Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (27 page)

She picked up the latest issue of the
Sun
, and on the cover was a photo of her with Ian, his back to the camera, just as he’d pressed his lips to hers. How on earth had anyone got a picture of them? There’d been no one around…

…no one, that is, except for the woman walking her dog and talking on her mobile. She’d used her phone’s camera to snap a picture, of course.

Natalie remembered Rhys’s remark, the first time they’d had lunch together.

You never know when a photographer might be around, or someone with a camera phone.

“So?” Phillip prodded as she stared at the tabloid. “Who is he?”

“A friend,” Natalie said, hoping her voice sounded sufficiently casual, and tossed the
Sun
aside. “His wife’s pregnant, they’ve been trying for a baby for a long time. He was so happy that he got a bit carried away and kissed me. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” Phillip didn’t look particularly convinced. “Well, if that’s your story… What can I do for you today?”

“It’s about the clutch you’re making for the dress I’m wearing in the fashion show. I wondered…can you make an opening, in the lining? So I can slip something in behind it?”

“I could,” he said doubtfully, “but why? Planning on hiding your vial of ecstasy in there? I didn’t think you were an ‘E’ sort of girl.”

“I’m not! I just thought it might be a handy way to stash some extra cash. Or to hide one’s credit card if one’s in a dodgy neighbourhood.”

Phillip raised a brow skeptically. “And does one often frequent dodgy neighbourhoods?”

“One never knows,” Natalie said evasively.

“I’ll do it for the sample,” he agreed, “but not for the production line. If I do, costs will triple, and Rhys Gordon will have my arse.” He smirked. “Ooh, now there’s a visual…”

“You’re an angel – tarnished, but an angel.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Thanks. I love you, Phillip.”

“Careful,” Jacques called out from the adjoining room, “I might get jealous.”

“What size for the opening?” Phillip asked.

She held up her mobile. “About this size, actually.”

He nodded, a straight pin in his mouth as he readied a side seam for stitching. He removed the pin and thrust it in place. “You’re not telling me what this is really about, are you?”

“No, Phillip. I’m not. I can’t.”

“You’re not a spy, are you? Not concealing a Luger or a Walther PPK in there, perhaps?”

“I’m not Lara bloody Croft. You have an overactive imagination.”

“It keeps our dull lives interesting,” Jacques remarked.

“Come in here, please,” Phillip called out to him. “I want you to alter the sample clutch for Nat’s cocktail dress.” Briefly he explained to Jacques what Natalie wanted.

“So much for the House of Holland party tonight, then,” Jacques groused. “Instead, I’ll be up to my elbows in grape leather.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can do it tomorrow. We’re not missing Henry’s party tonight.” Phillip winked at Natalie. “Not even for you, chickpea.”

At seven that evening, the door buzzer echoed through Natalie’s flat. She got up from her laptop – damn Rhys and his damned budgeting spreadsheet – and went into the front hallway to press the button. “Yes?” she inquired.

“It’s Alexa.”

Nat gazed at the intercom in dismay. “Oh! Come on up.”

As she pressed the button to let Ian’s wife in downstairs, Natalie wondered uneasily if she’d seen the photographs of Ian and her in the tabloids. Of course she had. You couldn’t walk past the newsagents without seeing the lurid headlines.

Natalie swung the door open a few minutes later. “Hello, Alexa. It’s great to see you! Due soon, aren’t you?”

Alexa regarded her as one might regard a poisonous insect.

“Please…come in.” Nat’s heart quickened as she led the way into the lounge. “Can I get you a cup of tea? Won’t you sit down—?”

“No, I won’t.” Alexa brandished a copy of the
Mirror
. “And I don’t want a cup of bloody
tea
. I want you to tell me what the hell’s going on. That’s what I want.”

Natalie took the tabloid Alexa thrust at her and stared at the cover photo for the second time that day. It showed her walking with Ian in the park, their heads close together in conversation.

“Oh, yes…that,” she managed to stammer eventually. Her thoughts raced. “It was nothing. Really—”

“Nothing?” Alexa asked softly. “In the
Mirror
, you’re having a cosy chat with my husband; in the
Sun
, you’re sitting on a park bench snogging, and it was
nothing
?”

“It isn’t what you think.”

“Oh, it is, there’s no question of that. You called Ian not long ago, late on Sunday night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t deny it. I saw your name listed in his mobile.”

“I had a question about work.” Natalie’s throat tightened. This was awful. How to explain without telling Alexa the truth – that her husband planned to divorce her and cast her aside like an empty sweet wrapper?

“A question about work, so late on a Sunday night? Right. You must think I’m not only pregnant, but stupid.” Alexa eyed her with contempt. “You’re screwing my husband, aren’t you?”

“No!” Shock sharpened her voice. “I’m seeing Rhys, and I have been for weeks. I have no interest in Ian, Alexa! You know how the tabloids are, how they distort the truth—”

“It’s hard to argue with a photo, though, isn’t it?” She slapped her hand hard against the picture. “The two of you are kissing, Natalie. Right here in black and white. You slag. You cheap, lying slag.”

Natalie’s eyes widened. “Alexa, please, if you’d just let me explain—”

“I don’t need you to explain that you’re fucking my husband,” Alexa said succinctly. “It’s plain enough, even to a stupid, trusting cow like me.”

“Listen to me.” Natalie reached out to touch her, to try and reason with her. “We’ve been friends for a long time—”

Alexa knocked her hand aside. “No longer. You’re welcome to Ian, because he and I are through. I don’t need him, and this baby doesn’t need him. And I most certainly don’t need
friends—
” the word was laced with rancour “—like you.”

So saying, she flung the tabloids at Natalie in a wild flutter of newsprint, and left.

Chapter 35

After a tense and silent ride home with her father after work, Hannah stormed up the stairs and slammed her door.

“What’s happened?” Cherie asked Alastair sharply as she sat across from him at dinner. “Why has Hannah gone upstairs?”

“I moved her out of the stockroom, away from that Sullivan boy. She’s furious.” He speared a roasted potato. “She’ll get over it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Cherie retorted. The phone rang, and she got up to answer it. “Hello, James residence.” There was no immediate response. “Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Jago. Jago Sullivan. For Hannah,” he added.

“One moment.” Cherie glared at Alastair and went upstairs to knock on Hannah’s door. “You’ve a call.”

Hannah edged the door open. “Who is it?”

“It’s Jago. I didn’t tell your father. When you’ve finished,” Cherie added, “come straight down to dinner.”

“I will,” Hannah promised. She hesitated. “Thanks, mum.”

“They moved you,” Jago said when Hannah picked up the phone.

“Yeah, to ladies’ sportswear. I hate it.”

“I’m sorry. Sorry about what I said, too.” He paused. “We can meet up for lunch tomorrow, if you like.”

“Dim Sum Palace?” Hannah asked tentatively.

“Twelve o’clock,” Jago agreed. “Sharpish, mind.”

Just before noon the next day, Rhys called Natalie into his office and asked her to shut the door.

He threw a copy of the previous day’s
Sun
on his desk. “What’s going on?” he demanded without preamble. “Are you having an affair with Ian Clarkson?”

“What? How can you even
ask
me that?” Natalie exclaimed angrily. “Of course I’m not!”

“It’s right there in black and white.” He looked at her, his blue eyes hard. “What else am I to think?”

“Think what you want. It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind, at any rate.” Fury propelled her to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Natalie,” he demanded. He came round his desk and slapped his palm on the door, blocking her exit. “Tell me you’re not screwing Ian.”

“No, I’m not! Isn’t my word enough?”

“You met him for drinks at the Connaught. I saw you myself! Now you’ve been photographed kissing him on a park bench, and it wasn’t just a peck on the bloody cheek!”

“You’ve got the wrong idea—”

He dropped his hand. “It’s obvious you don’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Go on, then,” he snapped, “go.”

His eyes were dark with anger. “With pleasure.” She flung the door open and left his office.

“I have to leave right now, or I’ll bloody well kill him,” Natalie seethed as she stalked over to Gemma’s desk.

“Well,” Gemma remarked dryly, “I certainly don’t have to ask who you’re talking about. Come on, let’s get some lunch.”

They found seats in Pizza Express ten minutes later. Gemma looked over at Natalie expectantly. “What’s Rhys done now? I know you two had a closed-door this morning.” She lifted a brow. “I heard shouting…mostly his.”

Natalie bit her lip. In a low voice she said, “God, Gemma, I have to tell someone, or I’ll go mad. I’m being blackmailed.”

“You’re not serious.” Gemma’s dark eyes searched her face. “You
are
serious! Who, Nat? What on earth have you done?”

“It’s not what I’ve done. It’s what my father did. He embezzled money from the store, a long time ago. Someone—” she tamped down the slow rise of panic “—someone has proof.”

“But your dad died years ago!” Gemma exclaimed. “What difference does any of that make now?”

“This…person…has promised to go to the media. My father’s name will be ruined.” Natalie looked at Gemma in anguish. “He had a mistress.”

“What?!”

“It was in all the papers when I was at school. I didn’t understand it then, of course, but I remember the newsmen hanging round outside our front gate, snapping pictures, and I remember the fights he and mum had. He must’ve stolen money from the store to keep this woman – whoever she was – from talking to the press. God – this’ll kill mum if it comes out. Dredging up all that muck again…not to mention grandfather. My father’s suicide gutted him. And his health is already so frail…”

“Oh, Nat,” Gemma murmured in concern, and reached out to cover her hand. “You’ve got to go to the police with this.”

“I can’t. He’ll know, and he’ll smear my father’s name, and stir up bad publicity for the store. We’re just about to reopen. He’ll destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for.”

“Who’s doing this?” Gemma asked, her voice hard. “Who is it?” Her eyes widened as realisation hit her. “It’s Ian, isn’t it?”

Natalie hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. His stepfather was the head accountant at Dashwood and James when this all happened. Geoffrey Graham. He realised what was going on and blackmailed my father. It’s why he committed suicide.”

“So…let me get my head round this. Ian – the stepson of the man who was blackmailing your father – is blackmailing you, now…for the same exact reason.”

Wordlessly Natalie nodded.

“That’s so twisted! And what does he want?”

“He wants me to get him a partnership in the store. And…he’s arranged for a hotel room on Saturday night. The night of the re-launch,” Natalie said dully. “So we can ‘celebrate’.”

Gemma leaned forward, her face stamped with outrage. “Nat, you have to tell someone! Tell Rhys. He’ll know what to do. You can’t let Ian menace you with this for the rest of your life.”

“I’m afraid, Gemma. If I tell Rhys, and Ian finds out—” she stopped. “He’ll ruin everything – my father’s name, the re-launch, all of it. He’s clever. I can’t risk it.”

“Screw your father’s name!”

Natalie stared at her in shock. “How can you say that?”

“He didn’t give much thought to you and your mum, did he, screwing around and stealing money to keep his bit on the side quiet? He sounded like a selfish prick, if you ask me.”

Tears seeped from the corners of Natalie’s eyes. “He may have been, Gemma – but he was still my father! I can’t bear to see his name dragged through the mud. And we’ve all worked so bloody hard on the re-launch, Rhys most of all. Ian knows that.”

“But you can’t let him get away with this, either!” She reached out and took Natalie’s hands in hers. “You know this is only the beginning, don’t you? Natalie, you have to stop it. And you have to stop it
now
.”

The next morning, Natalie finalised the arrangements for the re-launch – confirmations, cancellations, updates to the after-party guest list, a try-on of Phillip’s clothes for the fashion show. One of the models hired for the show called to say she’d turned her ankle.

Natalie rang off and glanced at Gemma. “I need a huge favour. Will you model in the show next Saturday? We’re down one and I need a replacement.”

“Me?” Gemma eyed her in shock. “I’m no bloody model.”

“You’re tall and gorgeous and a size eight. You’re perfect,” Natalie implored.

“Well, if you put it like that, how can I refuse?” She added in a low voice, “Have you told Rhys yet?”

“No.” Natalie looked up to see her mother standing in Rhys’s doorway. “But I will do, today. Excuse me.”

She stood. “Mum! What are you doing here?”

Celia Dashwood turned and, with a guilty expression, came forward to kiss her daughter. “I came to see you. I thought we might have lunch in the tearoom today.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Natalie said. “I have a million things to do—”

“Gemma will see to them,” Rhys called out from his office. “Go and have lunch with your mum. You’re no good to anyone if you’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” she said shortly. “I’m busy. There’s a difference.”

“Go,” Rhys said as he stood in the doorway. He fixed her with a steely blue glare. “That’s a bloody order.”

Natalie scowled and turned to her mother. “Very well. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten minutes.”