Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (15 page)

“Why?” Natalie asked, surprised. “He was your mentor, after all. You interned with him at Maison Laroche, didn’t you?”

Phillip nodded. “Klaus designs haute couture pieces that cost thousands of pounds. The workmanship is superb and the materials are exquisite, and there’s a tiny group of women who can afford his clothing. But my fashion philosophy is quite different to his.”

“I see. And what’s yours?” Natalie asked, intrigued.

“I believe everyone should have access to beautiful, wearable clothes, not just the ladies-who-lunch set. There’s no reason clothing can’t be well made without costing the earth. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t put my name on a watered-down collection, and I don’t like cheap clothing or knock-offs, either. If you were to sum up my philosophy, I suppose you could say I’m a fashion egalitarian.”

“
Liberté
,
égalité
, Rodarte,” Jacques said dryly.

“Ooh, I like that!” Phillip exclaimed. He held up his glass in a mock salute. “
Liberté
,
égalité
, Versace!”

“What Phillip hasn’t told you,” Jacques added, “aside from the fact that he’s had a bit too much to drink, is that he dumped the old German queen to set up shop – and house – with me. So neither of us is at the top of Klaus’s hit parade.”

Natalie winced. “Oh. No wonder he looked like a thundercloud about to rupture when I mentioned Phillip’s name.”

“Don’t worry, chickpea.” Phillip clinked his glass of champagne against hers. “You and I will make beautiful clothes together…with or without Klaus von Arsehole’s approval.”

After concluding his business with Nina, Rhys accompanied her outside and flagged down a taxi. “Where to?” he asked her as he held the door open.

“My hotel room,” she said, and slid inside the cab. She eyed him expectantly. The invitation was plain.

“St. Giles Hotel, Heathrow,” he instructed the driver, and leaned back down. “Sorry, love. I’m…involved with someone. I’ll see you on Friday.” He shut the door.

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” she pouted.

He nodded. “I’m sure. Goodnight.”

“
Bonne nuit
.” With a sigh of regret, she rolled the window up, and the taxi pulled away.

As he re-entered the Bull and Feathers for a nightcap before he returned to his hotel room, Rhys’s glance skimmed over the crowded interior.

He squeezed in at the bar and his glance strayed to the back corner table. A rowdy group of young men and women had replaced Natalie and her friends.

As he signalled the publican for his bill, Rhys couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved that she was gone.

Relieved
, he told himself as he paid his tab. He could’ve had Nina in his bed tonight; that was plain enough. She was young, certainly, and lovely, and undeniably willing; but there was one thing she wasn’t.

She wasn’t Natalie.

Chapter 18

“Are you free on Sunday?” Rhys asked as Natalie gathered up her things to leave the following Friday.

She picked up her sunglasses. “I might be,” she said cautiously. “I can’t work, if that’s what you’re asking—”

“I never work on Sunday. It’s my ironclad rule. No, I wondered if perhaps you’d go shopping with me.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re asking me to go shopping? You’re always on at me for overspending!”

“It’s my money we’ll be spending, not yours.”

“Well in that case, OK. Why are we shopping, anyway? And what are we shopping for?”

“I’ve bought a flat in Covent Garden. I’m tired of living out of a hotel room.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “I’m staying at the Connaught as part of my hire agreement; but it’s costing the company money it can’t afford. I thought about what you said.” He raised a brow. “I won’t be accused of ‘swanning about’ at the company’s expense.”

Natalie dropped her gaze and fiddled with her sunglasses. “I shouldn’t have said that—”

“No, you’re right. I can’t help Dashwood and James if I’m contributing to the problem. Besides, I need a base of operations in London, and the flat’s a good investment.” He scowled. “It ought to be, it’s costing enough. But to answer your question—” he paused “—I’ll need furniture, and lamps, and cookware. And I haven’t a clue where to begin.”

“OK,” she agreed. On impulse she added, “What are you doing next Friday night? If you fancy dinner at mine, I’ll make you my famous spaghetti Bolognese.”

“I wish I could. But I’ve got something on next Friday – it’s the stag night for my mate, Ben. His wedding’s on Saturday. You said you’d go,” he reminded her.

“Oh yes, the stag night,” Natalie said, her heart sinking. “Of course you can’t miss that…or Nina’s
tasteful
striptease act.” She sniffed. “At any rate, I’ve better things to do than make dinner for someone who’d rather eat peanuts and swill beer while he watches some tart wriggle out of her knickers.”

Rhys stepped closer, and his dark blue gaze lingered on her upturned face. “If I were really the oversexed Neanderthal you seem to think I am,” he murmured, “I’d say I’d much rather see you wriggle out of your knickers. But I’m not…and it wouldn’t be proper. So I won’t say it.” He grinned and turned to go. “I’ll see you Sunday, Miss Dashwood. Wear your best knickers.”

On Saturday morning, the promise of coffee lured Cherie James off the rainy street and into her favourite bookstore.

She closed her umbrella and tucked it in her handbag, deciding to treat herself to a book first, then coffee. She needed a nice, soapy novel with lots of sex…something with a plot about a neglected wife and her workaholic husband…

Cherie couldn’t bear the thought of spending another Saturday alone, with Alastair working, and Hannah at her gran’s.

She was just reaching out for the latest Katie Fforde when she heard her name. “Neil!” she exclaimed, surprise mingled with pleasure as she turned around. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “The same as you, I expect.”

“Ah. Feeling sorry for yourself and looking for a good, trashy novel, then?”

Neil laughed. “No. I’m with Duncan. He’s looking for a Chopin biography for a revision paper.”

“You mean he came here willingly?” she said, and raised her brow. “I have to drag Hannah in, kicking and screaming. I, on the other hand, can’t resist a good book.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thanks again for inviting me to join you for dinner. I enjoyed it.”

“I did, too. The food was lovely.”

“It was certainly a vast improvement on leftover roast and frozen Yorkshire pudding.”

Cherie went to the magazine shelves, where she studied the tabloids on offer. “I imagine you’re glad to be back home, now that Sarah’s returned.”

“Oh, she’s still in Bath. Her mum had complications after the surgery, so I’m staying on with Duncan a bit longer. Tonight we’re going out to dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”

“That sounds lovely. But I’ve already taken out lamb chops.” She took her items to the till and turned back to Neil. “I’m headed upstairs for a coffee if you’d like to join me.”

“I would. A cup of coffee sounds perfect.”

“As long as you don’t mind if I peruse the tabloids while we have our coffees,” she warned him.

“Not at all.” He smiled. “Reading the tabs is my second-favourite guilty pleasure.”

She raised her brow. “Oh? And what’s the first?”

“I’ll never tell.” He tucked her arm inside his, and together they went upstairs to the café.

Alastair James glanced at his wristwatch as he entered the bookstore. He had just enough time to buy a gardening book for Celia Dashwood’s birthday – a few days late, unfortunately – and get a coffee and croissant to go before he returned to work.

He bought the most expensive gardening book on offer and headed upstairs. What a pity that Dashwood and James had such vile coffee in the employee lounge; sad that one had to go to Starbucks or Costa just to get a decent cup—

He saw the two of them as soon as he entered the café. They shared a table, each with a coffee and Cherie with a croissant. They laughed about something; then Cherie reached out and touched Neil Hadley’s arm.

Alastair felt a knife-twist of jealousy.

“Excuse me, please,” a woman behind him said politely.

With a start, Alastair murmured an apology and moved aside.

He turned away before they saw him, his heart heavy and his appetite gone, and returned to his office, and the pile of work waiting on his desk.

That evening, Cherie settled herself in bed next to Alastair and opened her new book. The dishes were put away and the kitchen restored to order, and Alastair had even managed to come home on time for dinner.

Poor man
, Cherie reflected as she glanced at him, propped against the pillows with his glasses perched on his nose as he read the
Guardian
.
He’s tired. He works six days a week, after all
—

As if he sensed her gaze, Alastair looked up. “I went to the bookstore this afternoon to get a book for Celia Dashwood’s birthday.” He put the paper aside. “I saw you there.”

Cherie slanted him a quick look. “Oh? You should have said. I ran into Duncan’s father while I was there. We had a nice chat…and a cup of coffee.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t think to mention it to me.”

She stiffened. “Why on earth would I? I don’t tell you when I run into Emily Morley at Waitrose—”

“Emily Morley isn’t an attractive divorced man, is she?” he asked tightly.

“Oh, Alastair, you can’t be serious!”

“When I couldn’t take you to dinner a few weeks ago, you said you’d ask Sarah.” He took his glasses off and laid them aside. “You went with Neil instead. I know, because Hannah told me that he came to pick you up.”

“Only because Sarah was gone, and Neil was at a loose end. You bailed on me! You can’t think there’s anything going on between the two of us—?”

“I wonder that you didn’t mention it to me before, that’s all,” Alastair said. “Should I be concerned?”

Cherie shut her book with a crack. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation! Neil and I are friends, nothing more. If you don’t believe me—” she reached over and snapped off the bedside lamp “—there’s really nothing more to say, is there?”

She rolled over without waiting for an answer, and lay awake for some time before she fell into a troubled sleep.

Early Sunday afternoon, Rhys picked Natalie up in his XJ9 and headed for Knightsbridge.

“This is much nicer than the motorbike,” Nat observed as she settled back in the Jaguar’s soft leather seat. “What sort of furnishings do you like, anyway? Modern? Traditional?”

“Modern, but nothing too bizarre. And no chintz.”

“And what’s your budget?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have one. The sky’s the limit…but I draw the line at £7,000 sofas or £50 cheese graters.”

“OK, then. First,” Natalie decided, “let’s go to Conran. They have very reasonably priced cheese graters.”

They found a sofa at Habitat that they agreed was perfect – a chocolate brown sectional with lime green toss pillows. Rhys bought a pair of lamps as well, and a coffee table of burled walnut. Then it was on to Peter Jones for cookware and glasses, and an overpriced gastro pub for lunch.

“Tell me,” Natalie ventured as they returned to the car, laden with carrier bags, “what goes on at a stag party? I’ve always wondered.”

Rhys shrugged. “The usual, I suppose.” He opened the boot and tossed the bags in.

“And what’s that? Does a girl jump out of a cake? Cavort naked on the table? Grab your tie and pull you into a back room?”

He held the door open for her. “Not at any of the stag do’s I ever went to. Perhaps I’m going to the wrong ones.”

“You can’t tell me there aren’t girls,” she persisted as Rhys settled himself behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Of course there are,” he conceded, “but they usually have surgical enhancement and two inches of slap on their faces. Not my thing at all. Mostly, we get drunk and tell dirty jokes, then reel home to sleep it off. And pay the price the next day with a whacking great hangover.”

“That’s bloody stupid.”

“It
is
bloody stupid. About as stupid as the typical hen night, I imagine.”

Nat smiled wryly. “Touché. So – when do I get to see this flat of yours?”

“No time like the present.”

In Covent Garden, he turned onto Endell Street and came to a stop in front of a row of buildings. “Mine’s that one,” he said, and pointed to a white-fronted, three-storey house in the middle. “Three bedrooms, three levels, a private terrace, and…” he lifted one brow “…two reception rooms.”

“Oh, Rhys,” Natalie breathed as they entered the first-floor reception room, “it’s gorgeous!” Two floor-to-ceiling windows faced the street. A black marble fireplace was the focal point at one end, built-in bookcases at the other.

The kitchen consisted of gleaming black marble counters and stainless steel appliances, with a breakfast bar and room for a table in the window nook. And the private terrace needed only a wrought iron table and chairs and a few potted plants to make it perfect.

“And fairy lights,” Natalie added as she surveyed the terrace. “You’ve got to have fairy lights.”

“I’ll add them to the list.” Rhys studied her, amused. She was as excited as a child on Christmas morning. He realised with a start that his attraction to Natalie had grown from appreciation of her physical beauty, to something more.

He liked the way she widened her eyes whenever she was surprised or indignant. He liked her quirky personality, and – despite the fact that she frustrated the hell out of him at times – he liked the challenge she presented.

Rhys allowed himself to imagine sharing this flat with her, imagined her walking around in that T-shirt he liked, and nothing else. With a sigh, he shoved the thought aside.

Natalie Dashwood was Sir Richard’s granddaughter, and off limits. He’d invited her along to Ben’s wedding; that was enough. Further involvement would only lead to trouble. They made a good working team. He didn’t want to complicate things with a relationship.