastair’s anniversary party is tomorrow night,” she reminded him.

“Oh, shit,” he groaned. “All right, just be ready when I pick you up.” He paused and added ominously, “We need to talk.”

She frowned. “Talk? About what?”

“I can’t go into it on the phone, can I?” he snapped.

Natalie sighed. When Dom was in One of His Moods, a single cross word from her could easily escalate into a shouting match. She hadn’t the energy – or time – to deal with him now.

He might be playing Glastonbury this summer, and he might rock a guitar, but on a day-to-day basis Dominic Heath was a nightmare. His temper was legendary. Last week he’d trashed a curry house in Soho because the vindaloo wasn’t spicy enough.

Nor had two years of therapy cured his sex addiction; Natalie recently discovered he was shagging his sex therapist.

Good thing she planned to dump him at Alastair’s party tomorrow night.

Her customer leaned over the counter. “What are you doing down there, having a chat with the bras and knickers?”

“I’m on the phone,” Natalie retorted. “Do you mind?”

“Actually,” he replied, his expression grim, “I do.”

She glared up at him and returned to her call. “We’ll talk later,” she hissed, and rang off.

Natalie rummaged under the counter until she found a negligee and a matching dressing gown of apricot silk. She stood and tossed both on the counter. “I think the Queen herself would approve of these.”

He studied the items with a frown. “Very well, ring them up. And hurry. I haven’t got all day.”

Wordlessly she complied. He paid the entire bill – just over £250 – in cash.

“Oh, and I want them gift-wrapped,” he added as Natalie pulled out a carrier bag. “Can you manage that, do you think?”

“Sorry, but I haven’t any boxes.”

“You do,” he retorted. “I see them, there—” he pointed to the shelf behind her “—and I see tissue paper, as well.”

“Oh, fancy that! Right you are.” Natalie grabbed up a couple of flat boxes and tissue, flung the items inside, and thrust the boxes in the bag. “Here you go. Happy Christmas.”

“What about wrapping paper? Bows? Ribbons?”

“You have to go to the gifting counter for that.” She glanced at the Guardian Mrs. Tuttle had left under the counter. “I could wrap it in yesterday’s newspaper, if you like. Is the Guardian all right? Or do you prefer the Telegraph?”

“We’re talking about an overpriced Christmas gift,” he said, his jaw set in a tight line, “not yesterday’s cod. And I haven’t time to wait in another queue. Just give me the damned boxes so I can be on my bloody way.”

Natalie held the carrier bag out. “Here you go. Have a lovely day,” she gritted out. “Hope to see you again soon!”

“Oh, you will,” he promised her grimly. “Count on it.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she muttered as he departed, carrier bag in hand. “Like the plague. Or my next gyno exam.”

Thank God, Natalie consoled herself as she rang up a bra and a pair of Wolford tights for the next customer in the queue, I’ll never, ever see him again.

Chapter 2

She probably shouldn’t have had that third glass of Pinot.

Of course, Natalie reminded herself as she made her way unsteadily through the crowd, she hadn’t actually drunk the wine; she’d hurled most of it at Dominic.

Too bad she’d missed.

Natalie paused in the drawing room doorway. Her gaze swept past the clusters of elegantly-dressed people clutching glasses of champagne, intent on finding the door. The exit had to be around here somewhere.

As she lifted her tissue – already soggy – and blew her nose, Natalie scowled.

Bloody Dominic.

This disaster of an evening was entirely his fault. After all, they’d come to Alastair’s party together. She’d even bought a new dress for the occasion. But she never imagined Dominic would dump her halfway through the party to announce his engagement…to his ex-wife.

Natalie sniffed. She honestly didn’t give a fig if Dom and Keeley got back together again; they deserved each other. No, it was the public humiliation factor that upset her.

She’d seen the furtive glances of surprise and pity cast her way when Dominic announced the engagement, not to mention Keeley’s smug little smile as she lifted her hand to show off the ginormous diamond ring glinting on her finger.

Those glances of pity had stung. She didn’t want to be the girl everyone felt sorry for, the girl everyone whispered about.

Not ever again.

As everyone lifted their glasses to toast Dominic and Keeley’s happiness, Natalie’s humiliation curdled into fury. She hadn’t meant to fling her glass of Pinot Noir at that well-dressed bloke in the bespoke suit; she’d been aiming for Dom. But two glasses of wine drunk in quick succession had left her light-headed, furious…and her aim a bit off.

Where in hell was the door?

Ah, there it was. Lovely door, marvelous door! She’d leave here and…Natalie frowned. Well, with no money for a minicab, and no ride home forthcoming from Dominic, she’d figure that out when she left.

Her hand closed over the doorknob, and she flung it open. Rows of coats hanging on wooden hangers met her gaze. Oops…not the front door, then, but the coat closet. She could’ve sworn…

“Excuse me,” a male voice behind her asked in mild concern, “are you all right?”

She whirled around – which, truthfully, didn’t help her spinning head – and snapped, “Of course I am. I’m fine.” She glared at him, and her heart sank. Those penetrating blue eyes…that expensive bespoke suit…

Crikey. It was the bloke she’d just doused with Pinot Noir.

“Your attempt to exit via the coat closet – not to mention the state of my shirt and tie—” he glanced down at the wine staining his front “—tells me that you’re far from all right.”

“I told you, I’m sorry about your shirt,” she said stiffly. “I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning bill.”

“That’s not necessary. Have you a ride home?”

“No,” Natalie said. She narrowed her eyes as she glimpsed Dominic, holding court in the drawing room with his arm draped around his new fiancée’s shoulders. “Not any more.”

He plucked the empty wine glass from her hand and put it on a passing tray. “Look, I have to leave. I find I need a change of clothes,” he added dryly. “I’ll give you a lift home if you like.”

For the first time, she studied him. He had dark blondish hair and blue eyes, coupled with a rugged build and a lived-in sort of face. Not classically handsome, perhaps, but compelling, in a Daniel Craig-ish sort of way.

Perhaps that’s why he seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’d be happy to take you home, Natalie.”

Ian Clarkson stood before her. Although married to her best friend Alexa, and darkly handsome, Ian always made her feel a tad uncomfortable. He’d made it clear he was interested in her, the cheating sod. He was definitely a wolf in posh clothing.

“I’m taking her home.” Daniel Craig left no room for argument.

“But Natalie doesn’t know you,” Ian challenged him, “does she?”

Before hostilities could escalate further, Alastair James made his way towards them. “Natalie, darling, there you are! You’re not leaving, I hope?”

“I’m afraid so.” She kissed his cheek. “Grandfather wants me at the board meeting tomorrow morning, God knows why. Congratulations, by the way! How has Cherie put up with you for so long?”

He laughed. “I’ve no idea.” Still handsome despite the grey that peppered his dark hair, Alastair put his arm around Nat’s shoulders. “I’m glad you made it to our anniversary celebration. Ah, Mr. Gordon,” he added, and thrust out his free hand. “I see you’ve met my goddaughter.”

“Wait – you two know each other?” Natalie said in surprise.

“Only by reputation,” Alastair said, and raised his brow. “And quite a formidable reputation it is, too.”

“Oh. Well, he’s offered to take me home.” Natalie regarded Alastair quizzically. “Should I accept?”

His eyes met Gordon’s. “I’m sure I can trust you to see Sir Richard’s granddaughter safely home, Mr. Gordon?”

“Of course,” he replied, and extended his hand to Alastair. “I’m a man of my word, if nothing else. Unlike some.”

The smile he directed at Alastair, Natalie noticed, was chilly. Odd, that…but no one else seemed to pay any mind.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Gordon added. “I apologise, but the state of my clothing prevents me from staying.”

Alastair frowned. “Yes, Natalie, what happened? I’d no idea you and Dominic had parted ways.”

“It was a…mutual decision.” She refused to cry over spilt wine; Dominic so wasn’t worth it. “I planned to break up with him after the party, but he dumped me first. I’ve apologised to Mr. Gordon for ruining his suit.”

“No harm done. Are you ready?” Gordon asked her.

She nodded. “Yes, let me just get my coat.”

He put a hand on her back and guided her out through the crush of people. As he stopped to collect their coats, Natalie glimpsed Dominic halfway across the reception room, and he glanced over at them with narrowed eyes. She resisted the urge to flip him the bird.

After all, one of them needed to be an adult. It might as well be her.

Outside, Mr. Gordon gave the valet his keys and helped Natalie on with her coat. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit dizzy,” she admitted.

Five minutes later, the valet roared up on a gleaming Triumph Thunderbird motorcycle and brought it to a stop before them. Natalie’s eyes widened. “Is that yours? You can’t expect me to ride on the back of that…in this!” She looked down at her short coat, shorter dress, and six-inch heels.

“I’m afraid you’ve no choice, if you want a ride home.” He produced two helmets from the saddlebag and handed her one.

Natalie eyed the gleaming silver-and-black motorbike doubtfully. “I’m really not dressed for it—”

He gave her legs and her strappy shoes a critical once-over. “If you weren’t wearing those bloody stripper heels—”

“They’re not stripper heels!” she protested. “They’re Louboutins, and very expensive.”

“Well, you and your very expensive shoes will have to sit sideways. Put on the helmet. And button up, it’s cold.” He swung one leg over the motorcycle and waited.

“Bloody hell but you’re bossy.” Natalie did up her buttons and sat sideways behind him, shivering in the unseasonably cold night air, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I won’t fall off, will I?” she called out anxiously over the growl of the engine.

“Not if you hold tight. Where do you live?”

“Ladbroke Grove.” She gave him the address and rested her helmeted cheek against his back in mingled trepidation and anticipation. Her head spun, but in a good way. Sod Dominic, and Keeley, and her ginormous engagement ring, she decided. She was ready to have some fun.

He revved the engine, and with a satisfying, throaty roar, they were off. Natalie tightened her hold on him as they turned off Holland Park Avenue onto the A40. It was already unseasonably cold, but with the wind in her face, it felt about three degrees.

As they roared through Notting Hill, Natalie nestled closer, glad of his warm, broad back. He smelt of soap and leather, and also, rather strongly, of Pinot. Strange, she thought as he skillfully wove in and out of the evening traffic and onto her street, since Dominic had dumped her, she ought to feel gutted. But she was having too much fun to care.

The Triumph growled to a stop in front of her building. Natalie slid from the seat, stood up unsteadily, and removed her helmet. “My hair must look a sight.”

He took her helmet and removed his as well, then hung them both on the handlebars. “A bit. But it suits you.”

“Thanks.” She looked up at him with wide grey eyes and murmured, “You know, actually, you’re quite sexy.”

“And you’re quite drunk.” He held out his hand. “Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s cold out here.”

“No, wait.” Natalie pressed herself against him and slid her arms up around his neck. She giggled as she stumbled and his arms came around to steady her. “I’ve never said this to anyone before,” she breathed as her eyes locked with his, “but I really, really want to have sex with you.”

He removed her arms gently but firmly from around his neck. “No, you don’t. You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To…” she hiccupped “…get to know you.”

“Miss Dashwood—”

“Why don’t you want to have sex, then?” she demanded.

“Because you’re drunk,” he said again, his words patient but firm. “And because you’re mad at that boyfriend of yours—”

“—ex-boyfriend,” she interrupted.

“—and I won’t be your revenge sex.”

Natalie sniffed. “He’s been engaged to Keeley for two weeks! I still can’t believe it.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “It’s not that I care, mind you. It’s just that I – I couldn’t bear the way everyone at the party was looking at me, as if they felt sorry for me.”

“I think it was curiosity, that’s all,” he said. “They wondered how you’d react.” He lifted his brow upwards. “Is Pinot Noir your usual weapon of choice?”

“No. Prosecco.” She giggled and wound her arms round his neck again. He smelled of some deliciously expensive aftershave and, very faintly, of Pinot. “Come upstairs,” she murmured. “I haven’t a flat mate. And I don’t—” she hiccupped again “—I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

He swore under his breath. Her fingers were caressing his hair, and it was getting harder, in more ways than one, to refuse.

“You’re a lovely girl, Miss Dashwood, and your offer’s very tempting; but I have to decline.”

“Decline? But…why?” she asked, bewildered. “Don’t you want to have sex with me? Doesn’t anyone want to have sex with me?” she wailed.

He met Natalie’s wide grey eyes. “Believe me, I’d like nothing better,” he murmured. “But,” he added firmly as he untangled her arms once again from his neck, “that’s the last thing you need tonight. Trust me.”

“Never trust a man who says ‘trust me’,” she mumbled. “Grandfather taught me that.”

“Your grandfather’s a very wise man. Come on, inside with you. Let’s go.”

“Won’t you at least kiss me goodnight?” she asked forlornly, her words softly slurred.

“No.” He put his hands on her arms. “You need a good night’s sleep. You’ll thank me in the morning. Now come along, put your arm around my waist, there’s a good girl.”

And with that, he helped her up the stairs to her flat – really, Natalie thought, the bloody stairs had a mind of their own tonight – unlocked her door, bade her a polite good night, and turned to leave.

Suddenly her sister’s dog shot out the door, a tiny white ball of lightning intent on escape, and made for the stairway.

“Nigella!” she cried, and lurched after her. “My sister Caro’s dog,” she explained breathlessly. “I’m dog-sitting.”

“Got her,” Gordon said, and bent down to grab the teacup-sized ball of fluff as she darted past. She sank her tiny teeth into the fleshy bit between his thumb and forefinger. “Shit!” He dropped her, and she promptly took a wee on his shoe.

Nat gasped, horrified, and picked her up. “Nigella!”

“Have you a towel?” he asked evenly as he eyed his dripping shoe.

“Of course.” She led him inside the flat and returned a moment later with a rumpled, coffee-stained tea towel.

He wiped his shoe and returned the towel. “Thanks. Now I really must go, before you – or your sister’s dog – destroy another article of my clothing.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said again, her eyes luminous and wide as she met his gaze, “I really am—”

“Forget it.” He turned away, his expression unreadable. “It’s been…memorable, Miss Dashwood. Goodnight.”

Dazed, Natalie blinked at the empty doorway. Crikey, but she felt awful. First his shirt, then his shoe…yet he’d been quite decent about it all. She brightened. She’d ask grandfather to send a cheque to cover the damages. Except…she didn’t know Mr. Gordon’s proper name, much less his address.

“Wait!” she cried again, and dashed into the hall to run after him. She paused unsteadily at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Gordon – wait! I don’t even know your first name!”

But the roar of his motorbike engine, fading rapidly away into the night, told her that he was already gone.

Chapter 3

The blare of the alarm clock woke Natalie from a deep sleep on Monday morning. She opened her eyes – ugh, felt like they were glued shut – and rolled over to turn off the alarm. It was 8:15 a.m.

Bloody hell.

The Dashwood and James board meeting grandfather wanted her to attend started at nine. She had less than forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and make her way to Knightsbridge from Ladbroke Grove in London rush-hour traffic.

Bloody, bloody hell…

She picked up her phone and called a minicab. In twenty minutes flat she showered, dressed, flung some dog kibble into a dish for Nigella, and thrust her feet in a pair of Prada pumps.

“Where to, love?” the driver asked as she rushed down the steps of the mansion flat and flung the door open. Despite his best efforts, they didn’t reach Sloane Street until nearly an hour later.

“Thanks.” Natalie flung a twenty-pound note at him, slammed the door, and ran up the steps into Dashwood and James’ flagship store. She glanced at her wristwatch. Between traffic and roadwork delays, she was twenty-seven minutes late.

“Good morning, Miss Natalie,” Henry the lift operator greeted her as he slid back the private car’s door. “Fourth floor?”

“Yes, thanks, Henry. Is everyone here for the meeting?”

“Oh, yes, everyone, including the new chap. The one,” Henry added darkly, “what’s supposed to save D&J’s bacon.”

“What’s he like?” Natalie asked him curiously.

He drew his bushy silver brows together. “He didn’t say much. Kept himself to himself, if you know what I mean.”

On the fourth floor, which was given over to offices and conference rooms, Henry slid back the elaborate turn-of-the-century lift door for her and touched the tip of his cap. “Here we are, Miss Natalie. Best of luck to you.”

“Thanks, Henry. I’ve a feeling I’ll need it.”

As she approached the closed conference room door and eased it open, Natalie was desperate for an aspirin. Her head was pounding. But she hadn’t anything but a petrified cough drop.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologised as the door swung open. “I didn’t hear the alarm—”

When she caught sight of the man standing at the head of the conference table, Natalie’s voice trailed away. Her eyes widened in mingled dismay and horror.

Oh, blimey, no. It couldn’t be.

He had darkish blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a Thomas Pink shirt, obviously a different one today, because this one was striped, without a wine stain. And he most definitely didn’t reek of second-hand Pinot Noir or dog wee.

Natalie cringed inwardly. To think that only last night she’d twined her arms around his neck, pressed herself shamelessly against him, and begged him to have sex with her.

“Natalie,” Sir Richard said, “allow me to introduce our new Operations Manager, Rhys Gordon.”

Mortification swept over her as their eyes met. Rhys Gordon rescued companies from the brink of financial ruin and turned them back into the black. He was famously good at what he did. Photos and articles about him appeared regularly in the business pages of newspapers and magazines, and occasionally in the tabloids as well.

Natalie bit back a groan. She’d thrown herself at Mr. Gordon, grandfather’s newly hired Operations Manager, like a cheap slapper.

Just let me die now…

Gordon’s expression gave nothing away. “You’re late.” He levelled a dark blue gaze on her. “The meeting started half an hour ago.”

“Sorry.” She wasn’t, not really. She hated meetings and hated apologising, but needs must. Natalie glanced at him, noting distractedly that his eyes were a deep and penetrating blue, and shrugged. “I overslept. I had a—” she flushed “—a bit of a late night last night.”

The men at the conference table – Ian Clarkson, Alexa’s husband, actually winked at her, the cheeky bastard – pushed back their chairs and rose as Natalie rounded the table and kissed her grandfather, Sir Richard Dashwood, on his papery cheek.

“Next time, Miss Dashwood,” Rhys said sharply, “you’ll get here on time. Or you can bloody well stay home.”

Natalie bristled. So, the media stories about Mr. Gordon were true. He had a reputation for being abrasive, arrogant, and impatient…and those were his good qualities. Nor did his expertise come cheap. But he was said to be worth every penny.

If you didn’t stab him with the nearest letter-opener first, she reflected grimly.

“My granddaughter usually gives these board meetings a wide berth, Mr. Gordon,” Sir Richard informed him. He gave Natalie a look of mild reproof. “You’re lucky she showed up at all.”

“It’s no matter to me if she shows up or not,” Rhys responded. His gaze locked with Natalie’s. “But if she cares anything about saving the family business, I’d suggest she take a more active interest going forward.”

“This store is my birthright, Mr. Gordon,” she retorted. “It’s been in the Dashwood family for 150 years. Whilst you,” she added tartly, “are merely an employee.”

His eyes narrowed, but he turned away and said, “We’ve a lot of ground to cover, gentlemen. Sit down, Miss Dashwood, so we can get back to the matter at hand.”

Alastair James gestured Natalie into a seat. “Rhys was just about to discuss his findings as a mystery shopper.”

“Mystery shopper?” Natalie echoed. With a sense of impending doom, she sank down next to Alastair. “Do you mean to say Mr. Gordon pretended to be a store customer?”

“That’s exactly what he means.” Rhys looked at her the way the devil must eye a new arrival to Hell. “I’ve visited all of the store’s departments recently to assess our customer relations. You’re just in time for my report.”

Her heart sank into her Prada pumps. She remembered she’d been particularly rude to that bloke in the Barbour jacket on Saturday. She only hoped he hadn’t lodged a complaint. But even if he had, perhaps – she cast a sidewise glance at Rhys Gordon – perhaps the new Operations Manager wouldn’t mention it.

“First,” Gordon began, “I want to address the issues I encountered in the lingerie department. My treatment was abysmal,” he said as his hard blue gaze met Natalie’s, “in every respect.”

“Your treatment?” she squeaked. She sat up straighter as she realised with dawning horror that he was the customer she’d waited on. She hadn’t recognised him, dressed in his Barbour jacket and jeans. No wonder he’d worn those sunglasses! Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Not only was my sales clerk rude and unhelpful,” he went on, “she encouraged me to shop elsewhere; carried on a personal conversation on her mobile, which, by the way, is forbidden on the sales floor, refused to wrap my purchase, and—” he paused for the maximum effect “—when I left, told me she looked forward to my next visit, like the plague…or her next gyno exam.”

Several gasps went round the table, the loudest one being Natalie’s own.

“Who was this cheeky little madam?” Sir Richard demanded, outraged. “I shall have her sacked at once!”

“Oh, you don’t want to sack anyone, grandfather,” Natalie said hastily, before Rhys could respond. “It’s the holidays, after all! You know, good will to men. And women. And perhaps,” she added as she glared at the new OM, “the sales clerk was having a bad day. She might even have been a bit hung over.”

“If customers in this store are treated the way I was, Miss Dashwood,” Gordon retorted, “then it’s no wonder that Dashwood and James is losing its arse. And if nothing is done to remedy the situation, it bloody well deserves to lose its arse.”

Chapter 4

Sir Richard slapped his age-spotted hand on the conference table and leaned forward to glare at Rhys, seated at the opposite end of the table.

“We’re all agreed that something must be done,” Sir Richard snapped. “But what, precisely? Can you tell us that?”

Rhys eyed him. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Sir Richard, but financially, your stores are in the crapper. Unless you take cost-cutting measures at once, doors will have to close. Jobs will be lost. Is that what you want?”

“Certainly not,” Alastair interjected. “That’s why we hired you.”

Sir Richard’s scowl deepened as he flipped through the pages of Rhys’s business plan. “You want to get rid of the children’s wear department.”

“Sell children’s clothing online,” Rhys said. “You’ll save on operating costs and better utilise your floor space.”

The assorted executives and board members ranged around the table gave cautious nods; a few of them shifted uneasily in their seats. Sir Richard was notoriously resistant to change. Would he listen to reason from the new OM?

Not bloody likely.

“We’ve got to increase the advertising budget,” Rhys went on. “Dashwood and James need more visibility on television and radio, and in the print media as well.”

“Bah!” Sir Richard snorted. “Waste of money.”

“At the very least,” Rhys continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “you’ll need to refurbish the flagship store and increase publicity…or you’ll never climb out of the red.”

“And where is all this money to come from?” Sir Richard demanded.

“From better use of the money you have.” Rhys threw his pen down. “Make maximum use of your retail floor space, offer a wider range of merchandise, make the departments more inviting, and dwell time will increase.”

Natalie frowned. “‘Dwell time?’” she echoed.

“The time a customer spends on the selling floor. Currently, it’s barely twenty minutes. That’s abysmal.”

Sir Richard gave a derisive snort. “What is it you want us to do, Mr. Gordon? Cut, or spend?”

“Both.” Rhys stood and swept a challenging glance around the table. “The flagship store needs an update.” Cautious nods all around. “To do so won’t come cheap. We’ll cut expenses elsewhere—” he lifted a folder filled with a thick sheaf of papers “—for example, shut down that antiquated lift—”

“What? You can’t do that!” Natalie gasped, horrified. “Henry’s operated that lift for fifty years!”

“Indeed?” Rhys said, and raised his brow. “Then that’s twenty years too long, Miss Dashwood. The man is nearing eighty. He should be retired.”

“And you plan to decide that for him, do you?” she shot back.

“There’s a perfectly good, modern lift in the middle of the store.” His words were steely. “Using the original is expensive, probably unsafe – and pointless, as well.”

At the thought of Henry – so proud of his uniform and cap – being made redundant, Natalie stood up. “I won’t allow it!”

“Sit down, Miss Dashwood,” Rhys snapped. “We’ll discuss this offline, after the meeting.”

She glared at him. “You can be sure we will, Mr. Gordon.” She sat back down, quivering with outrage.

He returned his attention to the men ranged around the table. “Now, gentlemen, as to the store’s return policy—”

“What’s wrong with the return policy?” Sir Richard barked. “It’s worked perfectly well for all these years.”

“It’s too generous,” Rhys retorted. He threw the folder down before him like a gauntlet. “Any return is accepted, no matter how long since its purchase, even without a receipt. That’s madness. The company’s haemorrhaging money it can’t afford to lose.”

“Nonsense—”

“I recommend that after thirty days’ time, or if the customer has no receipt, we no longer accept returns or exchanges.”

A hush fell over the conference table. Only the muted sounds of London traffic four storeys below broke the silence. Implementing a change of this magnitude to the generous and longstanding Dashwood and James return policy was blasphemy.

Sir Richard leaned forward, his face flushed. “What’s to make our stores stand out if we do away with our return policy?”

“Quality,” Rhys responded. “Excellent customer service, and good value for money.” His gaze swept the table. “The fact is, Dashwood and James have become irrelevant. We can’t hope to compete with Selfridges or Marks and Spencer unless we update the store and, more importantly, update its image. If you aren’t willing to do that, gentlemen—” he reached out to take up his folder, his face set “—then I’ll leave you to it.”

Silence greeted his words.

“Gordon’s right.” Alastair eyed the men ranged round the table. “We can’t move forward if we cling to the past. Sir Richard, if you’re in accord, I suggest we take a vote on the matter.”

Ten minutes later, it was settled.

“The ‘ayes’ have it,” Alastair announced. “George, please note that there was one ‘nay’.”

Everyone looked at Natalie. She pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up in defiance.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Gordon said. “You’ve made the right decision.”

Natalie snorted.

“Have you anything to add, Miss Dashwood?” Rhys crossed his arms against his chest and met her eyes. “The floor is yours.”

She glared, but shook her head. What was the point?

He turned back to the other board members. “We’ve a lot of work ahead. I’ll want your input. I need viable suggestions for improvement when we re-convene tomorrow morning.”

The men rose. One by one they filed out and murmured their goodbyes to Natalie. She smiled, despite the renewed throbbing in her head, and waited until no one was left.

No one, that was, except Rhys Gordon.

Fury swept over her anew, and she stood up and launched into him. “Henry will be devastated if he loses his job, Mr. Gordon. Everyone adores him. He’s a fixture here at Dashwood and James, and so is that bloody lift!”

“I see. Are you quite finished?” he asked evenly.

Natalie blinked. “Well…yes, I suppose I am.” She frowned. “Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” He tossed the folder he held onto the table. “Henry often takes customers to the wrong floor; he can barely see. We’ve had complaints, and they’ll only increase if something isn’t done. If he retires, he’ll receive a generous pension. If he stays, we’ll find him a job in the office. I’ll let Henry decide.” He folded his arms against his chest. “Does that meet with your approval, madam?”

“I suppose,” she said, grudgingly. Her eyes narrowed. “You knew who I was when you bought that nightgown from me on Saturday, didn’t you? And you knew last night.”

He didn’t look up as he began thrusting papers into another folder. “Yes, on both counts.” He glanced up. “I saw the wine in your hand and the murderous look in your eye when Dominic made his announcement. So I did the only thing I could, and put myself in front of you.”

“You stepped in front of Dominic on purpose? Why, in sod’s name? I ruined your suit!”

“Because, my dear, clueless girl, there was a photographer from the Mirror behind you, and one from Hello! on the side, waiting to snap publicity shots of Dominic and Keeley. How would it have looked if you’d doused them both with Pinot?”

Natalie flushed. “Not good,” she said in a small voice.

“I don’t want Dashwood and James immersed in a lawsuit. Bad press is the last thing we need right now.”

Natalie sank into one of the high-backed chairs. Her head pounded like the drums at Salamanca. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognise you at the party,” she murmured. “I should’ve done.”

“You might have, if you weren’t so trolleyed…or if you ever read the business section of a newspaper.”

Natalie bit her lip. “Do you suppose we could just…forget about last night?”

“If that’s what you want.” He gathered up his things, his face unreadable.

Natalie studied him through her lashes. The tabloids said he was a womaniser who could turn on the charm whenever he chose. Not that she’d seen any evidence of that so far…

“Tell me – are things at Dashwood and James really so bad?”

“Honestly? They’re worse. There’s a long, uphill climb ahead if we have any hope of re-establishing profitability.”

Her eyes widened. “That sounds serious, indeed.”

“It is. Sir Richard wouldn’t have brought me on, otherwise.”

“Do you really think,” she asked, scepticism plain on her face, “that you can drag Dashwood and James, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century?”

As his gaze met Natalie’s, Rhys couldn’t help but notice her wide grey eyes, liberally fringed with thick dark lashes.

“I do. And I will.” He forced his attention back on the remaining papers scattered on the table before him. “It won’t happen overnight, of course, and it won’t be easy. But it can be done.”

“And you’re just the man to do it, are you?”

“I am.” He regarded her with one brow lifted. “Whether you believe that or not is strictly up to you.”

“I don’t believe things are as bad as you say.”

“Profits are down by sixty-one percent, Miss Dashwood. I can show you the figures. And as I stated in the meeting, the average dwell time in the stores is less than twenty minutes.”

“How much should it be?” she asked, curious.

Rhys slid a folder into his briefcase. “Ideally, forty-five minutes to an hour. That’s why Sir Richard needs me.”

“Quite sure of yourself, are you?” The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable.

“I know what needs to be done.” Rhys snapped his briefcase shut. “And I’ll do it…with the board’s approval, of course.”

There was a knock on the conference room door, and Gemma, Rhys’s newly assigned personal assistant, strode in. “Mr. Gordon, I have the tabloids you wanted.” She flicked a glance at Natalie. “Miss Dashwood.”

“Gemma.” Wearing a black sheath dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, Gemma Astley was attractive, well-groomed, and terrifyingly efficient.

As Gemma handed Rhys a neatly fanned-out assortment of tabloids, Natalie felt a sudden flicker of unease. She remembered the white glare of flashbulbs last night when Dominic had announced his engagement to Keeley.

Her unease increased. Surely they hadn’t got any photos of her last night? As Gemma left, Natalie came around the table beside Rhys and peered over his shoulder…

…and wished for the second time that day that she could die. Or disappear into the floor – whichever came first.

She and Rhys were splashed on the front pages of the red-tops – the Daily Mirror, the Sun, and the Star among them. Natalie’s photographs, thank God, looked OK. No melting mascara, no wildly smeared lipstick.

The headlines, however, were another story.

She let out a sharp breath as Rhys flicked through the Sun. ‘Rhys Gordon’s Latest Takeover’ read one headline, above a photo of Rhys with his face close to hers. Another image, this one featuring Natalie tossing her wine at Rhys’s shirt, was captioned, ‘Ex Marks the Spot!’

But worst was the photo of Rhys, his hand resting low on Natalie’s back as they left the party, headlined, ‘Gordon and Dashwood – Spreadsheets, or Bed Sheets?’

Natalie squealed in outrage, then grabbed the Daily Mail from Rhys and began to read aloud. “Rhys Gordon, hired to rescue the troubled Dashwood and James department stores, attended a Holland Park soirée Friday evening, along with Sir Richard Dashwood’s granddaughter, Natalie.

“Dominic Heath, Ms. Dashwood’s pop star ex-boyfriend, announced his engagement to Keeley, ex-wife and former lead singer for The Tarts. Unfortunately, ‘Ex’ did not mark the spot for Natalie…

“Gordon stepped between the pair and got a chest full of Pinot Noir for his trouble. Sorry, Ms. Dashwood, but Gordon prefers his wine, like his women, of a more mature vintage…”

She flung the paper down. “This is a bloody nightmare! Everyone’ll think we’re having an affair!”

Rhys shrugged, unperturbed. “The publicity will generate interest, not just in us, but in Dashwood and James. And that’s what we want.”

“It’s not what I want! And there is no us! This is awful!”

“Lesson number one,” Rhys said. “There’s good publicity, and bad. You want to get as much of the first as you can and as little of the second as possible.”

“But I don’t want Dominic – and all of London – thinking we’re an item!”

“Why? Are you worried that Dominic will believe it’s true? He dumped you, if you recall, in a very public way.”

She glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me. And no, I don’t care what Dom thinks. It’s just…I hope grandfather doesn’t see this. He’ll think that I…that we…” her words trailed off.

“Your grandfather may be old, but he’s shrewd, Miss Dashwood. He’ll see this for what it is – media speculation, nothing more.” Rhys smiled slightly. “Don’t forget lesson number one – good publicity is always preferable to bad.”

She resisted the urge to clutch at her hammering head. “And what’s lesson number two?”

He eyed her pale face. “That the best cure for a hangover is a good fry-up. Unless I miss my guess, you’re hung over.”

“I don’t have a drink problem, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, defensively.

“I think you’ve had a lousy couple of days.” He took her arm. “It’s nearly noon, so you’ll have to make do with lunch instead. Come on. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

Chapter 5

Rhys took Natalie to an Italian restaurant around the corner. “Two house salads and two orders of lasagna,” Rhys told the waiter when they were seated. He glanced at Natalie inquiringly. “What will you have to drink?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, irritated. “Why don’t you order that for me, as well?”

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine.” He leaned forward, completely unrepentant, and added, “The lasagna’s very good, but get whatever you like.”

“I’ll have the lasagna,” she told the waiter, ignoring Rhys’s smirk as she handed back her menu, “and water with lemon, please.”

“Tell me about yourself,” he prompted, and fixed that intense blue gaze on her. “Where did you go to school, what sort of jobs have you had?”

She raised her hand to stop the flow of questions. “Blimey! Is this an interview? I thought you wanted to talk about the store.”

“I do. But I want to understand why you’re not more involved. Sir Richard tells me you have a dual degree in business and marketing. Why not use it?”

Natalie shrugged. “The store was always grandfather’s thing. I worked there when I was a teenager, on holidays and during the summer.”

“What did you do?”

“What didn’t I do? I worked the perfume counter, and ladies’ shoes. I manned the till, or answered phones and filed paperwork when grandfather’s secretary was out, and I unpacked and shelved merchandise in the stockroom.”

“Did you plan any events for Dashwood and James?”

She shook her head. “Grandfather says store events are costly, and a waste of time.”

“He’s wrong. Dashwood and James are in dire need of some public relations magic right now.”

The waiter brought their salads, heaped with shaved Parmesan and fragrant with basil and oregano. Rhys speared a forkful of greens. “What are you doing now? When you’re not attending soirées in Holland Park, that is.”

“Oh, the usual,” she replied airily. “Christening ships, cutting ribbons – just another day in the exciting life of a department store heiress.” She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap.

He smiled slightly. “Fair enough, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did.” She took a bite of salad. “I took a gap year after uni to travel. I do some charity work, and I help mum with the odd church boot sale…” Her voice trailed away. “But I don’t – work, at the moment.” As she said the words aloud, Natalie felt, suddenly, a bit ashamed. Defensively she added, “I’m not really the nine-to-five type.”

The truth was, she didn’t do anything useful, or clever. She couldn’t knit, or decoupage, or balance spreadsheets, or play the guitar. Ever since she’d met Dominic, she’d drifted along in his wake. Her gap year had stretched into two. And now, she began to realise what a waste most of it had been.

But she’d never, ever admit as much to Rhys.

“I see. So how do you fill your time?” he inquired.

“Well…I weekend with friends in the country, and I go on tour with Dominic – not now, obviously – and I shop—”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his seat and eyed her, his gaze inscrutable. “Judging from the bills pouring in from every boutique and department store in London, shopping is an art form you’ve mastered admirably well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Natalie demanded.

“It means your spending is out of control. It’ll have to stop. And as for Dominic—”He paused. “It’s a good job that he dumped you. He’s destructive and irresponsible.”

“He’s an artist,” she said in his defense. “He’s temperamental—”

“Temperamental?” Rhys echoed, incredulous. “He’s a bloody nightmare! And he treats you like crap, yet you defend him.”

“Dominic can be incredibly sweet.”

“So can ethylene glycol,” Rhys retorted, “but it’ll kill you, just the same.” He paused as the waiter delivered their entrees. He lifted a forkful of lasagna to her lips. “Here, try this.”

Startled, she tasted it. “Oh,” she admitted, and wiped a bit of sauce from her mouth, “that’s really good.”

“You won’t find better anywhere in London. As to Dominic,” he added, “I suggest you avoid him. And watch your behaviour when you’re in public.”

She bristled. “My behaviour? Why, for heaven’s sake? I’m not a member of the royal family!”

“No.” He leaned forward. “But you’re in the public eye. You never know when a photographer might be around, or someone with a camera phone. You need to behave with the utmost decorum, especially now. After all, stories about our alleged affair are already all over the tabloids.”

“Crikey,” Natalie exclaimed as she flung down her napkin, “that’s hardly my fault, is it? Am I doing anything right? You’ve done nothing but criticise me! My behaviour, my spending habits, my relationships—”

“You’re a smart girl who’s been sheltered from your family’s financial problems – and life in general – for far too long. That’s probably not your fault.”

“Well, thank you for that—” she sputtered.

“—but it’s time you learned what we’re dealing with. Things can’t go on as they have.” He studied her. “I’m here to help your family, Natalie. I’m not the enemy.”

“Yes, you were brought on to help Dashwood and James,” Natalie agreed, stung by his criticism, “so I suggest you stick to your hire agreement, and do your job. But my behaviour – and my relationship with Dom – is none of your bloody business!”

Rhys threw down his own napkin. “I don’t give a shit about your relationship with that guitar-smashing fuckwit,” he snapped. “It’s your life; throw it away however – and with whomever – you wish. But I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from making yourself the next four-colour photo op in the Daily Mail…for the store’s sake, if not your own.”

She blinked, outraged. “How dare you! You have no right—”

“I haven’t time to waste discussing your messy personal life, Miss Dashwood. I’ve better things to do, like trying to keep your grandfather’s stores solvent. Because the truth is,” he added coldly, “some of us actually do have to work for a living.”

Natalie blinked, too astonished to speak. The diners nearest to them had gone quiet; even the clink of silverware had ceased. Mortification washed over her as she realised they’d heard every outrageous word Rhys said to her.

“You can run grandfather’s company however you like, Mr. Gordon,” Natalie said, her voice unsteady as she pushed her chair back. “But you won’t run me. I’m not one of your projects, and I don’t need advice on how to conduct my messy life – particularly not from a rude, arrogant prat like you. So you can just – fuck right off!” She let out a single, hiccupping sob and fled.

Chapter 6

As she emerged on the street, fury catapulted her forward. She scrabbled in her handbag for her sunglasses and thrust them on. Her head was pounding and her thoughts were in turmoil.

She pondered various ways to kill Rhys Gordon. Which would be more satisfying – a slow, torturous death, or something quick and violent? Tough call, that…

“Natalie!” someone shouted behind her. “Is it true you’re having an affair with Rhys Gordon?”

Suddenly she was surrounded by paparazzi, jostling one another as they thrust microphones and cameras in her face. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“Will Rhys turn the company round, or is Dashwood and James past redemption?”

“Tell us, Natalie – is Gordon as hard-driving in bed as he is in the boardroom?”

“No comment,” she managed, flustered. She began to tremble. Thank God she had sunglasses on; if they saw her tears, they’d probably say she’d had a lovers’ spat with Rhys!

“What does Dominic Heath think of your new boyfriend?”

“Rhys Gordon is not my new boyfriend!” Natalie sputtered. “He’s not my boyfriend at all!”

Suddenly Rhys appeared, thrusting his way through the crowd of reporters, and took possession of her arm.

“Is it true, Rhys?” a female reporter for the Mirror called out. “Are you and Natalie an item, or not?”

“What does Miss Dashwood say?” he countered, unperturbed.

“She says you’re not.”

He glanced at Natalie, his expression unreadable. “Then we’re not.” He turned back to the reporters. “Now bugger off, the lot of you.”

Shaken, she let Rhys draw her away. “Thanks,” she murmured, and cast a hunted look over her shoulder as the media hounds dispersed to return to their cars and news vans to sniff out a story elsewhere. “They came out of nowhere. Even after two years with Dom, I still hate it.”

Reporters had often waited outside Dom’s townhouse in Primrose Hill, hoping for a quote or a photograph. It was a nuisance; but it went with the territory when you dated a pop star.

No, far worse was the débâcle with her father when she was a child. Journalists had loitered at the gates to her family’s Warwickshire home for days, bristling with microphones and cameras, and shouted rapid-fire questions at the car as mum drove past, questions ten-year-old Natalie hadn’t understood.

But at least mum had shielded her and her sister Caro from the worst of it…

Natalie realised that Mr. Gordon had spoken. She looked up at him with a guilty start. “I’m sorry, what?”

He raised a brow. “You were a million miles away. Are you all right?”

She nodded. “A bit shaken, that’s all. I’m fine.”

“You never really get used to it,” he observed, and walked beside her as they headed back to Sloane Street. “The media, that is. You learn to handle them,” Rhys said, “and you learn to be firm. That’s the only thing they understand.”

She gave him a sidewise glance. “Spoken like someone who’s been there.”

“I have, more than once.” A shadow passed over his face, gone as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry if I was a bit hard on you in the restaurant.”

“It’s all right.” She added, “It won’t be easy to turn Dashwood and James around, you know.”

“Believe me, I know.” His words were grim. “The store’s finances are a bloody mess, and I’ve a lot of work ahead to get things sorted. But I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you. I apologise.”

“Sorry I told you to fuck off.”

Rhys smiled briefly. “Forget it. If you’ve time when we get back, Miss Dashwood, I’ll show you a couple of spreadsheets to demonstrate how bad things really are.”

Natalie groaned. “I despise spreadsheets, truly. But I suppose I could fit it in. I haven’t any ships to christen at the moment.”

As they rounded the corner onto Sloane Street, Natalie was conscious of his hand at her back. She realised that her headache was gone.

“Shit.” Rhys slowed his pace. Several reporters waited outside the store. “Normally I’d deal with them, but I haven’t time today. Come on, we’ll slip in the back entrance.”

But they’d been spotted. With a couple of shouts, the journos abandoned the front steps and pelted after them.

Natalie, her hand gripped tightly in Rhys’s, ran with him around the corner and gasped, “This is crazy!”

As they ducked into the store’s service lift, Rhys glanced back at her. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Well, we’re being chased by the paparazzi…your famous ex-boyfriend is engaged to his ex-wife…and you and I are the featured story in every red-top in London.”

Nat shrugged. “Oh, well – being papped goes with the territory when you date a celebrity. And Keeley and Dominic? They deserve each other. He never got over her, you know.” She smirked. “Or losing access to the masses of money she makes.”

As they stepped off the service lift to the fourth floor, Natalie checked her mobile. There were four messages from her mum, one from her sister Caro, and one from…Ian Clarkson? How did he get her number? “I’ve got to check my messages,” she told Rhys with a frown. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t be long,” he cautioned. “My meeting’s in twenty minutes.”

She nodded, already listening to her messages.

Bleep. “It’s mum. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight? I’ve hardly seen you lately.”

Bleep. “I don’t know what’s going on,” her mother began ominously, “but reporters are outside, armed with cameras and microphones. I can’t leave the house! Please call me.”

Bleep. “Sarah Hadley called to say you and Rhys Gordon are all over the tabloids! You’re not sleeping with that man…? I don’t care what you’re doing, Natalie, call me at once!”

Bleep. “I’m turning the hose on those reporters. This is insufferable! The answer machine is clogged with messages from every tabloid in London.” Natalie heard the hissing sound of spraying water, and a chorus of muffled shouts, then her mum cried triumphantly, “Take that, you lot!”

Natalie groaned. Poor mum. There was no time to call and explain now; she’d call back after the meeting with Rhys. Bleep. “I’m on my way to fetch Nigella,” Caro chirped. “Thanks, Natty! Love you.”

Finally, she scrolled to the last message. Ian Clarkson.

Bleep. “Natalie, Ian here.” He paused. “Call me. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

Ian was married, his wife Alexa expecting their first child, yet each time he saw Natalie, he asked her, in that suggestive, smarmy way of his, to lunch or drinks. She always turned him down. She had no doubt that his message was more of the same. Without hesitation, she deleted it.

Ian was trouble she didn’t need. Or want.

She hurried back to Rhys’s office. Just outside his door, she paused. He was talking to someone on the phone.

“—the tabloids? No, there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James.”

Natalie blinked. Every tabloid in Britain was running the story of her ‘affair’ with Rhys; reporters had badgered her, and brought up bad memories, and besieged her mum’s house; and Rhys Gordon thought it made for ‘great publicity?’ Her fingers tightened on her mobile.

“The stores need every ounce of attention they can get,” Rhys went on. “What better way to grab the headlines than an ‘affair’ with Sir Richard’s granddaughter, Natalie?”

Fury swept over her. How dare Rhys use her like this, like some kind of – of media catnip? Why, the opportunistic, manipulative little prat—

“Attractive?” Rhys said into the phone. “Yes, very. But she’s not my type,” he added dismissively. “As to what she’s like…well, you’d have to ask the boyfriend, Dominic.” He let out a throaty chuckle. “Probably a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…”

Her cheeks flaming with mortification, Natalie stood rooted to the spot.

When she’d flung the wine at Dominic, Rhys Gordon had stepped in to save the day – not to avoid publicity, but to guarantee it.

It all made perfect sense. She remembered how he’d offered to take her home, how he’d leaned his head close to hers when they spoke, and put his hand on her back when he walked her outside. He’d demonstrated such concern for her…

.…all for the benefit of the bloody photographers.

Natalie turned to go. She left, glad Gemma wasn’t at her desk, and blinked back tears of anger and humiliation.

“Natalie?” Gemma called out behind her. “Were you looking for me?”

She paused to collect herself before she turned around. “Yes. Would you tell Mr. Gordon that I can’t stay? I had a call…my mother…something’s come up.”

“Is everything all right?” Gemma asked as she came closer, her face etched with concern. “You look upset.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” And before her tears could give proof to the lie, she fled.

Chapter 7

When Natalie came downstairs, she saw reporters loitering outside the front doors. They were as persistent – and irritating – as midges. Thrusting her sunglasses on, she detoured once again to the back service entrance and peered cautiously out. No one was in sight.

Halfway down the alley to her car, Natalie heard a shout behind her.

“Natalie! Where’s Rhys? Is it true you’re seeing each other?”

“How do you feel about Dominic and Keeley’s engagement? Give us a quote, love!”

She flung herself inside the car and slammed the door, then gunned the engine. Her heart pounded as she threw the Peugeot in gear and screeched out onto Sloane Street, narrowly missing a taxicab in the process. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Thankfully, no one followed her.

Natalie found a parking spot on a side street and let out a ragged breath. Bloody media! What she needed was someone to talk to. Someone calm and sensible…

She grabbed her mobile and scrolled to Sir Richard’s private number. “I need to see you, grandfather,” she said without preamble when he answered. “Right now.” Her voice wobbled. “Thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Cherie James peeled the last potato, ready to add it to the others arranged around the roast, when the phone rang. “Yes?”

“Hullo, darling, it’s me.”

“Alastair,” Cherie said as she eyed the roast, “don’t tell me you’re working late again. You promised to be home in time for dinner tonight—”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But Gordon wants ideas to improve our bottom line, and he wants them by tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll get home. Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t worry,” Cherie said tightly as she put the roast in the Aga and slammed the oven door, “I won’t.” The meat would taste like a boot by the time Alastair finally sat down to eat.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “We’ll go to that new French restaurant you’ve wanted to try. I’ll make reservations for Saturday night when I hang up.”

Despite her anger, she relented. “All right,” she said finally. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that you’re always staying late. I’m bloody sick of my own company.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But at least Hannah’s there.”

“Another year and she’ll be off to university.” Then what would she do? Cherie wondered, and fought back the sudden rise of despair. “I miss you,” she added softly. “I miss us.”

“As do I, darling.” He paused. “Look, if I push it, I might finish up by ten o’clock. Wait for me?”

“Of course. I’ll see you then.”

She rang off and wondered, not for the first time, if Alastair was having an affair. But as quickly as the idea occurred, she discarded it. He wasn’t that sort of man. Besides, if anyone was entitled to have an affair, Cherie reflected irritably, she was. Putting up with Alastair’s late hours, worrying about their daughters, what with Holly living on her own in London, and Hannah, off to uni next year—

Oh, stop, she scolded herself. You’ve a good husband and two lovely daughters who’ve never given you a moment’s trouble. You’ve nothing to worry about.

She took out the flour and sugar and decided to make a treacle tart for dessert.

Affairs were for other people, after all. Not for people like Alastair and her.

Miraculously, there were no reporters outside Sir Richard’s townhouse when Natalie arrived. Nevertheless, she parked around the corner and made her way cautiously to the front door.

She’d barely raised her hand to knock when the door swung open. “Come in, miss, your grandfather’s expecting you.”

“Thank you, Lyons.” She smiled at Sir Richard’s butler. “Is he in the drawing room?”

“He’s in his study, miss. Would you like a drink?”

She’d like more than a drink, she’d like an entire bottle, thank you, and no need for a glass. But, “No thanks,” she said, and walked quickly to the end of the hall. Sir Richard stood before the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Grandfather,” she said in a rush as she tossed her handbag aside, “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll never believe what that awful Rhys Gordon’s done now!”

He turned away from the window and fixed a rheumy eye on her. From his desk, he picked up a copy of the Daily Mail, held it up, and asked, “Has it anything to do with this?”

A photograph was prominently featured on the cover. It was a long shot, and grainy, but it unmistakably showed Natalie standing on the pavement in front of her flat, pressed against Rhys with her arms looped around his neck. It was headlined, ‘Exclusive Photos! D&J Heiress Gives Gordon the Business’.

She grabbed it from him, shocked. “What?!”

“I read the papers every morning, and occasionally, I read the tabloids. Although today, I wish I hadn’t. You can imagine my dismay to see my granddaughter prominently displayed on the cover of this—” his lip curled in distaste “—publication.”

Natalie hurled the tabloid aside. “This is all Rhys’s fault! He engineered all of this for publicity!”

“Well, then,” Sir Richard said, “it seems he’s succeeded.”

“Is that all you can say?” she demanded. “He’s using this fake affair nonsense to get Dashwood and James in the headlines! He’s using me as tabloid fodder! At the party, he pretended to help me, after I…when I…” She faltered, and bit her lip.

“After you got drunk and threw your drink at him?” he said, his expression forbidding. “An action meant, if these stories are true, for that twit of a boyfriend of yours.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” she murmured.

“Natalie, sit down,” he commanded. “It’s time we talked.”

Grandfather rarely issued commands, most especially not to her. This was serious, indeed. She sank without a word into one of the wing chairs facing his desk.

“First of all, I know it was you Rhys referred to in the board meeting this morning,” he informed her. “It was you who treated him so shabbily. I know, because I asked you to cover for Mrs. Tuttle in the lingerie department last Saturday.”

“I was hung over—” she began.

“It doesn’t matter, Natalie,” he cut in sharply. “There’s no excuse for treating a customer – any customer – so poorly. I won’t have it.”

“But he was insufferably rude—”

“He was testing you. He wanted to see how you’d handle the situation. You failed miserably, by the way.”

“It was sneaky, what he did!”

“I may not care for his tactics, but his instincts are spot on. Nor does he avoid unpleasantness. Unlike you, Natalie, who’s avoided unpleasantness – and work – for two years.”

“That’s not fair,” Natalie protested. “I worked. I did! Well, for a bit…but I wanted to be with Dominic instead.”

“Ah, yes. Dominic.” Distaste was plain upon his face.

“I thought…I was sure I was in love with him.”

“Yes. So you followed him on tour, putting your own life on hold, and let him treat you like – pardon my vulgarity – shit.” He held up a hand as she protested. “Ever since you met him, you’ve drifted along like an unmoored ship. I allowed it, because I thought eventually you’d settle down…to something, or someone. But you haven’t. And now, this.”

“I can explain—”

“Can you indeed? Can you explain how Rhys Gordon ‘engineered’ this photo of you, pressing yourself against him with your arms round his neck?”

Natalie blushed. “I was drunk, and furious at Dominic. But nothing happened. Rhys took me home, and left.”

“Then you’re very lucky. I’m not so far past it that I don’t remember what young men can be like, especially when it comes to taking advantage of a situation. How fortunate for you that Mr. Gordon behaved like a gentleman.”

Natalie hung her head.

“Your mother called me earlier. Reporters and photographers are camped out in front of her house, ringing her telephone—”

“I know. She left me four messages.”

“Did it never occur to you to call her back?”

“I couldn’t! I had a lunch meeting with Rhys and couldn’t check my messages until this afternoon.”

Sir Richard regarded her, his expression unreadable. “I hate to say it, Natalie, but things can’t continue on as they are. You must either find employment, or settle down with a more suitable young man. I won’t allow you to throw your life away in this irresponsible manner any longer.”

She looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“You must learn to make your own way. You’ve been provided with an excellent education and every privilege a young woman could want. Natalie, I love you dearly. But I will not tolerate – or finance – your bohemian lifestyle any longer.”

“But…how will I pay the rent on my flat without my quarterly allowance? Or put petrol in my car?”

“You’ll find a job, I expect, like the rest of the world.” He paused. “You might even find that you like being useful.”

Stiffly, Natalie stood and retrieved her handbag. It was unbearable to hear grandfather echoing Rhys’s own words. “I came here because I thought you’d understand. Instead, you’re telling me you’re cutting me off unless I find a job, or a husband. Have I got the gist of it?”

“I dislike having to say these things as much as you dislike hearing them. But they must be said.”

“I feel completely blindsided,” Natalie whispered, and her throat tightened. “Dominic’s dumped me, Caro’s getting married…everyone’s getting on with their lives, doing things, building careers. Moving on…and leaving me b-behind.”

Sir Richard drew her into his arms and stroked her hair as she wept. “None of that, now. You have a lot to offer, Natalie, and it’s only yourself that’s holding you back. I know your father’s suicide gutted you. It was a terrible thing. He was my only son, you know.” He patted her back as she hiccupped out a sob. “But life – and business, unfortunately – continues. We must soldier on.”

Natalie forced a watery smile and lifted her head. “You sound like the Queen.”

“Dashwood and James are in serious trouble. We owe money – taxes, a great deal of them – and I need help to straighten out the mess. Rhys is right to implement his changes. I don’t like them any more than you do.” He sighed, and he suddenly looked like what he was, a tired old man. “But he’s our only hope.”

Then we’re in serious trouble, she thought grimly, but didn’t say it. “He asked for my help today.”

“Did he? Good. I’ll speak to him about hiring you on and putting you in that small office next to his.” He picked up the telephone. “Now, I’m ending this tabloid nonsense. I won’t have you or your mother bothered by reporters.”

Natalie kissed his papery cheek. “Thanks, grandfather. I love you masses.”

“I love you too, you cheeky girl. Run along, now.”

She paused at the study door. “I’ll need new clothes if I’m to look like a proper businesswoman, won’t I?”

He regarded her sternly. “Natalie, I’ve already allowed you to get your ‘Peony’ handbag—”

“Poppy,” she corrected him. “It’s a ‘Poppy’ handbag.”

“—but I must reiterate that we cannot afford these sorts of expenditures any longer. I’m sure you can find something suitable to wear from within your own overstuffed closet.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well. I suppose I might unearth something, even if it’s last season… It’s just so dreary, practising all this economy. I’m not used to it.”

“I know it’s difficult. But if we do our part, and live more frugally, and if Rhys Gordon makes good on his promise to turn things around, things will improve.”

“I hope you’re right.” Scepticism coloured her voice. “But you have far more faith in Mr. Gordon than I do.” She smiled and waggled her fingers. “Goodnight, grandfather.”

“Goodnight, my dear. Don’t forget your mother’s birthday luncheon in the tearoom on Monday. Eleven o’clock sharp. And don’t be late!” he called out after her.

When she’d gone, Sir Richard took a pill out of his pillbox, his hand trembling slightly, and swallowed it with a grimace. Blood pressure pills…angina pills…pills to help him sleep and pills to keep him alert. It was a dreadful thing, to have to take so many damned pills.

But as he pressed the box closed, a smile curved his lips. He would sleep well tonight, with or without his pills.

Natalie would be sorted, at last. That was one worry he could cross off his list.

Chapter 8

“Keeley,” Dominic ventured as he tossed the last carrier bag from the day’s shopping on her sofa, “how about loaning me some cash? To tide me over until the tour starts.”

“How much?”

He flung himself on the sofa. “Oh, I dunno. A couple of hundred?”

“Two hundred quid?” She shrugged and reached for her handbag. “OK.”

Dominic let out a snort. “Two hundred quid? You must be joking.” He thrust a cigarette in his mouth. “No, I meant two hundred thousand. Although I suppose,” he mused thoughtfully as he reached in his pocket for a lighter, “I could just about manage on a hundred.”

“You’re the one who must be joking!” Keeley snapped. “And put that bloody cigarette out! I told you, no smoking in here.”

With a muttered apology, he took the cigarette out, unlit, and tossed it aside. He looked at her, one brow raised expectantly. “So, what do you say?”

“Dominic, we’ve been engaged for three weeks and you want me to hand over two hundred thousand pounds, just like that?”

“Well, Porsches and ’57 Strats are expensive,” he said defensively. “And it’s not like you can’t spare it.”

“That’s not the point, is it? I’m your fiancée, not your banker!”

“We’ll be married soon,” he pointed out. “So what’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is—” he waved his hand “—whatever.”

She snorted. “Bit of a bad deal, that, since all you have are debts. You go through money like a coke addict through blow. Look, Dominic, just be more frugal. Sell one of your Porsches, and you’ve got the cash you need. Problem sorted.”

Dominic scowled. Plainly there was to be no financial aid forthcoming from the Keeley front. Fucking hell.

Late that afternoon, Cherie James heard the front door open and slam shut. She looked up from the courgette she was slicing for dinner and called out, “Hannah? Come here, please.”

There was an aggrieved sigh from the front hallway. “I’ve got masses of homework, mum—”

“Mr. Compton called,” Cherie said when Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You were late to class this morning, and yesterday as well.”

“So? I’m acing his bloody assignments—”

“Why were you late, Hannah? You left with your father in plenty of time this morning.”

“I stopped to talk to someone before class, that’s all. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal. Mr. Compton said you’ve been hanging around with Chloe Robinson.”

“What of it?”

Cherie felt her patience begin to slip. “Hannah, Chloe’s been in and out of trouble since school began. Last year she was expelled! She’s not the ideal person to spend time with.”

“Oh, so now you’re choosing my friends for me?” Hannah demanded. “You don’t even know Chloe—”

“I know she cuts class. Your attitude since you’ve been seeing her speaks for itself.” Cherie pressed her lips together. “If you’re late to class again, you’ll be grounded until school ends.”

“That’s so unfair!” Hannah erupted. “You treat me like a child! All of you – dad, Mr. Compton – even Duncan!”

“You and Duncan aren’t fighting, are you?”

“No, mum, we’re not fighting. We broke up! He dumped me. Are you happy now?” Hannah turned and stormed away up the stairs, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Cherie sighed and picked up her knife, and cut the courgette into matchsticks. Life would be easier, she reflected grimly, if Alastair were home more often. He coped with Hannah’s dramas much better than she did. Hannah was so prickly these days…

The phone rang. Probably Alastair, calling to say he’d be late again. “Hello,” she said shortly.

“Cherie? Is it a bad time?” Duncan’s father asked.

“Neil! No, of course not. I was just…brooding.”

“I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“No, just feeling a bit sorry for myself.” She paused and added, “It’s too bad about the divorce, by the way. How are you and Sarah managing?”

“Taking it day by day,” he replied. “I’ve let a flat in Fulham. Duncan’s adjusted to the changes without too much drama. I see as much of him as I can.”

“It’s difficult, I imagine. Living with a teenager isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.” Cherie sighed. “I’ve just had a row with Hannah. She and Duncan have broken it off.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling, actually.”

“I see.” She laid her knife aside. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing serious, just something I thought you ought to know.” He hesitated. “Sunday night, while you and Alastair were celebrating your anniversary, Hannah had Duncan over.”

Cherie sighed. “I don’t like the sound of this already.”

“Nothing happened. You know Duncan’s keen on his music career, so when things began to go a bit too far, he told Hannah they should wait. She was upset, and asked him to leave.”

“I see.” And suddenly, she did see. Hannah had offered herself, probably for the first time ever, and been – however tactfully – rejected. She sighed. “I’m very glad Duncan didn’t take advantage. Most boys would have done.”

“Yes, it’s usually the other way round, isn’t it?”

“You’re lucky, you know. Girls are much harder than boys to deal with at this age. I’m sure Duncan’s never given you or Sarah a moment’s trouble.”

“Oh, he has his moments. But he’s always been focused on his music, from the time he was small. It’s kept him out of trouble for the most part.”

“Hannah can’t seem to stay out of trouble, lately.”

“She’s a teenager. You’ll get through it.”

The front door opened and Alastair called out, “I’m home! Where is everyone?”

Cherie cradled the phone against her ear and picked up her knife once again. “Thanks for calling, Neil. And thanks for the advice. I’m sure you’re right.” She rang off just as her husband entered the kitchen.

“Here you are.” He kissed her. “What advice was that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “Perhaps we should let Hannah work at the store this summer. What do you think?”

“I don’t see why not. Is she in trouble?”

“She’s been late to class, twice. Ever since she broke up with Duncan, she’s been impossible.”

“I didn’t realise they’d broken up.” Alastair lifted his brow. “Shame, he’s a nice young man. If you like, I’ll speak to Sir Richard tomorrow and arrange something.”

“Yes, please do. Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up, and tell Hannah to come down.”

As he disappeared upstairs, Cherie rinsed her hands and wondered why she hadn’t told Alastair about Hannah’s failed attempt to lose her virginity, or Neil’s phone call.

Surely there was no need to trouble her husband with a litany of Hannah’s misdeeds. He had enough on his plate with the company’s finances in turmoil; he didn’t need to fret over his daughter’s budding sexuality as well.

And there was no reason for her to feel guilty for having a chat with Duncan’s father, she told herself firmly.

No reason at all.

“Why didn’t you return my messages?” Natalie’s mother reproved her at dinner that evening.

“I couldn’t, I was at lunch with Rhys Gordon. He wanted to discuss the store and the problems we’re facing.”

Celia Dashwood’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not having sex with that man, are you?”

Natalie nearly choked on her water. “Mum, honestly! No, I’m not. We don’t even like each other.”

“It looks as though you like each other well enough, judging from those photos in the tabloids.”

Natalie nudged at a bit of chicken with her fork. “It’s only publicity. And those pictures…they were taken out of context. They were innocent.”

“Innocent?” her mother echoed, and raised her brow. “Is that what you call it? You were pressed against that man in full view of the world, twined round him like a garden hose!”

Natalie dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter. “Mum, please! I can’t bear any more. It’s mortifying.”

“Oh, very well. Tell me about Rhys Gordon,” her mother said, her face alight with curiosity as she took a sip of wine. “Is he as difficult as they say?”

Natalie felt a renewed wave of humiliation as she remembered his comments to the man on the phone. “He’s worse.” She could still hear Rhys’s words, could see him leaning back in his high-backed chair, could hear his throaty chuckle as he discussed her with his friend.

Probably quite a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…

“He’s ruthless and crude and sneaky,” she went on. “I despise him.”

“My word, you make him sound dreadful, like Machiavelli,” Lady Dashwood said mildly.

“Picture Machiavelli on a motorbike, and you’re there.”

“I’m sorry I missed the board meeting, I wanted to meet him.” She glanced out the window. “At least those reporters are gone.” She stood up. “I’ll go and fetch our pudding.”

Natalie stood. “I’ll get it.” She’d do anything to escape her mother’s questions about Rhys.

As she entered the pantry and grabbed a serving spoon from the drawer, her mobile rang. She frowned. She didn’t recognise the number. She hoped it wasn’t a reporter… “Hullo?”

“Natalie? It’s Rhys.”

She froze, spoon in hand. “What do you want?”

He paused. “I called to see if everything’s all right. You never came back. Gemma said you were upset.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her words chilly. “You needn’t worry.”

“Why did you leave so suddenly?”

“Something came up. Sorry, I have to go.” She pressed ‘end call’ and set it to vibrate.

Almost immediately it began to buzz like an angry bee. Rhys again! Stubborn, pushy, awful man… Furious, Natalie tossed the mobile on one of the pantry shelves.

…there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James…

“Natalie,” her mother called out, “are you bringing the trifle?”

“Yes, sorry.” She picked up the bowl and hurried back into the dining room.

As they settled down to dessert, Natalie fumed. Rhys must’ve got her mobile number from Gemma, the interfering cow. She scowled and pushed the trifle around on her plate, creating aimless chocolate swirls on the china.

“Darling,” her mother said in exasperation as she laid her fork aside, “what’s wrong? You barely touched your dinner; now you’re playing with your trifle! Don’t you like it?”

She smiled wanly. “I love it. I just…had a difficult day.” She pushed her plate away. “I think I’ll go home and turn in early—”

The throaty roar of a motorcycle engine pulling up outside interrupted her.

Before Natalie could do more than exchange a startled glance with her mother, the doorbell rang. Then someone pounded on the door.

“Who in heaven’s name is that, and at this hour?” Celia Dashwood harrumphed. “If it’s another reporter—”

“I’ll get it,” Natalie said, her words grim. She rose and tossed her napkin down. “It’s probably Machiavelli.”

“What—?”

Nat strode to the door and flung it open. Rhys Gordon, his hand raised to knock again, stood on the doorstep. Anger suffused his face.

“I’m not leaving this doorstep,” Rhys told her with grim determination, “until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Chapter 9

Natalie glared at him. “What do you mean?” She remained in the doorway but drew the door shut behind her. “And how’d you know I was here?”

“Gemma told me. Never mind that – what the hell’s going on?” Rhys snapped. “And don’t say ‘nothing’,” he warned, “because something’s obviously wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong! And Gemma’s an interfering cow.”

“Something happened after lunch today,” he said grimly. “And whatever it was, it got your knickers in a twist.”

“Ah, yes, my knickers…that’s a subject that really fascinates you, isn’t it?” Natalie flung back. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

He stared at her. “What?”

“I heard you myself,” she accused him, “when I came back to your office. You were talking about me on the phone.”

He frowned. “I talked to my brother for a few minutes. And we didn’t talk about you…or your knickers.” He cast his mind back over their chat – football scores, Jamie’s promotion to sous chef…and Alastair James’s party. “We didn’t talk about anything objectionable. And you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” he added pointedly.

“I could hardly help but overhear you, could I? You were speculating about how good I’d be in bed! You don’t consider that objectionable?”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I know what I heard,” Natalie insisted, her voice undercut with fury. “Don’t add lying to your sins. You were so kind after Dominic dumped me at the party, you even offered to take me home. But you had an ulterior motive. You were making the most of the publicity, and you used me to do it!”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“No? How was it, then?” she demanded. “And don’t tell me it doesn’t boost your male ego, seeing photos of us in the tabloids, adding another affair to your long, sordid list—”

“It’s preferable to seeing photos of you tossing wine on Dominic Heath.”

Her lip trembled. “You used me. You knew I was drunk, and you took advantage—”

“Used you? Really?” he asked, incredulous. “Because unless you were too inebriated to remember, you asked me to have sex with you, not once, but several times.”

She squeaked in outraged mortification.

“I could’ve given you what you wanted,” Rhys went on, fuelled by his rising anger. “I could’ve shagged you in your flat, or on the Triumph, or on the pavement, for that matter—”

Natalie paled. “You’re the crudest, most disgusting man—”

“But I didn’t! I fucking well didn’t, precisely because—” he stepped closer and lowered his voice “—I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I know Dominic humiliated you at Alastair’s party.” He scowled. “And I know you think I’m a heartless bastard with no redeeming qualities. Maybe I am. But I did not take advantage of you.”

Natalie sniffed, only partially mollified. “You made it look like we were having an affair—”

“I used the situation, Natalie. Not you.” He looked at her, his eyes intense. “It was damage control. I turned what might’ve been a bad situation to advantage. I did it to protect Dashwood and James from a lawsuit, and to protect you. I won’t apologise for that. I’d do it again.”

“You told your brother I wasn’t your type.” She dropped her gaze from his and fiddled with her wristwatch. “And when he asked if I were any good in bed, you said he ought to ask Dominic. And that you imagined I was probably a…hellcat.”

To her utter amazement, he began to laugh.

“It isn’t funny!” she sputtered.

“Oh, but it is.” He shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. That’s what happens when you eavesdrop.”

“I didn’t eavesdrop!” she protested. “I couldn’t help but overhear your crude comments. Don’t deny it – I heard you.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “I did say those things, it’s true. And they weren’t very gentlemanly, I suppose.” He paused. “But I wasn’t talking about you.”

She gazed at him with mingled distrust and confusion. “You…weren’t? Who were you talking about, then?”

“Keeley.”

“Keeley,” Natalie repeated.

He nodded. “When I told Jamie that Dominic had dumped you for his ex-wife, Keeley whatsit—”

“Oh, it’s just ‘Keeley’,” Natalie supplied. “No last name. Like Madonna. Or Posh.”

“—he was over the moon with excitement that I’d seen her at the party. According to Jamie, she’s the hottest pop singer in Britain. He’s had a crush on her since he was twelve.”

She regarded him with scepticism. “You must’ve lived in a cave for the last ten years if you’ve never heard of Keeley.”

He shrugged. “I left home at seventeen. I was working, going to school at night, so I didn’t keep up with that sort of thing. I didn’t have time.”

“So…you weren’t talking about me,” Natalie said in a small voice.

“No.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have said those things about Keeley, about anyone. But I was talking to my brother, bloke to bloke.” He eyed her accusingly. “And I didn’t know you were listening.”

“Is everything all right?” Natalie’s mother inquired suspiciously as she opened the door.

“Fine,” Natalie said quickly, and turned to her mother. “Mum, this is Rhys Gordon. We were just discussing…a problem.”

Rhys leaned forward and thrust out his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Dashwood.”

“Mr. Gordon.” She took his hand in her best queenly manner and cast Natalie a keen glance. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“None of it good, I’m sure,” he said equably.

“Very little,” she agreed. “But I prefer to make up my own mind. I’m sorry I missed the board meeting. Please, come in. I’ve just made coffee.”

He shook his head. “Thank you, I can’t stay. I’m working tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow’s Saturday!” Natalie objected.

“Yes, and the offices are closed. But I’ve a lot to tackle and I get more done when no one’s there.” He gave Nat’s mum a warm smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Dashwood.”

She smiled and toyed with the pearls at her throat. “Celia, please. I enjoyed meeting you as well, Mr. Gordon. I must say…you’re not at all what I expected.”

Natalie eyed her mother in amazement. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think mum was flirting with Rhys.

“Can I give you a lift?” Rhys asked Natalie as he turned to leave.

“Thanks, I drove.” She grabbed her handbag and keys and turned to kiss her mother goodbye. “Goodnight, mum.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

As Lady Dashwood returned to the drawing room to gather up the cups and saucers, she heard a buzzing sound coming from the pantry. Mystified, she set the plates down and pushed open the pantry door. “What on earth—?”

Natalie’s mobile lay on a shelf, buzzing madly away.

“Oh, dear.” She snatched the phone up and hurried back to the front door, but Natalie and Rhys were gone.

She looked at the caller’s name. Rhys Gordon. Should she answer? She didn’t like to think of Natalie driving home at this hour without her mobile. Suppose her car broke down?

“Mr. Gordon? Yes, it’s Celia Dashwood. No, she left her mobile in the pantry.” She paused. “Would you mind? Silly of me, but it’s late, and she’s without it. Thank you so much. Yes, call and let me know she got home safely. Goodnight.”

“I can’t believe it.” Natalie thumped her fist on the steering wheel in frustration. Halfway home, the car just…stopped. She eased the Peugeot off the road, and stared at the gauges to assess the situation.

Oh. Crikey. She was out of petrol.

She groaned. The petrol gauge’s needle was in the red, pointed firmly at ‘empty’.

“My mobile,” Natalie muttered, and grabbed her purse. She’d call mum. Where is it? she wondered as she scrabbled through her handbag, I know it’s in here somewhere—

Suddenly she remembered. Rhys and his infuriating, persistent calls…she’d thrown her mobile on a shelf in the pantry. She closed her eyes. Bloody hell! Would this endless, endless day never end?

She couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t that late, and she was more than halfway home, but it was too far to walk. She eyed the dark street uneasily. There was a petrol station nearby, wasn’t there?

Natalie bit her lip. She’d lock up her car and walk. Even if the station was closed, they’d have a phone box, and she could ring mum to come and fetch her. She couldn’t stay here.

Resolutely, she got out and locked the door. She gripped her handbag and began to walk quickly down the street. She heard the echo of her high-heeled footsteps, and the distant swish of cars on the A4.

Somewhere behind her, growing closer, a motorcycle approached. She walked a bit faster. The low growl of the engine grew louder, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the motorbike slowing down, until it drew up alongside her.

Natalie looked back nervously but kept walking. She couldn’t see the rider’s face; a visored helmet obscured it.

Her legs turned to jelly. Should she run? Scream? Dial 999? No, scratch that, she couldn’t call for help – she didn’t have her bloody mobile. Stupid, stupid—

“Natalie?”

She came to a stop, her heart beating wildly. “Rh-Rhys?”

He lifted the visor. “I saw your car abandoned back there,” he said, concerned. “What happened?”

Relief washed over her. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m really glad to see you!” she said fervently. “I ran out of petrol… I didn’t have my mobile—”

“So I heard,” he said, his words grim. “Get on, I’ll take you home. You can tell me about it on the way.”

Sheepishly she took the helmet he held out. “This is getting to be a habit, you rescuing me. How did you know to come looking?”

“After I left, I rang to see that you got back safely. Imagine my surprise when your mum answered.” He glared at her. “She found your phone in the pantry.”

She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. “Well, I didn’t want to talk to you earlier, did I?” She knew what was coming next – the bloody lecture.

And the thing was, she reflected, this time she absolutely deserved it.

He opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she’d been thinking, putting herself in such danger, did she know what might have happened? But he caught sight of her face, pale and exhausted, and let out a short breath.

“Never mind. I’m just glad you’re all right. Now put on that helmet, and let’s get you home.”

Chapter 10

The sound of the door buzzer echoed through the flat the next morning. Natalie lifted one side of her eye mask to see sunshine streaming in through her bedroom curtains.

“Coming,” she croaked as she rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She peered into the mirror. Crikey – could definitely be better.

She splashed water on her face and tugged at the wrinkled Blondie T-shirt she’d slept in – second night in a row, must do laundry – and went to the door. The buzzer sounded again.

“Hold on!” she muttered, annoyed. Tarquin was impatient. And early. Natalie already regretted asking him to go clothes shopping with her. Much nicer to have a nice lie-in, then a late lunch, perhaps pop in to Chanel for a look around…

She pressed the speaker button. “Come up.” She barely had time to drag a comb through her hair and brush her teeth when Tarquin knocked on the door.

“You won’t believe it, Tark,” Natalie said as she swung the flat door open, “but I forgot about going shopping today—”

“You, forget about shopping? Impossible.”

It took a moment to process the fact that it wasn’t Tark who stood in her doorway, but Rhys Gordon.

Rhys bloody Gordon! He looked at her as if he’d never seen a girl in a T-shirt and…well, to be honest…not much else.

She crossed her arms self-consciously against her bra-less chest. “Rhys! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve had your car filled with petrol and brought round. I tried to call,” he added, “but your mobile’s turned off and your telephone’s been disconnected.”

Although he didn’t say it, she knew he longed to criticise her for these latest infractions.

But all he said was, “Sorry if I woke you. I know it’s a bit early, but I’m on my way in to work.”

She leaned against the doorjamb. “I really appreciate your help last night,” she said, and meant it. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along.”

“Check your petrol gauge now and then. And don’t hide your phone in the bloody pantry. I’m just glad I was able to help.”

She opened the door a bit wider and stood aside. “At least come in and let me give you a cup of tea — or coffee? —before you go. I owe you that much.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee. Thanks.”

“Let me grab a pair of jeans first. I’ll be right back.”

“I can’t stay long,” he called out after her. “The bloke from the petrol station followed me in your car; I’ve got to take him back.”

“Is he perched on the back of your motorbike?”

“No, I’ve got the Jag.”

Natalie emerged from the bedroom five minutes later wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair sorted and a slick of lipstick on her mouth. “I’ll get that coffee. Won’t take me a second, it’s only instant.”

She switched the kettle on and spooned Nescafe into two mismatched mugs. “Sorry I don’t have real coffee. I need to do a shop but I haven’t had time.”

“Oh, you cook?”

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” she said, indignant. “Yes, I cook. I make a great spaghetti Bolognese. And my Victoria sponge is better than mum’s.”

The kettle whistled. She poured hot water into their cups and handed one to Rhys.

“Thanks. Stop by my office later and we’ll go over those numbers.”

“I can’t. I’m going shopping with Tark this morning.” At his puzzled look she added, “Tarquin Magnus Campbell. He’s heir to the fourth earl of Draemar and he’s my dearest friend. He and Wren are getting married in Scotland next month, so of course I need a dress…and a wedding gift.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“If you need clothes, it means you plan to spend money. That’s never a good thing.”

“Ha bloody ha. Perhaps I might stop by your office after lunch? You could show me the figures then.”

He nodded. “I’ll see you later, then.”

The buzzer sounded again. “That’s Tarquin,” Natalie announced. She walked over and pressed the button. “Come up.”

“I should go,” Rhys said. “Thanks for the coffee.” He added pointedly, “Try to buy something on sale. And if your car ever breaks down again, promise me you’ll lock the doors and stay put.”

Natalie’s gaze collided with his. He really did have the most penetrating blue eyes. “You know,” she blurted, “you’re almost nice when you want to be.”

He raised his brow. “Only almost? I’ll have to work on that.”

Several rapid-fire knocks sounded on the door.

Natalie let out an exasperated breath. “It’s like Waterloo Station in here this morning! Excuse me.”

She left Rhys in the kitchen and hurried down the hallway to open the door, then froze. “Dominic!” She pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the hall. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

Dominic leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. He reeked of stale Gitanes and whiskey. “We need to talk, Nat.”

“You’re drunk, Dom. And we’ve nothing to talk about. You’re with Keeley now.”

“I’m not, not really! It’s all for publicity. There’s no reason we can’t still see each other. I miss you, Nat.” He leaned forward unsteadily to kiss her.

Natalie backed away in disgust. “You want me as your bit on the side, you mean.”

“Come on, Nat, it’s not like that. Besides,” he pointed out, “the tabs all say you and Gordon are having a go—”

The door swung open. “Is everything all right?” Rhys asked. He fixed his piercing gaze on Dominic.

Dominic turned back to Natalie with an accusatory glare. “What’s ‘e doing here?”

Natalie glanced at Rhys. “I ran out of petrol last night, and Rhys—”

“—I brought her home, mate,” Rhys finished, and lifted his coffee mug to Dominic in mock salute.

Nat leaned forward, playing along, and stood on her toes to kiss Rhys on the cheek. He smelled enticingly of soap and aftershave. “You were a star last night. Thanks again.”

He handed her his half-empty mug. “You’re welcome. Now I’ve got to go. I’ll see you this afternoon?”

Natalie nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Rhys left, and Dominic’s scowl deepened. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He swayed slightly on his feet and demanded, “What’s going on? I’ve seen the tabloids. You’re not shagging that plonker, are you?”

A distracted smile curved Natalie’s lips. “Not yet.” Her smile vanished as she added crossly, “What do you care, anyway? You broke up with me, or have you forgotten?”

“Look, Nat,” he protested, “he’s 28, practically old enough to be your…your uncle! Besides, I still love you—”

“Oh, piss off, Dominic. Go sleep it off. And then go…smash a guitar, or something.” She left him in the hall, scowling, and shut the door smartly in his face.

Dominic didn’t take Natalie’s advice. Instead he found himself, two hours and a half a bottle of Chivas Regal later, slumped next to Keeley in the front row of Klaus von Richter’s spring preview fashion show.

How in bloody hell had that happened?

He crossed his arms against his chest and slouched back in the folding metal chair. He’d refused to go. But Keeley glared at him and hissed, “Remind me again why I agreed to this engagement, Dominic. Perhaps I should call it off.”

So here he was, crammed in with a gazillion fashionistas, all crossing their stiletto-heeled legs and shouting into their mobiles in rapid-fire French, English, and Italian.

“Why am I here?” he grumbled to Keeley as his right eye was nearly taken out by the wildly gesticulating editor of Italian Vogue sitting next to him.

“Because I need clothes for our honeymoon,” she snapped, “and because Maison Laroche’s show is the absolute best. People would kill for front row seats. Klaus’ clothes are genius.”

Dominic snorted. “Don’t know why any of this lot bothers going to fashion shows. All they wear is black.”

But as the lights dimmed and the show began, Dominic leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. Clouds of fog, pulsing techno music, and long-legged models striding out on the catwalk combined to create a throbbing spectacle of light, sound, and beauty. The clothes were all right, he supposed…

…but the models were bloody amazing.

Keeley poked him sharply in the ribs. “You can roll your tongue back in your mouth anytime,” she hissed in his ear.

When the show ended – all too soon, in Dominic’s opinion – Keeley grabbed him by the arm and dragged him backstage to meet the iconic fashion designer. Klaus von Richter was bald, and he wore black, from the cashmere scarf flung around his neck to his black-booted feet. What was it with fashion people and black? Dominic wondered.

“Klaus!” Keeley gushed. “The show was fantastic.” She air-kissed him on both cheeks.

He took her hand in his black fingerless gloves and lifted it to his lips. “Merci, my dear,” he said in German-accented English. “What can I possibly create that is beautiful enough for you to wear, eh?”

Keeley smiled. “Everything you create is beautiful, Klaus. I love the black velvet strapless dress – stunning…”

Although Klaus nodded distractedly, his eyes lasered in on Dominic. “You,” he purred, “you are Keeley’s fiancé, non?”

“Yeah,” Dominic muttered. The way this German bloke stared at him – like a half-starved alley cat eyeing up a dish of Devonshire cream – made him more than a bit uncomfortable.

Klaus reached out and grabbed Dominic’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head this way and that, and pronounced, “You haf excellent bone structure. You haf modelled before?”

Dominic scowled and jerked his head free. “No! I’m a rock singer, not a bloody model.”

“You will model for me, for Maison Laroche,” Klaus announced. It wasn’t a question; it was a command.

“I don’t do that modelling shit.”

“But you will, for me. You’re perfect.” Klaus narrowed his eyes and walked slowly around Dominic, one hand on his chin. “You haf exactly the look I want. However, your clothes—” he eyed Dominic’s faded Levis and Motörhead T-shirt “—must go. We will dress you in von Richter, no?”

“No!” Dominic snapped.

Klaus snapped his fingers at one of his assistants. “Bring the sample suit to my dressing room. Jetzt!” He turned back to Keeley and Dominic. “Come back with me, and we will talk.”

“Come on,” Keeley hissed, tugging on Dominic’s arm as he balked. “Are you mental? Do you know what an honour this is?”

“Honour, my arse,” Dominic hissed back. “He’s a nut job!”

The designer came straight to the point once they were seated in his dressing room. “I haf created my first men’s fragrance. I want Dominic to be the face of Dissolute. He has exactly the look I want – insolent, aristocratic, a touch dissipated. Perfect for the print ads…like a modern-day Dorian Gray, no?”

Dominic had no idea what the old queen was banging on about. “I don’t know shit about modelling, and I don’t know Dorian Gray, neither. I can’t do it, anyway. I’m starting a new tour next month. Then I’ll be in the studio. Sorry, mate.”

“We’ll work around your schedule.” Klaus flipped open an enamelled case and withdrew a tiny pinch of snuff, then thrust it delicately up first one nostril, then the other. “You will pose for print ads in the fashion magazines, and film a television commercial. Nothing more will be required of you.”

“Nah, sorry, can’t do it,” Dominic said firmly. “My fans would say I’d sold out.” He paused as one of the models came in to get a cigarette and blatantly eyed him up. He smiled. Hm…perhaps he should reconsider. How bad could it be, if doing this gig for Klaus meant he could hang out with girls like that?

Klaus saw the mingled lust and indecision in Dominic’s eyes, and moved in for the kill. “You’ll be well paid.” He leaned forward almost coquettishly, and whispered a sum in Dominic’s ear.

“Blimey.” Dominic blinked. With the amount of dosh Klaus had offered him, he could pay off his debts, buy that new Maserati Ghibli he’d had his eye on, and still have enough left over to buy a ‘57 Strat…

“So?” Klaus said finally, with a touch of impatience. “What do you say? You will sign with Maison Laroche to be the new face of Dissolute?”

Keeley looked over at Dominic, her eyes shining, and nodded imperceptibly.

Dominic let out a short breath. He hated to sell out. But he really needed the dosh that von Richter was offering him.

Sod selling out. Sod his fans. Filthy lucre won the day.

“OK,” Dominic said finally, and stood. “Send me the contract and I’ll have my lawyer take a look.”

“Excellent.” Klaus clasped him firmly on the shoulder. “We haf a deal. You’ve made a very wise decision.”

Dominic made no reply. Why did he suddenly feel as if he’d made a deal, all right…

…a deal with the devil?

Chapter 11

“I can’t decide between the Missoni or the Cavalli,” Natalie said with a frown as she emerged from the dressing room with two dresses draped over her arm. “They’re both gorgeous.”

“Well, at least you’ve narrowed it down to two,” Tarquin said with resignation. He’d spent the past hour slumped in a chair as Natalie tried on dress after dress.

“I have to find the perfect outfit for your wedding.”

“What about this?” Tarquin suggested hopefully. He plucked a dress from a nearby rack that cost much less than either of Natalie’s choices.

“I’m not buying off the rack for your wedding, Tark. I need something worthy of the occasion.”

“The newspapers say that Dashwood and James aren’t doing well, Nat,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps you should be a bit more – erm, frugal.”

“Frugal?” Natalie echoed. “I know you Scots are famous for thrift, but I refuse to scrimp when it comes to your wedding!”

“Perhaps you should get them both,” Tarquin said finally, defeated.

She beamed. “Brilliant!” She dropped an impulsive kiss on the top of Tark’s head on her way back to the dressing room. “I’m almost done.”

As she changed back into her clothes, Natalie considered possible wedding gifts. She wanted to give Wren and Tark something special – Waterford crystal, perhaps, or one of those hideous metal sculptures Tark fancied – something suitable for his Scottish castle…

…something to show how much his friendship meant to her.

“I have to get you a wedding gift,” Natalie told him a few minutes later when she emerged from the dressing room. “We’ll shop once I pay for this lot.”

Alarmed, Tarquin rose and followed her to the front desk. “I don’t need a present, Nat! Besides, Dashwood and James are in real financial trouble,” he added in a low voice. “Rhys Gordon’s only called in if things are very bad.”

“How did you know grandfather hired Rhys?”

“It’s in all the business pages.” Tarquin reddened slightly and added, “I hate to bring it up, but the tabloids are also saying that you and Mr. Gordon are –erm…”

“—having an affair?” Natalie pressed her lips together. She refused to be embarrassed. Why should she be? She’d done nothing wrong. “We’re not. It’s only for publicity.”

“Well, that’s a relief! He’s bloody awful, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Natalie said airily. “At any rate,” she added as she handed her credit card to the sales clerk, “Dashwood and James have been around since 1854. We’ll pull through this little slump. There’s nothing to worry about.”

As they left, Tarquin came to a stop. “Nat, about the wedding gift,” he said. “You’ve already spent a small fortune on clothing—”

“You sound like an accountant, Tark. Or worse, like Rhys,” she added darkly. “I’m getting you a wedding gift, and there’s an end to it.” She smiled. “And I know just the thing.”

Laden with carrier bags, Natalie strode along the crowded pavement as Tarquin trailed behind, her earlier promise to meet with Rhys Gordon completely forgotten.

“Hannah!” Cherie called out from her dressing table on Saturday evening. “Your father and I are going to dinner tonight. We won’t be too late, should be home by eleven or so.”

No reply from Hannah’s room.

“I’ve left you a casserole in the warming oven. I’ll take it out before we leave.” Cherie applied lipstick and blotted her lips on a tissue.

There was still no reply.

Cherie sighed. She’d survived Holly’s mood swings and teen angst; now it was Hannah’s turn. Overnight, her normally sunny child had turned into a moody, disaffected stranger.

Their house had become a war zone of slammed doors and meals that ended in shouting and recriminations. Cherie knew Hannah’s moods had everything to do with Duncan Hadley.

The phone rang. “Hello,” Cherie said, and cradled the receiver against her ear as she picked up her pearl earring.

“Hello, darling.”

“Alastair! Are you on your way? Or shall I meet you at the restaurant?”

There was an ominous pause. “Neither, I’m afraid. I just got out of a late meeting with Rhys, and he wants me to rework the markdown budget. I’ll probably be working most of the day tomorrow as well.”

Cherie focused on the eardrop dangling between her fingers. “Can’t you work on it tomorrow? Surely it can wait.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but it can’t. Everything has to be reconciled for our finance meeting on Monday. I’m just as disappointed as you.”

“I doubt that,” Cherie said acidly.

“Look, why don’t you go, and take Hannah,” Alastair suggested. “Don’t let the reservation go to waste.”

“Hannah wants nothing to do with me at the moment.” She laid the earring aside. “Which you’d know, if you were ever here. And the whole point of this evening was to have dinner with my husband. Not my daughter.”

“I know. I’ve let you down. Again.” He sounded tired, and defeated. “Rhys is letting Henry go, did I tell you? Poor old chap.”

“Henry? How awful,” Cherie echoed, her disappointment forgotten. “He must be devastated. Mr. Gordon is heartless.”

“He’s only doing what Sir Richard and I should have done already. Henry should’ve retired years ago. It’s madness right now, with Rhys making so many changes. It won’t always be this way.”

“No.” Cherie sighed. “I suppose not. Well, there’s no point letting the reservation go. I’ll ring Sarah and ask her.”

“Duncan’s mum? Good idea,” Alastair agreed. “I’m sure she’d welcome a night out. Going through a divorce isn’t easy.”

“No. I’ll talk to you later, then. Goodnight.”

Cherie rang off and called Sarah. She hesitated when Neil answered. “Hullo,” she said. “Cherie here.”

“Cherie! How are you?”

“Fine,” she said. “Alastair’s just backed out of our dinner reservation. I thought Sarah might like to go instead.”

He paused. “I’m sure she would…but she’s gone to Bath for the weekend. I’m staying with Duncan until she returns next week. So Alastair backed out tonight, did he?”

“Yes, he’s working late again. Things are chaotic at the store at the moment.” She glanced at the clock. “If I’m to keep our reservation, I need to go. I won’t keep you.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything but an evening in front of the TV. Where are you off to?”

“Chez Rouge, a new French restaurant in Soho.” She paused and added, “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No. On the menu tonight at Chez Hadley is leftover roast and frozen Yorkshire pudding.”

“Why don’t you come along?” she said impulsively. “I’ve never liked sitting alone in a restaurant. I feel as though everyone’s staring at me, wondering who that sad woman is.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure they find you intriguing…a woman of mystery.” He paused. “Of course you know that if we dine together, tomorrow it’ll be all over Cavendish Avenue that we’re an item. Sure you want to risk it?”

Cherie didn’t hesitate. “I’m quite sure,” she said, and added, “Shall I meet you there?”

“No need. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“OK. See you then.” With a smile, Cherie hung up the phone and retrieved the pearl eardrop once again.

Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be a total waste after all.

The bill arrived on Wednesday, innocuously enough, in a thick cream envelope. Gemma Astley slit the flap, ready to add it to the pile of invoices for Rhys’s approval. As she scanned the page, her eyes widened. She hurried in to Rhys’s office.

He didn’t look up from his ledgers and spreadsheets. Gemma noticed that the black-framed eyeglasses he wore, hideous on anyone else, looked downright sexy. “Yes, Gemma, what is it?”

“You’d better have a look at this.”

He glanced briefly at the invoice she held out to him. “Yes, it’s a bill. Add it to the pile and send it to accounts payable.”

“Look at the amount.”

He frowned and looked at it more closely. The invoice listed one Missoni tank dress, £919.27; one Roberto Cavalli sheath dress, £372.32; and one Waterford Regency crystal chandelier, shipped to Draemar Castle, County Clare, Scotland, net cost—

Rhys paused, and dropped his pen. “Good God. Eleven thousand pounds…for a chandelier?” He closed his eyes.

Natalie. This had to be her doing. No wonder she hadn’t shown up on Saturday afternoon to look at the store’s financial spreadsheets; she’d been too busy shopping for designer dresses and overpriced chandeliers.

“Gemma,” he called out grimly, “get me Sir Richard on the phone. I need to speak with him straight away.”

Chapter 12

Who would’ve thought London had so many bridal salons?

Caroline Dashwood stopped to slip off her shoe and rub her foot. She’d tried on and rejected a dozen wedding dresses. She was hungry and discouraged, and her feet hurt. “I’ll just elope,” she grumbled. “It’s so much easier that way.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Natalie scolded her older sister. “After all, it’s only our first day shopping. We’ll find something.”

“Right now, I’d settle for a white dress from Oxfam and a glass of Chardonnay.”

“Vera Wang,” Natalie said suddenly. “Something simple but elegant, in cream satin—”

“We can’t afford designer things any longer, Natalie,” Caro reminded her. “We need to practise economy.”

Natalie ignored this totally unwelcome (but unfortunately true) assessment of the family finances. “I’ve just had the most fabulous idea!” she exclaimed. “I’ll buy your gown. It’ll be my wedding gift to you.”

“Nat, it’s Saturday, and your new job doesn’t start until next week, so you won’t get paid until the end of the month. You can’t afford a knock-off from Marks and Sparks right now, much less a designer gown.”

“No, but with this—” Natalie held up a credit card “—I can afford anything. Besides, I want to do something for you. You’ve done lots for me, over the years.”

And it was true. When thirteen-year-old Nat snuck off to Glastonbury with a friend and nearly got arrested, Caro brought her home, and didn’t tell mum. She’d given Nat lifts, turned a blind eye when Nat borrowed her Barbour (until Nat ripped the lining and Caro slapped her, hard), and offered advice (most of it rubbish) and a shoulder to cry on.

Her sister deserved to have the wedding of her dreams, just as Tarquin and Wren deserved a truly fabulous wedding gift. And so Natalie would buy Caro the perfect dress.

She found it, as she’d hoped, at the Vera Wang atelier. A slim column of cream silk with a low, draped back, the dress was simple but stunning.

“Oh, Caro, it’s beautiful!” Natalie breathed. She turned to the bridal assistant. “We’ll take it.”

Doubtfully her sister demurred. “It’s far too expensive,” she murmured. “I can get a perfectly nice dress off the rack.”

Natalie shrugged. “It’s pricey, but you only get married once.” She smirked. “Well – let’s hope so, anyway.”

As Caro tried on the dress and a fitter made adjustments, Natalie followed the bridal assistant to the front desk and handed over her card. A minute later the assistant returned, her face looking like the back end of a horse.

“I’m sorry, Miss Dashwood, but your purchase was not approved. Your credit has been declined.”

Rhys wiped his face with a towel and draped it around his neck. “I win again. Better luck next time, mate.”

Ben Harris thrust his squash racket into its case and tossed Rhys a bottle of water. “Not bad for an old guy,” he conceded.

“This old guy just kicked your arse.” Rhys drank his water down in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are we on for a re-match next Saturday?”

Ben followed him off the squash court and into the changing room. “Can’t. Sophie needs help choosing wedding napkins.”

“Wedding napkins?” Rhys raised his brow. “A napkin’s a napkin, or so I thought. You wipe your mouth with it.”

“They’re to have our initials. And she wants them folded into flower shapes.”

“Origami napkins…bloody hell.” Rhys stripped off his sweat-drenched T-shirt and shorts and stepped into the shower. “Better you than me, mate.”

Ben towelled himself off. “What can I say? It makes Sophie happy. You’re coming to the wedding, aren’t you?” he called out over the rush of water.

“Of course…sorry I couldn’t be your best man. I just can’t fit it in right now.”

“Yeah, saving Dashwood and James’s arse must keep you busy. How’s that going, by the way?”

Rhys emerged from the shower. “With the exception of Sir Richard’s granddaughter, Natalie – who thinks it’s her mission in life to bankrupt the company – it’s going OK, I suppose. No one likes change.”

“Least of all you,” Ben observed dryly. He glanced at Rhys. “Sorry it didn’t work out with you and Cat.”

Rhys threw his locker door open and began to get dressed. “I was a fucking idiot for ever getting involved with her.” Rhys slammed his locker shut. “Have time for a coffee before I go to work?”

“Sure.” Ben dropped the subject of Caterina. He and Rhys had known each other a long time, but even best mates didn’t talk much about their relationships. They shared a drunken regret or two over a pint, and never spoke of it again.

As they left the squash courts and emerged onto the street, they passed a newsstand. Photos of Rhys and Natalie Dashwood featured prominently on most of them.

“Well, you and Natalie Dashwood are certainly popular with the paparazzi these days,” Ben remarked, and smirked. “Sorry, but I have to ask. Are you two really—”

“Sleeping together?” Rhys finished tersely. “No.” He thought of Natalie, wearing a T-shirt that barely covered her bum, and shoved the image resolutely aside. “Sir Richard and Natalie are clients. And I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

Ben grinned. “Maybe you should. You know what they say…all work and no play—”

“—makes Ben a dead man, if he doesn’t shut the hell up,” Rhys retorted.

Ben followed Rhys into the coffee shop. “Are you bringing a plus one to the wedding?” he asked as they took their cups and sat down.

“No.”

“Why not bring Natalie?”

“And give the tabloids more fodder for speculation?” Rhys said, and sipped his espresso. “No, thanks.”

“Isn’t that what you want? It’s more publicity for the store. Besides, you like her, I know you do—”

“Miss Dashwood is spoilt and selfish and has no concept of what it’s like to do without. I’m sure she thinks ‘austerity’ is a clothing label. And even if I were – hypothetically speaking – attracted to her, a relationship between us simply can’t happen. Natalie works for me, or will do soon, and Sir Richard – her grandfather – is a client.”

“So? Plenty of girls marry their bosses.”

“Fuck me! Who said anything about marriage?” Rhys glared at him. “Drop it, Ben, or I won’t come to your bloody wedding at all.”

“Just think about it,” Ben said, unfazed by Rhys’s outburst. “That’s all. You’re only inviting her to a wedding, not proposing. Now – more importantly,” he added, and leaned forward, “when can we schedule a rematch? Because I’m wiping the floor with your arse next time.”

Natalie plunked her bag on the counter and frowned. “Declined? That’s impossible. Run it through again. Must be some sort of a-a credit glitch thingy.”

The clerk handed her card back. “There’s no mistake, madam. Your credit has not only been declined, the account’s closed out.”

“Closed out?” Natalie knew she sounded like a demented parrot, but what was going on? “That’s impossible! I’m Natalie Dashwood. My family own Dashwood and James department stores.”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said firmly. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” she reached out to take the cocktail dress Natalie held, ready to whisk it behind the counter “—I’ll return this to the floor.”

Natalie clutched the hanger more tightly. She’d searched everywhere for the perfect dress to wear to Caro’s wedding; the violet silk dress was divine, and she wasn’t about to let it go. “Wait! Here—” she reached in her purse and scrabbled until she found another card “—try this one.”

The clerk took it, her patience rapidly diminishing, and swiped it through the machine. She looked at Natalie with a chilly smile and handed the card back. “Declined. And closed. Sorry.” She snatched the dress.

Natalie knew she wasn’t sorry, not one bit. The rude cow.

Caroline reappeared next to her, a look of concern etched on her face. “Is there a problem, Nat?”

“My cards have all been declined!”

“Is your credit maxed out?”

“No!” Natalie fumed. “At least…I don’t think so. Well, perhaps,” she admitted, remembering the designer dresses she’d bought for Tark’s wedding. Not to mention that Waterford chandelier… “But that’s not the problem – the accounts have been closed! On all of my cards.”

The ladies behind them in line edged away from Natalie as though she had a rare – and highly contagious – retail disease.

“Oh, Caro – this means I can’t buy your gown!” Natalie’s eyes welled with tears. “Your beautiful, perfect wedding gown—”

Caroline slipped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s OK, Natty, it’s only a dress,” she soothed. “I’ll find something off the rack, don’t worry.” She glared at the clerk. “Probably cost much less, too.”

“I’m such a numpty,” Natalie mumbled, and turned away to hide the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Everything I do turns into a disaster.”

“Nat, that’s not true!” Caroline looked at her in surprise and pulled her aside. “What makes you say such a thing?”

“It is true! Look at my relationship with Dominic – he cheated on me with his ex-wife, and he’s marrying her again – today! Not that I give a toss, honestly – but I hate being the object of everyone’s pity. My credit’s a disaster. I have no career, I can’t remember to put petrol in my car, and it’s all over the tabloids that I’m having an affair with R-Rhys Gordon—”

“Yes, I saw the article in the Daily Mail.”

“Even grandfather had a go at me,” Natalie went on. “He ordered me to find a job, and a ‘more suitable young man.’ Of course he meant I should get married, to some doddering old viscount, no doubt. He disapproves of my ‘bohemian lifestyle’.”

“Well, Nat, he has a point. You haven’t done much of anything since you took up with Dominic. Why is that?”

“I thought we’d get married, eventually,” Natalie said defensively. “And I liked touring with him and the boys. It was a lark! I couldn’t have done that if I’d had a job.”

“Right, so you put your life on hold for two years for that half-baked rocker,” Caro said, disapproval plain in her voice. “Oh, well, Dominic is about to become Keeley’s problem now, till death do them part.”

“I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”

Caroline took her arm and drew her out of the shop. “Why would you even want to go? You’re well shed of him, Natty.”

“I know that. And I don’t want to go. It just hurts a bit to be excluded, that’s all. We were together for longer than two years, you know.”

It was true. They’d practically grown up together in Warwickshire. But of course, Dom was a different person then…

…a very different person.

Natalie followed her sister out the door. “I start work at Dashwood and James on Monday. I’ll be assisting Rhys.”

“Doesn’t he have a PA? That terrifying redheaded girl?”

“Yes, her name is Gemma. I’ll be helping with marketing, and things.” She bit her lip. “I’ll probably make a mess of it, like I do everything else.”

“None of that, now,” Caroline said firmly, and grabbed her hand. “What you need is an ice cream. Come on.”

When they were settled at a marble-topped table with dishes of ice cream, Natalie dug her spoon in. “Dad used to bring us here, remember?”

Caro nodded. “I was always planning my wedding. I was determined to get married in Windsor Castle, on a pink pony.”

“No, I’m sure it was a pink unicorn.” Natalie smiled. As she thought of the gown they’d just left behind at Vera Wang, her smile faded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get your dress, Caro.”

Caroline squeezed her hand. “Wanting to get that dress was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me…even if you couldn’t actually buy it.”

The sting of having her credit declined filled Natalie with renewed anger. She’d never been so embarrassed in all her life. Well, except for the humiliation she’d endured when Dominic announced his engagement to Keeley.

Nat scowled. She knew how Cinderella must’ve felt when her gown changed back into rags and nothing waited to take her home but a useless old pumpkin.

And she’d bet her granny’s knickers that Rhys Gordon was to blame.

Her mobile rang. She dug it out and glanced at the screen with a frown. Why was Rhys’s personal assistant calling her, and on a Saturday? She pressed the answer button. “Gemma?”

“Natalie? Good morning. Rhys would like a word with you in his office, right away.”

“But I’m shopping. And it’s Saturday.” Natalie paused, listening. “Indeed? Well, we’ll just see about that.” She tossed her mobile in her handbag and stood up. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. His lordship, Rhys Gordon, has summoned me to his office.”

“But we’re still shopping!” Caro protested. “Besides, he can’t just snap his fingers and expect you to drop everything—”

“You obviously don’t know Rhys.” Nat pressed her lips together. “I’ve no doubt he’s the one who’s closed out my accounts, the backstabbing, number-crunching prat. I can’t believe it, especially after we practically spent last Friday night together!” she finished, indignant.

Caro regarded her in alarm. “Oh, Natalie – you aren’t sleeping with him, are you? I saw those photos in the Mail—”

“No! We’re not sleeping together! Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Exasperated, Natalie grabbed up her bag, waved goodbye, and stormed off.

Chapter 13

Rhys pressed the intercom and scowled at his laptop screen. Losses for the past quarter were worse than he’d anticipated. Drastic measures were needed – reduced operating hours, pay freezes…and job cuts, something he’d wished to avoid.

And the fact that Natalie Dashwood was spending for England didn’t help matters.

“Gemma, send Alastair in.” He sat back in his chair and waited, tapping his pen impatiently against his thigh. When Mr. James arrived five minutes later, Rhys said without preamble, “The markdown budget figures are worse than you originally forecast. Come and look, please.”

Wordlessly Alastair came around his desk to peer at the computer screen.

“We’re losing money at a higher rate than projected. If the numbers you give me aren’t good, Mr. James,” Rhys said tightly as he tossed his pen down, “how can my decisions based on those numbers be of any bloody use?”

“It appears the planning budget was underestimated,” Alastair agreed, his heart heavy. He knew what this meant – more hours lost to number crunching, another round of apologies to Cherie, more tension between them.

“You need to update the budget, Mr. James.”

“I’ll get on it immediately.” Alastair added, “However, I’ve made plans to spend tomorrow with my wife.”

“Well, you’ll just have to cancel them, won’t you?”

Alastair’s expression hardened. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Gordon. What’s really going on here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem determined to take issue with me.”

“I take issue with a good company going in the crapper. You and Sir Richard haven’t done a proper job keeping costs down and revenues up. I can’t do this alone.”

“I understand.” Alastair’s gaze was steely. “But responsibility for the state of the company’s finances doesn’t rest solely with me. This tension between us is personal on your part, Mr. Gordon.”

“Yes, it’s personal, because this is your bloody company. While you may not be the only one responsible for the years of mismanagement, you’re accountable all the same – just as I’m accountable for somehow turning this fucking mess around.”

“Let me remind you, I managed accounts worth millions of pounds when you were still in nappies, Mr. Gordon,” Alastair said icily. “I’m also a partner. As such, I demand respect. Remember – Sir Richard and I hired you. Not the other way round.”

Rhys leaned forward. “You hired me, yes. And in order to do my job, Mr. James, you bloody well need to do yours.”

“And so I shall,” Alastair returned, and tightened his jaw, “on Monday morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he gave Rhys a curt nod “—I’m leaving for the day. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Before Rhys could form a reply, Alastair turned on his heel and left.

Rhys became aware of a disturbance just outside his office. He glanced up with a scowl to see Gemma blocking the door. No one got past her. “Just a moment, Miss Dashwood,” she protested, “you can’t just barge in—”

There was a minor tussle at the door. Natalie shoved past and stormed into his office, Gemma on her heels, both of them quivering with righteous indignation.

“I’m sorry, Rhys,” Gemma apologised. “I tried to stop her—”

He thrust his chair back and stood up. “It’s all right. Close the door on your way out, please.”

“Of course.” Gemma shot Natalie a scalding glare and left, shutting the door smartly behind her.

Natalie advanced on him. “How…dare…you.” She threw her handbag on his desk. Spreadsheets and marketing reports flew up and fluttered down to the carpet.

“How dare I?” Rhys demanded. “You dare to take an attitude with me, after running up bills the size of the national debt and using company credit to do it?”

“You closed my personal credit lines,” she fired back. “All of them. You can’t do that!”

“I can. I did.” Rhys leaned forward and planted his hands flat on the desk. His face was inches from hers. “It’s my job to cut costs and turn this sinking ship around. And the first step is to stop unnecessary spending. Yours, in particular. It stops here, and it stops now.”

“I’ve always had a line of company credit, and so have mum and Caro! You can’t take it away just to save a few pounds.”

“We’re talking more than a few pounds. And Lady Dashwood’s line of credit remains open, as does your sister’s. They manage their finances with restraint. You, however, do not.”

“Grandfather will hear about this!” Natalie snatched up her handbag from between Rhys’s outspread hands. “You’ll find yourself out of a job before the day is over, Mr. Gordon.”

“Go ahead.” He eyed her with contempt. “Run to Sir Richard, because you know he has a soft spot for you, and you take full advantage of it.”

She gasped, outraged. “That’s not true—”

“But this time, it won’t work. Because your grandfather not only agreed to cut off your credit—” Rhys bent down to retrieve a wayward spreadsheet from the carpet and threw it back on his desk “—it was his idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he came around the desk, took her firmly by the arm, and propelled her towards the door “—I’ve work to do. Why don’t you run along and christen a ship?”

Natalie jerked her arm free and turned to face him. “Don’t you dare to patronise me! This isn’t over!”

“No, it isn’t.” His jaw tightened. “You’re on a budget, effective immediately. You can’t buy a box of Weetabix without my approval.”

“What? You can’t put me on a budget!” Natalie sputtered. “You’re not my bloody husband!”

“And thank God for that,” he said acidly.

“I won’t be treated like an empty-headed adolescent—”

“Then stop acting like one,” Rhys retorted, and returned to his desk.

“What about you?” she snapped. “Staying at the Connaught at the company’s expense, swanning all over town in your Jaguar, making a bloody fortune to come in here and boss me round, turning everything upside down—”

“I worked my arse off to get here.” His face was dark with anger. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen, going to school at night and working during the day, and it wasn’t easy. But it taught me responsibility, and it taught me the value of a pound. Two things you’ve yet to learn.” He scowled. “I make no apologies for who I am or how successful I’ve become, Miss Dashwood, because it’s all down to one thing. Hard fucking work.”

He snatched up a sheet of paper from the blotter and thrust it at her.

She flinched. “What’s this?”

“That,” he informed her, “is what’s known as an invoice. It lists money owed for something which one has purchased.”

“You needn’t talk down to me! I can see it’s an invoice—”

“Good. Excellent! We’ve made progress.” He strode, scowling, from his desk to the window. “Now look at the figure owed. Here’s a hint – it’s on the bottom of the page.”

Natalie looked more closely at the invoice. “Well…there’s one Missoni tank dress, one Cavalli sheath, and one Waterford chandelier, shipped to Scotland…” her voice dwindled and trailed away. “Oh. Eleven thousand pounds…that’s rather a lot, isn’t it?”

“Rather a lot, yes.”

She bit her lip. Guilt was plain upon her face. “I bought it for Tark and Wren. It’s a wedding gift.”

Rhys turned away from the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and faced her. “Did it never occur to you to send them a nice set of wine glasses instead?”

“Wine glasses would still be pricey,” she informed him. “The castle dining hall seats two hundred.”

“Then why,” Rhys went on, gathering steam like an angry locomotive, “if you were determined to be extravagant, didn’t you purchase the chandelier from Dashwood and James? We carry Waterford, you know. You’d get a ten percent discount. And free bloody shipping!”

“That would’ve been immensely tacky,” she said indignantly. “The chandelier would’ve arrived at the castle in a big D&J packing box, and Tark would’ve known straightaway that I used my family discount to buy his present.”

“Thank God your reputation for generosity with the rich and titled remains unblemished,” Rhys snapped. “Do you realise that this store – the source of what little income remains to you and your family – is on the verge of total fucking collapse?”

Natalie fixed him with a glare. “I don’t believe things are so bad. You make everything look worse than it is, so you can swoop in and save the day. All hail Saint Rhys.”

“Let me make this as simple as I can, Miss Dashwood.” He returned to his desk and leaned towards her, his hands pressed down on the spreadsheet-covered blotter. “The store’s become a vast money pit, with more outgoing than incoming. That’s not good. It can’t continue any longer.”

“You’re mistaken,” Natalie said stubbornly. “D&J still make a profit. I stand to inherit a fortune—”

“A fortune?” he echoed, incredulous. “The stores haven’t made a profit in months. Sir Richard has an outstanding debt of nearly a million pounds. Once that debt is paid off, if it’s ever paid off—” Rhys sat down, punched a few keys on his laptop, and pointed to a spreadsheet with a much tinier figure than Natalie could ever have imagined “—you might inherit enough to open a chip shop in Bermondsey.”

Natalie was too shocked to speak.

“Unless things change drastically, and soon,” Rhys informed her icily, “Dashwood and James will close its doors…forever.”

As the opening strains of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’ heralded the beginning of the afternoon wedding service at St. Anselm’s cathedral, the bride was in a panic.

“Where’s Dominic?” Keeley demanded, fraught with nerves. “It’s nearly time!” The church was packed with reporters, celebrities, and well over two hundred of their closest friends; even Klaus von Richter had condescended to come.

“I’m sure he’s just nipped out for a fag,” her mum reassured her. “He seemed a bit edgy.” Drunk as a sailor on payday, more like, she almost added; but there was no point in upsetting Keeley any more than she already was.

“I’ll kill him if he messes this up,” Keeley fumed. It’d be just like Dominic to do a runner and embarrass her in front of everyone. She gathered up her voluminous Balenciaga skirts and sailed out of the dressing room to hunt him down.

But Dominic was nowhere to be found.

Furious, Keeley stopped near the broom closet to calm her shattered nerves and decide what to do next, when she heard a strange sound. It was rhythmic and steady, punctuated with whispery giggles and the odd moan. She stared at the closed closet door in dawning horror. Surely not even Dominic would be so bold, so brazen, and on their wedding day—?

Grimly Keeley flung the closet door open. At the sight that met her eyes, she screamed.

Dominic stood, mid-bonk with one of her bridesmaids, whose legs were wrapped round his waist. He looked over his shoulder at Keeley and blanched. “Sorry, love,” he mumbled to the girl as he pulled away and fumbled with his fly. “Gotta go. The bride’s just arrived.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Keeley said icily. “By all means, continue. Finish shagging the bridesmaid. Take all the time you need, because we’re not getting married, you skeevy bastard. Not today, not ever!” She turned and stalked away.

As the other bridesmaids emerged from the church and hurried towards her, clucking like outraged hens, Dominic finished doing up his trousers and staggered out into the vestibule. “Keels, wait!”

She cast a scalding glare over her shoulder. “Piss off, Dominic! It’s over between us!”

“Yeah, OK, it’s over, I get that.” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “Um…the thing is, what about the honeymoon, then?”

She came to a stop and turned slowly around. “What?”

“I mean, since it’s paid for and all, I thought I’d take—” he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the bridesmaid, smoothing down her skirts in the closet “—er, Victoria, right? Take Vicks with me to the Maldives instead. I mean, no sense in lettin’ the trip go to waste, is there—”

He never finished the sentence, because Keeley flew at him, shrieking like a demented banshee, and it took all five of the wedding party’s efforts to pull her off.

Alerted by the commotion, the tabloid reporters in attendance spilled out into the vestibule, and flashbulbs began popping. Blood was in the air. The story of Keeley and Dominic’s disastrous celebrity non-wedding, accompanied by lurid four-colour photos, would be the biggest, juiciest scandal to hit the UK since…well, since ever.

“I hate you, Dominic!” Keeley screamed. “I’ll make you pay for this, you bastard!”

Dominic staggered back towards the broom closet, momentarily blinded by flashbulbs. Shouldn’t have drunk that entire bottle of Chivas…probably not my best idea, upon reflection…

Too bad no one had any drugs on offer, he thought. He could really do with a bit of oblivion right about now.

Then he passed out.

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