Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (26 page)

“I want you,” she breathed, “
now
…”

He undid the top buttons of her shirt with agonising slowness, until her lacy black bra was revealed. “I want to make love to you properly, on sheets with an indecently high thread count, and I intend to take my time doing it.”

Natalie’s hands slid over his shoulders and down the muscled length of his torso. “I can’t wait,” she said huskily against his mouth, and reached down to unclasp his belt.

He stayed her hand. “I don’t want our first time to be on the kitchen floor.”

“I don’t care where it is.” She put her hands on either side of his face and crushed her mouth against his.

He picked her up and carried her into his bedroom. “You’re very impatient, Miss Dashwood,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on hers as he lowered her onto his bed. “I had no idea you were so demanding.”

“I hope you’re worth the wait, Mr. Gordon.”

“Oh, I am,” he promised, and hooked his fingers on either side of her jeans and slid them slowly, teasingly, down the length of her legs.

Natalie kicked them off and reached behind her to unclasp her bra. Rhys’s mouth collided with hers, demanding and receiving and giving all at once. When he lifted his lips from hers and devoured his way down her neck to her breasts, she let out a low whimper.

Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as his tongue laved first one nipple with wet heat, then the other.

“I’ve wanted this since the night of that bloody party,” he growled. “I don’t know how I resisted you.”

“Lots of very long, very cold showers,” Natalie murmured, her skin tingling as his mouth began to move lower, down her stomach. “You…told me so yourself.”

“Do shut up, darling.”

Natalie clutched at the sheets as his lips and tongue moved slowly, oh so slowly, along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, closer and closer to her most sensitive centre…

“If you want me to shut up,” Natalie breathed, desperate with desire for him, “then you’d better make it good…”

And he proceeded, very skilfully, to do exactly that.

“Well…was I worth the wait?” Rhys asked afterwards, raising himself up on one elbow to look at her.

“Umm,” Natalie sighed. “Worth every minute. You were brilliant.” Her eyes drifted closed.

He kissed her shoulder. “Sleep, darling.”

She smiled and murmured something unintelligible.

Rhys pulled the blankets up and covered her, then kissed her tenderly on the side of her mouth. He studied her, loving the sight of her in his bed, then flung his arm over her and fell into a deep and satisfied sleep.

Chapter 33

The sound of the newsreader’s voice on the clock radio woke Rhys and Natalie the next morning.

“—shocking video of the fashion designer verbally and physically abusing an Indian store clerk in Knightsbridge has gone viral—”

Rhys lifted his head from the pillow and squinted at the clock. “Shit!” He sat up abruptly and slapped the alarm off, then flung back the covers. He had a meeting with Sir Richard at nine, less than forty minutes from now.

“What time is it?” Natalie murmured, and rolled over sleepily.

“Eight-fifteen. We overslept.” He pulled on a shirt and buttoned it up quickly. “I’ve a meeting with the board at nine to update them on the re-launch. Hurry and get dressed.”

“But…we can’t go in together!” she exclaimed as she got up.

“Why not?”

“Because then everyone will know we slept together.”

He grabbed a tie from the tie rack. “Natalie, the entire UK already thinks we’ve slept together.”

“That’s different! I don’t want Gemma, or Alastair, or, God forbid, grandfather to know about us just yet.”
And especially not Ian
, she almost added. “I want to keep our relationship private. At least for now,” she amended.

“Fine. Take a taxi, then,” Rhys said shortly. “I haven’t time to argue, I’ve got to go.” He leaned forward as he knotted his tie and kissed her briefly. “I’ll see you later.”

Traffic through Knightsbridge on Monday morning was as thick and slow as treacle. Alastair moved to switch off the radio just as the presenter said, “Klaus von Richter, head of design for Maison Laroche couture, is in a bit of hot water this morning—”

Hannah stayed his hand. “Wait, dad, I want to hear this.”

“Why, in heaven’s name?” Alastair demanded irritably.

Hannah shushed him and leaned forward to listen to the newscaster. “A video of von Richter’s verbal assault of 19-year-old store clerk Rajid Singh was posted to YouTube late yesterday and already has over three million hits. Singh’s father has filed assault charges against the designer. Executives at Maison Laroche are demanding von Richter’s resignation—”

Hannah switched off the radio and leaned back, stunned. Her mobile began to vibrate. Holly.

“Oh my God!” Holly wailed. “Klaus might lose his job because of me! Why did you post that bloody video? I told you not to! If anyone finds out—”

“Don’t worry, they won’t,” Hannah assured her, aware of her father’s curious glance. “I just got to work, talk later.” She thrust her mobile in her handbag. “Holly,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “She’s such a drama queen.”

Alastair negotiated a turn, his thoughts elsewhere. “Hannah, there’s been a change in your work schedule.”

She glanced at him warily. “What sort of change?”

He parked the Mercedes in his designated spot in front of the department store. “You’ll be in the ladies’ sportswear department for the rest of the week.” Human resources assured him that Jago Sullivan would be sacked on Friday afternoon.

“But I only just started in the stockroom!” she protested.

“You’ve been there nearly a month. There’s much more to Dashwood and James than the stockroom.”

“It’s because of Jago, isn’t it?”

Alastair’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No. I told you when you started that you’d be moving departments.”

“You don’t like him, so you’re moving me out.” When he said nothing, Hannah snapped, “You’re judging Jago because he’s working class. You’re wrong about him, dad. He’s ambitious. He’s going to school at night to learn to be a chef—”

“We’ll talk later.” Alastair shut off the engine. “For now,” he added as he cast his daughter a quelling glance, “report to the third floor. And I’ll hear no more about it.”

Natalie made it through the doors of Dashwood and James with only a couple of minutes to spare. The day passed in a blur of last-minute preparations for the re-launch – meetings with Phillip, Rhys and Sir Richard, calls to confirm delivery of the Portaloos, re-launch posters to review and approve… There was barely time for a salad at her desk.

It was six o’clock when Natalie finally slung her handbag over her shoulder and headed, exhausted, out the door.

Not only hadn’t she done her laundry yesterday – too busy rolling in the sheets with Rhys, she reflected guiltily – but she had nothing in her fridge for dinner…unless you counted a month-old stalk of asparagus and a half-bottle of Krug.

God, what she’d give for a nice, juicy takeaway burger right now…

A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to see Ian standing before her. Natalie came to an abrupt stop.

“Keep walking.” He took her elbow and propelled her forward; in his free hand he held a folder. “The park’s just ahead. Let’s find a bench and chat, shall we?”

Wordlessly Natalie walked with him, across the street and into Hyde Park, to an empty bench shaded by a lime tree. No one was about; only a young woman, walking her dog and talking on a mobile further along the path.

When they were seated, Ian handed her the folder. “Have a look. This should allay any doubts you might have about your father’s guilt.”

With trembling fingers, Natalie took the folder. She opened it and paged slowly through the photocopied ledger account entries. The method was clever. Small amounts of money – a hundred pounds here, fifty quid there – were paid out to various vendors.

“The vendors with tick marks—” Ian pointed to several entries “—billed the store and were paid, some in cash. But the vendors didn’t exist, and the cash went straight into your father’s pockets.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, her expression confused. “Why would he risk everything for such small amounts of money?”

“It added up over time – two years, and almost £100,000 before he was found out. As to why—” he paused “—the money went to support his mistress.” He leaned back against the bench and rested his arm along the back. “I do hope she was worth it.”

Natalie stared at him in dismay. Everyone, including her mother, must have known that Roger Dashwood was having an affair.

Natalie clutched the folder. “I can’t do this.” She looked at Ian, her expression troubled. “I’ll get you money, a car, whatever you want. But I can’t do this to Alexa.”

“You don’t have a choice, Natalie. I thought you understood that.” His expression hardened. “I’m divorcing my wife just as soon as she has the baby. After a decent interval, we can announce our engagement. You might want to talk to Sir Richard and mention that I be considered for a partnership.”

“Grandfather will never make you a partner, Ian! You’re mad if you think he will.”

“Convince him. It shouldn’t be difficult. He adores you, after all.”

“There’s Alastair to consider, and the board will have to vote on it—”

“I’ve reserved a room at the Savoy on the night of the re-launch.” Ian went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “That’s two weeks from now. We can celebrate, you and I. Alexa will be in hospital having the baby. The doctors have scheduled her for a Caesarean.” He smiled. “Isn’t modern medicine wonderful?”

“Ian, you can’t really mean to do this—”

“Sorry, but it’s already done.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers; she was too numb to react. “I’ll see you at eight-thirty. Go to the desk and ask for Mr. Gordon’s room.” He smirked. “You have to appreciate the irony, surely?”

She glared at him. “I promise you, Ian, Rhys has nothing to worry about on your account.”

His laugh was low and ugly. “Got there first, did he? Well, Gordon might be first, but I’ll be the last.” Just before he stood, he added, “By the way – wear something sexy on the night. I like black heels and a short skirt, something a bit – tarty.” With another smirk, he turned and walked away.

Natalie shouldered her handbag and stood, her legs trembling and her thoughts racing.

What to do?
She had to tell Rhys, she couldn’t let Ian do this. Being forced to sleep with him was bad enough; but she knew it wouldn’t end there. He’d force her to play out his twisted little game until he tired of her.

Ian Clarkson had to be stopped. But how?
How?

Chapter 34

The next morning, Alexa Clarkson left the obstetrician’s office after her appointment and went to the newsagents. She rang Ian’s mobile and got his voicemail.

“It’s me. I just got back from Dr. Assam’s office. Everything’s fine; I’m still on for the Caesarean next Saturday. Call me.”

Alexa put away her mobile. She had a sudden craving for a Cadbury Flake. She sighed. No wonder she was bigger than a Range Rover.

“Good morning,” she said as she entered the shop. She picked up a Flake bar, shrugged and added a Dairy Milk, and set them on the counter. “I’ll be right back.”

The Indian woman behind the till nodded but didn’t look up from her well-thumbed copy of
Hello!
.

Alexa studied the racks of publications. Klaus von Richter, the German designer, had assaulted a store clerk. The
Sun
caught her eye. ‘Natalie’s New Mystery Man?’ the headline read. Curious, she picked it up.

The grainy photo showed Natalie sitting on a park bench next to a tallish man in sunglasses. Although his back faced the camera, he definitely wasn’t Rhys. And they were kissing.

“Oho,” Alexa murmured, surprised. “Rhys isn’t enough for you, then, Nat?”

She tucked the
Sun
under her arm and scanned the other tabloids. When she saw the
Daily Mirror
, time ground to a halt. She picked it up with an unsteady hand. The photo showed Natalie sitting on the same park bench, her head bent forward in conversation with the same tall, brown-haired man. This photograph, however, was much sharper than the others.

The newsprint slipped from her nerveless fingers. She felt the baby move in her abdomen, and she let out a short, startled gasp. It couldn’t be. Yet there was no mistake.

The man in the photo with Natalie was her husband. Ian.

“Are you all right, miss?” the clerk asked, clucking with concern as she put aside her magazine and hurried over.

“I’m fine. I had a…contraction. It was probably one of those Braxton-Hicks things.” Alexa took the tabloid the clerk handed her. Methodically, she grabbed every tabloid with a photo of Natalie and Ian and carried them to the till.

The woman rang everything up. “Will this be all?”

“Yes,” Alexa said grimly. “This will be quite enough.”

Just before noon, Natalie arrived at Phillip Pryce’s atelier on Great Portland Street and went up to his workroom. Phillip was marking a bias-cut skirt with tailor’s chalk as the Scissor Sisters played at full volume.

He looked up as Natalie entered. “Well, hello, chickpea! I see our friend Klaus is in the news this morning.” He set aside his tailor’s chalk and lowered the stereo volume.

“Yes, he’s in a bit of hot water, isn’t he?”

“More like a vat, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer prick,” Phillip agreed. “But he’s not the only one who’s all over the tabs this morning. You are, too.”

Dismayed, Natalie set her handbag down atop a teetering pile of bolts of fabric. “I am? Why, what have I done now?”

“You’ve been a naughty girl. You were caught snogging a man on a park bench…not Rhys, either.” He raised his brow. “Tall, dark haired chap, looks quite dishy from what I saw. Do spill the details, please.”

Her heart sank. “Do you have a copy?”

“Look on the cutting table, that’s where I saw it last.”