Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (37 page)

“If you still want to, after I said you had no breeding,” Natalie said in a small voice.

“Us rough blokes from council estates don’t, as a rule,” Rhys remarked. “Have breeding, that is. But we’re great in a bar fight.” His eye gleamed. “And bloody good in bed, too.”

Natalie blushed. “I’ve dated men with breeding,” she said, “and you’re nothing like them. And I’m glad you’re not.”

“I love you, Natalie, and that’s all that matters.” He bent his head down to kiss her, long and lingeringly.

And of course her mobile chose that precise moment to ring.

“Nat,” Phillip said, “we’re ready to start the fashion show. You’re on in ten minutes, chickpea.”

“I’ll be right there.” She put her phone away. “I have to go. It’s nearly time for my catwalk debut.”

“You’ll be great, darling, like you were at the photo shoot.” He took her face tenderly in his hands. “I’ve never been prouder of anyone than I am of you right now. You’re amazing, Natalie Dashwood.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally realised that. It took you long enough.” She kissed him and reluctantly broke away. “Phillip’s waiting.” Her smile faded. “I’m going to the Savoy once the fashion show’s done and we’ve put in an appearance at the after-party. I’ll be wearing Phillip’s black cocktail dress. Rhys—” she clutched his hand “—I’m really scared.”

“Don’t be.” He pulled her back into his arms. “I’ll be in the incident van with the police. They’ll arrest the bastard at the first opportunity.”

She kissed him again, and pulled away. As she hurried off to join the backstage chaos, Natalie was glad she hadn’t told Rhys her plan to conceal her smart phone behind the lining of Phillip’s clutch. He wouldn’t approve. And it
was
dangerous; if Ian found the phone, God knows what he’d do. But the risk was worth it. With the satellite navigation system enabled, the police could track her exact location.

Her mobile rang. Ian Clarkson.

“Natalie, hello. I’m looking forward to our rendezvous tonight.” His voice was low and intimate.

“I’m busy,” she said shortly as she took a seat backstage in Tamara’s makeup chair. “What do you want?”

“Improve your attitude, for a start. We’ll work on that tonight.” He paused and added, “Eight-thirty, the Savoy. Don’t be late.”

With trembling fingers, Natalie pressed ‘Call End’ and turned off all sounds on the mobile. It wouldn’t do to have a ring tone shrilling out in the hotel room at the wrong moment.

She closed her eyes as Tamara applied eye shadow and mascara.
Focus
, Nat told herself. Just get through the next five minutes…ten minutes…half-hour. Don’t think about Ian, or the wire, or all the things that might go wrong tonight.

But she couldn’t shake her unease. Ian was clever, and determined. And that made her very, very nervous.

“All right, girls, let’s go!” Phillip called out just before the show. “The mood’s upbeat, enthusiastic. Think happy, sexy thoughts.”

“Happy, sexy thoughts,” Gemma muttered, and scowled. She wore a giraffe-print jersey dress with an asymmetrical hem and black Jimmy Choo booties.

“Ready?” Jacques asked her as he eyed her critically. “You’re first out.”

“Yes,” she answered grimly. “I’m happy. I’m sexy.”

He regarded her with a raised brow. “You look like you just swallowed a boot. You should be over the moon. Didn’t you hear Keeley and Dominic singing the encore? He wrote that song especially
pour vous
!”

She nodded. “I know, and I feel awful because I was a shit to him this morning. I even threw a bag of bacon butties at him.”

“Not nice,” he agreed. “Sounds like something
he’d
do.”

“I want to say sorry, but I haven’t had a chance.”

“Give me your mobile,” he commanded, and held out his hand.

“What?” She stared at him blankly.

“Give me your mobile. I’ll text him, get the ball rolling. Hurry, it’s almost time for you to go out.”

Gemma lunged for her handbag and took out her mobile. She scrolled to Dominic’s number and handed Jacques the phone. “Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him the song was incredible. And tell him—” she hesitated “—I love him. Thanks.”

“Done. Never let it be said I stood in the way of true love. Now, go! And smile, damn it!”

To the sound of dozens of shutters clicking and flashbulbs popping, Gemma took a shaky breath and strode out on the catwalk. She had a vague impression of fashionably-dressed men and women seated alongside the walkway, brandishing pens and mobile phones, their faces turned up expectantly as she walked past.

A sea of people crowded the grass and the walkways beyond the stage. She smiled and paused briefly at the end of the catwalk, one hand on her hip as she’d been instructed. Then she swivelled and retraced her steps, returning to backstage chaos.

The rip of double-sided fashion tape, the click of Manolos, Choos, and Louboutins as one model came in to change and the next sashayed out, the relentless shutter-click and flash of the cameras…these were the sounds that filled Natalie’s ears as she waited to go out on the catwalk.

Clothes, shoes, and jewellery were changed quickly. As the models dressed, stylists fluffed their hair, assistants taped shoe straps securely into place on ankles, makeup artists flicked brushes over upturned faces – like race cars being serviced at a pit stop, Natalie reflected.

Reporters’ and editors’ pens flew, bloggers texted and Tweeted, and photos were uploaded. Photographers from every publication in Britain crowded together at the end of the catwalk. Those in the centre got the best pictures – photographers from
Elle
,
Vogue
,
Marie Claire
, television crews, the
Telegraph
and the
Guardian
– while the rest jammed in along the sides, elbows jabbing ruthlessly as they vied for the best shots.

“You’re next, Nat,” Phillip called out. “Go out and wow them, chickpea!”

As Jacques and his assistant made sure her rope-heeled espadrilles were tied securely around her ankles, Natalie put all thoughts of Ian and the Savoy out of her mind. She wore a yellow striped Breton shirt under a bright blue denim pinafore, with a leather schoolgirl’s satchel slung over her shoulder.

I’m sexy and happy
, Nat told herself as Elspeth returned. With a deep breath, she launched herself onto the catwalk.

In ten minutes the show was almost over. The time passed in a blur of clothing changes, rapid-fire instructions, popping flashbulbs, and the stares of the reporters and fashion editors who studied every outfit with single-minded concentration.

“OK,” Jacques told Natalie as she returned for her final clothing change, “you’re wearing the sheath dress and the silver Louboutins, correct?”

She nodded. Her mobile rang and she glanced at the screen. “Poppy! What a surprise. When did you get back from Sri Lanka?”

“Just now. I’ll be there in five minutes. Not too late for your show, am I?”

“No! That’s fantastic, see you soon.” Natalie thanked her and rang off, then let out a whoop. “Poppy Simone is on her way!” she told Phillip.

He nearly swooned. “Poppy? I thought you said she couldn’t make it. Will she model an outfit? What’ll she wear?” he wondered, and grabbed a long, sexy halter dress with silkscreened peacock feathers. “What about this?”

Nat laughed. “Phillip, calm down! Poppy’s lovely. She’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Shit! What an amazing finale this’ll be for the show!” Phillip said fervently. “Not that you’re not amazing, too,” he told Natalie hastily.

“But I’m not Poppy Simone,” she pointed out as she slipped into the sheath dress.

“No,” Jacques agreed, “but we love you anyway, sweetie. You’re still Britain’s ‘It’ Girl. Now, out you go!”

Natalie smoothed her hands over her hips. The sheath was black, with a sweetheart neckline, and it fitted her body snugly. Paired with gunmetal grey Louboutin heels and Phillip’s purple leather clutch, the outfit was extremely sexy.

“I like black heels and a short skirt, something just a bit – tarty.”

Ian’s words echoed in her head, and fear threatened to swamp her. But there wasn’t time to be afraid. With a plastered-on smile, Natalie strode out for the last time onto the catwalk, determined to think happy, sexy thoughts.

When Poppy Simone arrived, wearing a short denim skirt, a T-shirt, and Uggs, Phillip embraced her.

“Poppy, welcome! I’m Phillip. I’m thrilled you’re here.”

“I love your clothes,” Poppy told him. She fingered a navy-blue bouclé jacket hanging on the rack.

“It’s yours, after the show,” he promised her. He took the peacock-print gown from Jacques and handed it to her. “You’re wearing the last outfit. When Natalie comes back, you’re on.”

“It’s gorgeous.” Poppy eyed the dress, vivid with shades of turquoise, blue, and green, then stepped out of her skirt and T-shirt and slid the slinky gown over her head. Tamara and Gavin worked quickly together to touch up her hair and makeup.

“Shoes!” Phillip said to Jacques. “Where are the shoes for Poppy’s dress?”

A pair of Miu Miu gold and black leopard-print platforms was produced, and Poppy thrust her feet inside.

Jacques frowned and pressed one finger against his lip. “Should we announce her?”

“No,” Phillip decided. “Poppy Simone doesn’t need an introduction. Send her out. Everyone’ll recognise her, and go wild.”

Natalie returned, breathless, from her final turn down the catwalk. “Poppy!” she squealed as they hugged one another. “Thanks for this, it means everything to Phillip. And to me.”

“It’s no problem.” Poppy slid the armload of silver bangles that Jacques held out over her wrist. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck!” they chorused as Poppy strode out onto the catwalk.

As the crowds and flashbulbs went wild, one of the event staff rushed up to Natalie and blurted, “Miss Dashwood? You’ve just had a call from Dr. Findlay’s office.”

Natalie paled. Dr. Findlay was Sir Richard’s physician. “Is it grandfather? Is he all right?”

“I’m sorry,” the young woman apologised, “I only know that he’s been admitted to hospital, St. George’s. They think he’s had a heart attack.”

Groping blindly behind her, Natalie found a folding chair and sat down. “Oh, God, no…”

“They said a ward sister will meet you at the General Critical Care Unit and give you more details.”

“St. George’s, the GCCU. Right, I’m on my way.” Natalie stood up unsteadily and hurried out to her car, all thoughts of Ian and their meeting at the Savoy hotel completely forgotten.

Chapter 48

At the GCCU entrance, Natalie parked the Peugeot with a squeal of tyres. She grabbed Phillip’s purple clutch and walked as quickly as she dared in her Louboutin heels towards the building. Although her catwalk outfit attracted plenty of curious glances, she didn’t care.

All that mattered was seeing grandfather and ensuring he was all right.

“Natalie?”

She stopped and turned around as a familiar voice behind her called her name. “Ian! What are you doing here?”

He came up and took her elbow in a firm grip as he said pleasantly, “Hello, Natalie. What a surprise.” In a low voice he added, “Get in the car.” He thrust something hard and cold and cylindrical against her ribs. A gun, she realised. “Don’t be tiresome and make a scene.”

She resisted as he propelled her towards a black Audi idling at the curb. “I can’t go with you! Grandfather’s here.”

“No, he’s not. He’s at home,” Ian said briefly. “He’s fine. Now get in the car.”

He opened the passenger door, still pressing the gun in her side, and thrust her inside. Natalie teetered on her heels and half-stumbled onto the seat. Ian shut the door and quickly got in and slid behind the wheel.

“I like your outfit.” He glanced in approval at the long expanse of her legs as he pulled away. “Is that what the typical model’s wearing on the catwalk these days? I ought to go to fashion shows more often. That was more Alexa’s thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with grandfather,” Natalie murmured. “He’s all right.” Relief overwhelmed her.

“As far as I know, the old bastard’s fine, more’s the pity. Using the heart attack ploy worked a treat to get you away from the re-launch, though.”

Natalie stared at him, stunned by his lack of remorse. “It’s all a joke to you, isn’t it? A game.”

“Not at all.” He turned south on Queen’s Gate Terrace. “I take it very seriously. Because the prize at the end of the game—” he smiled “—is you, Natalie.”

She cursed herself for her stupidity, blindly rushing off to St. George’s without telling anyone, without checking that grandfather really was in hospital. She’d placed herself in serious danger. Now, the plans the police had in place – the surveillance van, the wire, the plainclothes detectives – meant nothing. Ian had seen to that.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, swallowing down the sudden rise of panic.

“Not the Savoy.” He turned left onto the A4. “Sorry, I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“You never meant to go there, did you?”

“No. Pity, it’s a very nice hotel. But it was a red herring, in the event you told anyone about our rendezvous.” He looked at her, his face unreadable. “I don’t fancy the police interrupting us.”

“Why should they? I haven’t told them anything.”

“I drove by the Savoy earlier. I saw a van outside, no doubt rigged to the teeth with surveillance equipment. You’re disappointingly predictable, Natalie.”

“And you’re paranoid.”

“If you’re wearing a wire,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll find it soon enough.” His glance raked over her.

Natalie said nothing, her thoughts racing. She’d tucked her mobile behind the lining of her clutch before the show began. The police could locate her using sat nav – as long as Ian didn’t find the phone first. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving; she’d been far too upset to think straight.

Play along
, she told herself.
Stall for time
. Give Rhys and the police the time they needed to find her…

“Give me that.” Ian, his eyes focused on the road, held out his hand for the clutch.