Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (16 page)

Hadn’t he learnt his lesson with Cat?

“I should go,” Natalie said finally. Shadows stretched across the terrace as she made her way back to the French doors. “Tomorrow’s Monday, after all.”

“At least let me buy you dinner,” Rhys said. “I owe you that much, after you helped me furnish my entire flat.” He paused. “Not to mention, you found me a reasonably priced cheese grater.”

She smiled. “OK. I’m starving, anyway. I’m ready to eat my shoe.”

“I think,” Rhys said as he took her arm and led her downstairs, “that we can do a bit better than that.”

Chapter 19

As they lingered over a delicious dinner of chilled courgette soup and butterflied mackerel at The Harwood Arms on Fulham Road, Natalie let out a sigh of contentment.

“That’s the best meal I’ve ever had,” she told Rhys.

“I’m glad you liked it.” He reached for the bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and topped up her glass. “I always try to come here when I’m in London.”

“Where else have you lived?” she asked. “Besides Edinburgh.”

He shrugged. “I worked in New York for a couple of years. Then Amsterdam, Brussels, Verona…”

She pouted. “That’s not fair! I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve only ever been to Scotland, to visit Tark.”

“Ah, yes. Owner of the Scottish castle and the £11,000 chandelier.” Rhys leaned back. “What was it like for you, growing up?”

Natalie shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. We lived in Warwickshire, and the house always needed roof repairs or a plumber. There was always damp, and limescale on the taps and toilets. The water came out brown and smelt like rotted eggs.”

Rhys raised a brow. “Sounds disgusting.”

“It was. Dad once hung out a sign on the gate: ‘Limescale Peeling’. Her smile faded. “It was his little joke.” She paused. “He killed himself. When I was ten.”

“Yes, I remember it was in all of the papers. I’m sorry.”

“Mum found him. He’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. Halcion. Half the bottle was gone.” She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. “People think it’s an easy way to die, but it’s not. It’s…horrible.”

Rhys was silent.

Natalie lifted her glass and took a long sip. “The hell of it was,” she said finally, “we never knew why he did it.”

“There were no business problems? No signs of depression?”

She was silent, remembering.

“Why do those men from the newspapers take pictures of us, mummy?” she’d asked, when a firestorm of flashbulbs erupted as their car emerged through the gates and turned onto the road one morning.

Her mother, attention focused on the road ahead and her mouth set in a grim line, replied, “It’s nothing to worry about, darling. Your father owns a very famous department store.”

“But other people own famous department stores,” Natalie persisted, “and they don’t have their picture in the newspaper. And they’re taking pictures of
us
, not daddy—”

“Never mind,” Lady Dashwood said sharply. “Do sit back and be quiet, Natalie, or you and your sister will be late for school.”

“Natalie?” Rhys prodded gently.

She shook her head. “No. My father seemed fine, if a bit preoccupied sometimes. He worked long hours. The stores were doing really well then. So well, in fact, that after the repairs were made to the house, he let Caro have a horse. He got her a black mare, Sheba.” She smiled briefly. “I was insanely jealous.”

“Crazy for horses, were you?”

“Like most ten-year-old girls.” Natalie hesitated. “The day before he died, he and I had a falling out. He said I couldn’t have a horse until I was older. I was furious, told him I hated him, that he was the worst father in England. In the world.” Her throat tightened.

“Natalie,” Rhys said, his face creased in concern, “please, don’t upset yourself—”

“I told him I wished he were dead.” She raised her eyes to his. “And the next day, he was. My words – those horrible, childish, awful words – God, you can’t imagine how many times I’ve wished I could take them back. But of course, I can’t.”

He covered her hand in his. “You were a child,” he said softly. “You can’t possibly blame yourself.”

“But I did. For the longest time, I thought he’d killed himself because of me. Of course he didn’t; but I still wonder, sometimes, if what I said to him wasn’t the tipping point.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” His voice was low but firm. He leaned forward. “You may never know why he killed himself. But whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “I think you missed your calling. You should’ve been a psychotherapist.”

“In that case,” he said as he signalled for the waiter, “I prescribe a crème brûlée, or perhaps cake. A good pudding can set anything right.”

When they emerged from the restaurant an hour – and one shared slice of chocolate torte – later, a gaggle of reporters and the unwelcome flash of cameras greeted them.

“Bloody hell,” Rhys muttered. He took Natalie’s arm and drew her closer. “Someone must’ve seen us and tipped the press off. Let’s talk to them for a moment.”

“Can’t we just make a dash to the car and ignore them?” she whispered as she surveyed the handful of reporters.

“Lesson number three,” he murmured. “Always make nice with the press when you can. Chin up, darling. We’re on.”

Rhys skillfully deflected half a dozen rapid-fire questions, making jokes and answering queries without revealing anything of consequence. He told them that he and Natalie were working together to re-launch the Dashwood and James department stores, and promised the British public would love the results.

“Natalie, you stated that you and Dominic Heath are finished. How do you feel about that?” a female reporter asked.

“Relieved,” Natalie replied, and they all laughed. “Of course, I wish Dominic the best of luck. But I’ve moved on.”

Rhys held up his hand to stop the flow of questions. “Thank you all. Goodnight.”

“Rhys,” Natalie said in admiration as they drove away, “you were brilliant. They loved you.”

He snorted. “Trust me, the press is fickle. We’ll see in the morning, when the story hits the tabloids.”

Chapter 20

The next morning, after stopping to buy a copy of the
Mail
and the
Mirror
on her way to work, Natalie returned to her car and threw the tabloids on the passenger seat. She’d read them once she got to work.

She was halfway down Pont Street when her car died.

As she gripped the steering wheel in disbelief, the Peugeot shuddered, let out a rattle, and ghosted to a stop. The car behind her let out an impatient – and very loud – honk. Natalie stared at the instrument gauges in consternation. The car’s lights were still on; the bloody petrol tank was
full
.

But the engine refused to turn over.

She tried to start it again, but nothing happened, only a horrible sort of grinding noise that didn’t augur well.

Another couple of horns joined the one behind her. A man got out of the car behind and strode up to the driver’s window.

Cautiously she lowered the window.

“Are you out of petrol?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. My car just…stopped.”

“Then we’d best get you out of the road.”

As she remained at the wheel to steer, he pushed the little car out of harm’s way and called a towing service.

“They’ll be along shortly,” he informed her. “It’s probably your fuel pump.”

Natalie thanked him and offered to pay for his trouble, but he waved her thanks off and returned to his car.

Good thing he’d declined, because thanks to Rhys’ ridiculous budget, she had no cash. She’d just spent her last five quid at the newsagents.

Ten minutes later, a tow truck arrived and the ginger-haired driver jumped down and hitched the Peugeot’s bumper to a winch. “Where’re we takin’ ‘er, then?” he asked.

“Dashwood and James department store,” she replied, “on Sloane Street. There’s a car park nearby.”

He opened the tow truck door for her. “Right. In you go.”

Fifteen minutes later the Peugeot was unhitched and deposited in a parking spot. “That’ll be fifty quid,” Ginger-Hair announced as he wrote up the bill and handed it over.

Natalie blinked. Fifty quid! “I haven’t any cash on me,” she apologised as she scrabbled in her handbag for her wallet, “but you take credit cards, don’t you?”

He nodded. “All the majors.”

As she withdrew her wallet and flicked through dozens of plastic-encased credit cards, Natalie suddenly remembered that Rhys had closed all of her accounts. Every. Single. One.

Oh, crikey. She had no way to pay the tow-truck driver.

“Erm, you see, the thing is,” she told him with a nervous smile as she dropped the wallet back into her handbag, “I haven’t any cash on me, and my credit’s been cancelled.”

As his genial face darkened into a scowl, she added quickly, “But I have money upstairs, in my – in my desk.” Of course she didn’t. She’d just have to borrow fifty quid from the petty cash box and pay it back later. “If you wait here, I’ll be right back—”

“Oh, no.” He eyed her grimly. “I’ll just go wif you.”

Wordlessly she nodded, and together they went inside and took the lift to the fourth floor.

“Wait here,” Natalie told him as she left him in the conference room. “I’ll just be a moment.”

“Awright. But if you’re not back in five minutes—” he drew his bushy red brows together “—I’ll come and find you.”

Her heart thrumming, Natalie assured him that wouldn’t be necessary and hurried off to her desk. At least it was early; no one else was in yet. She jerked open the bottom left drawer with trembling hands and took out the petty cash box.

She lifted the lid. A neatly stacked pile of pound notes was rubber-banded together. Her fingers were unsteady as she counted out fifty quid and laid it on the desk. She’d borrow the money from mum or grandfather and put it back later, just as soon as she paid off that nasty ginger-haired bloke—

“You’re in early this morning, Natalie.”

With a start, she looked up to see Ian Clarkson standing beside her desk. “Ian! You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

“I came in early to work on the website. I might ask you the same question.” He eyed the cash box inquiringly but said nothing.

“I had…things to do.” Her glance strayed involuntarily to the tabloids and the packet of licorice allsorts she’d tossed on the blotter.

Ian reached down and picked up the
Daily Mail
. “‘Rhys Gordon and Natalie Dashwood share an intimate dinner at the Harwood Arms. Full story and photos on page two’,” he read aloud. He looked at her and smiled. “Well, well. You and Gordon are getting quite cosy, aren’t you?”

Natalie put the cash box back and slammed the drawer shut. “It was a business dinner, Ian, nothing more. Now if you’ll excuse me—” she pushed back her chair and stood “—I’ve things to be doing, and a tradesman waiting to be paid.”

But he didn’t move. He glanced at the fifty quid in her hand and said softly, “It looks to me as though you’re stealing from petty cash. Is that what you’re doing, Natalie?”

She stared at him, her eyes wide with unease, and opened her mouth to say no, of course not. But nothing came out. The words froze in her throat.

“Don’t worry.” His voice was a gentle caress. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

And as his eyes met hers, dark with amusement, she felt dread settle itself in her stomach.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she retorted. “Of course I’ll put the money back. Not that it’s any of your concern,” she added as she picked up the money and moved to brush past him.

“You’re right, it’s not.” He caught her arm. “But Rhys wouldn’t approve of you nicking money from the cash box. Sir Richard would be shocked. His own granddaughter, a thief…”

Natalie stared him down. “Let go of me.”

But his hand only tightened on her arm. “I could have you charged with theft.” His lips curved upwards. “I caught you in the act, you naughty girl.”

Real fear twisted inside her. “Are you threatening me?”

Ian dropped his hand from her arm. “Oh, nothing so dramatic. Don’t worry, Miss Dashwood. Our little secret.”

“‘Scuse me,” came the belligerent voice of the tow-truck driver from the doorway, “but I want me money.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Clarkson murmured. “Your tradesman is getting impatient,” and with a wink, he turned away and strode back to his office.

After she paid the driver and made herself a cup of tea, Natalie returned to her desk and sank down in the chair. Her hand shook slightly as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips. Ian Clarkson was a nasty piece of work under any circumstances; but now that he’d caught her taking money from the cash box, he had something – no matter how trivial – to hold over her.

She glanced at her watch and saw it was already half eight. Gemma and Rhys would be in soon; she hadn’t much time. She reached for one of the tabloids lying on her desk to have a quick look, and nearly choked on her tea.

Over a photo of herself looking up adoringly at Rhys, the headline trumpeted, ‘“I’ve Moved On,” Natalie Says.’ She let out an indignant gasp. They’d made it look as if she’d moved on, all right…straight into Rhys Gordon’s arms!

“Crikey!” she said out loud. “So much for being nice to the press.”

“You’ve seen the tabloids.” Rhys, briefcase in hand, stood in the doorway.

She looked up, startled. “Yes. You’re in early.”

“I’ve a lot on today. So, you didn’t like the stories?”

“No! They took an innocent comment and twisted it round to mean something entirely different,” she fumed.

“Welcome to the British media,” he said dryly.

Natalie frowned and held out a copy of the
Guardian
. “Oh – have you seen this? Klaus has made a deal with H&M to do a one-off line of clothing.” She looked at Rhys in outrage. “After he turned us down flat!”

Rhys took the paper from her and scanned the article. “Did you notice the date his collection debuts?” Grimly he tossed the paper aside. “It’s the Saturday of our re-launch.”