Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (18 page)

Guilt stabbed Natalie.
Working late, my arse
, she thought darkly. “Yes, he’s got a lot to do, after his meeting with Mr. Gordon,” she said.

“And how is the infamous Mr. Gordon to work with?” she asked with avid curiosity. “I’ve read all about you two in the
Mail
, you know.”

Natalie blushed. “Oh, crikey, Alexa, there’s nothing going on. It’s publicity, for the store.”

“Wouldn’t mind a bit of publicity like that for myself,” Alexa confided. “I’d shag Rhys Gordon in a minute.”

Natalie laughed. “God, I’ve missed you. Things have been so manic lately. We really need to get together before the baby comes.” She raised her brow. “I suppose a wine bar’s out, though.”

“Afraid so,” Alex agreed ruefully as she glanced down at her stomach. “This little bugger’s very particular about his likes and dislikes. Even though I’m allowed a bit of wine now and then, it gives me terrible indigestion.”

“‘His’?” Nat queried. “Are you having a boy, then?”

“Don’t know. Don’t want to know, I want to be surprised. But I’ve a feeling it’s a boy. He kicks like a punter for West Ham.”

“Seriously, though, you look beautiful. Pregnancy suits you.”

Alexa snorted. “I look like a right cow, but thanks for the compliment. I’ll take any I can get, these days.” She moved the bag to her other hand. “Is Ian in, then?”

Natalie’s smile faded. “Yes.”

“I’d best get this curry upstairs before it goes cold. I’ll call you next week,” she promised. “We’ll meet up for lunch, or something.”

“I’d love that. Let’s do it.”

They hugged, and Natalie watched, smiling, as Alexa made her way up the steps and pushed her way through the revolving doors.

Her smile faded. Alexa was her oldest, dearest friend. They’d been through so much together – the loneliness they’d shared their first year at boarding school, boyfriend trouble, Nat’s father’s suicide – that saying nothing to Alexa while Ian played out this strange little game made her feel conflicted, ashamed – and guilty as hell.

She hated Ian for doing this, not just to her, but to Alexa.

You need to be nicer to me, Natalie.

Abruptly she shook her misgivings aside and made her way to the Underground station. The hell with Ian Clarkson, she decided. This was probably all just a tempest in a coffee carafe, or whatever that old saying was.

Nevertheless, as she touched her Oyster card to the reader and sat on a bench to wait for the next train, her thoughts remained troubled.

Chapter 23

The Connaught hotel was quiet when Natalie arrived that evening. She’d tried on and discarded a dozen outfits, determined to dress as primly as possible, before settling on a knee-length skirt and a black, high-necked cashmere sweater. She gripped her Chanel clutch tightly and walked into the bar.

She paused in the doorway. The walls were panelled in soft green, and low armchairs upholstered in jewel-toned velvets were grouped around tables throughout the room. A fireplace burned invitingly at one end. Ian, seated at a corner table nearest the fire, stood as she approached.

“Natalie! Please, sit down.” He indicated a chair upholstered in ruby velvet.

“Do I have a choice?” she bit off as she tossed her clutch on the table and sat down.

“You always have a choice. You’ve obviously made yours.”

A waiter materialised at her elbow. “May I bring you a drink, madam?”

“Sparkling water, please,” Natalie told him. She was keeping a clear head. “Thanks.”

“I’ll have another martini.” Ian nudged the bowl of olives towards her. “I like it here. It’s very intimate.” His gaze drifted over her. “You look lovely tonight.”

“I saw Alexa earlier.” Natalie met his eyes. “She brought you lunch. Chicken curry, she said. How was it?”

He smiled, unperturbed. “It was good, but a bit cold.”

They were silent as the waiter brought their drinks. When he left, Natalie took a sip of her Perrier and met Ian’s gaze. “Let’s cut the crap, Ian. What is it you want?”

“You do get straight to the point, don’t you?” He smiled and thrust an olive in his mouth. “I like that. First, I’ll give you a bit of history. My stepfather was the senior accountant at Dashwood and James.” His words were measured. “He was blackmailing your father. It’s one of the reasons why the company began its unfortunate tailspin into the red…and why your father eventually killed himself.”

“And you know this how, exactly? You were just a child then, like me.”

“I didn’t know then, obviously. I overheard a conversation my father had. It made no sense at the time, but I remember that afterwards, I got a new bike. And we no longer went for a week’s holiday in Blackpool. Instead, we went to Belize, or Ibiza – much nicer than spending a week on a rocky Cornwall beach.”

Natalie pressed her lips together but said nothing.

He smiled briefly and moved his whiskey glass, leaving a damp ring on the table. “I was going through some boxes in storage, and I found a stack of my stepfather’s old Dashwood and James account books…books that implicated your father in an embezzlement scheme. It cost a lot to keep a mistress, even then. The affair was all over the press, mostly gossip and innuendo, and a couple of photographs of your father and his mystery woman – but it stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble for him, and for the store. Shame, to dredge it all up again.”

Natalie recalled her classmates’ whispers, the neighbours’ curious glances, the unexpected and frightening pop of flashbulbs that plagued their family outings when she was nine.

Now, she understood. Her father’s affair must have become public knowledge. Poor mum.

She met Ian’s eyes. “I’ll go straight to the police and tell them you’re blackmailing me—”

“And I’ll go to the tabloids.” His smile was cold. “Your father’s name will be smeared like shit all over the media.” He sighed in regret. “And with the store’s re-launch just around the corner, it’s not the ideal time for a scandal. Is it?”

Natalie felt as if the ground were dissolving beneath her feet. He’d planned this all, right from the start.

She raised her eyes to his. “What is it you want?” she asked finally, her voice a thread. “Money? A new car?”

“God, no. How pedestrian.” He leaned forward. “I want something else altogether, Natalie.” He paused. “I want you.”

She let out a sharp, slow breath. “You’re married, your wife is
pregnant
, for God’s sake—”She stopped. He was plainly unmoved by her moral outrage.

He shrugged. “We’re not close, Alexa and I. We go through the motions. I married her for financial rather than romantic reasons. It was all rather calculated on my part, I suppose.”

“And does Alexa know that you don’t love her? She’s expecting your first child, Ian!”

His expression darkened. “I never wanted children. That was her doing, getting pregnant to trap me into staying with her. But it doesn’t matter.” He leaned forward. “I’m divorcing her, Natalie, and I want to start over, with you. We can get married.” He glanced up. “And then you can recommend me for a partnership in Dashwood and James.”

As the muted sounds of conversation and clinking ice cubes went on around them, Natalie stared at him. “Ian, that’s absurd! If you divorce Alexa – your very
pregnant
wife – to take up with me – Sir Richard’s granddaughter – he’d never give you a partnership, nor would Alastair! Surely you must see that we’d both be social outcasts.”

“I don’t care what people think. I’m used to their contempt.”

Your mum’s gone, Ian.
He still remembered the landlord’s wife, with her East End accent.
She’s scarpered, and left the rent unpaid. Looks like it’s a foster home for you, poor mite…but I reckon it’s for the best. Your mum was a whore and no mistake. Taking in men at all hours…while you slept in the next room…not right, it weren’t.

His early life had been a succession of foster homes, each one more abusive and loveless than the last, until he’d been adopted at thirteen by his stepfather, and things had improved.

But love? Love was still a foreign concept. Although he understood it in the abstract, it meant nothing to him.

“I understand Dashwood and James in a way no one – especially not Rhys Gordon – ever will,” Ian went on, his words measured. “I know what needs doing, and I’m not afraid to do it. I’ll start by sacking the nonperformers and re-staffing. I’ll insist that your grandfather retire. He’s past it, you know. He’s not capable of keeping up with technology or making the changes that need to be made.”

“That’s not true,” Natalie protested, her face flushed with anger. “Grandfather’s as sharp as a carpet tack. He looks on his employees at the store as family.”

“Family,” Ian said, and let out a mirthless laugh. “Business is business, Natalie, and sentiment only clouds the bottom line. I can make Dashwood and James something to be proud of again, given half a chance. And you’re going to help make it happen.”

“No.” Natalie’s voice was low but firm. “Rhys is already turning the store around. I’m not going to
marry
you, Ian! Alexa's pregnant, and she’s my dearest friend.”

“I’m sorry, but ‘no’ isn’t an option, Natalie,” he said. “Not if you want me to keep your father’s past quiet.”

He reached out to touch her face, and she flinched. “At the moment, I only want you to be a bit more…accommodating. That’s not so much to ask, surely?” He leaned forward and laid his hand over hers on the table, and she moved to pull it away.

“Natalie,” he murmured as he tightened his grip on her wrist, “listen to me. When I ask you to lunch, or out for a drink, I expect you to smile nicely and say ‘yes.’” He let go of her hand and sat back. “I’ve given you a lot to think about. I’ll let you mull it over.” He drained the rest of his whiskey and stood up. “We’ll talk again soon.”

He withdrew several bills from his wallet and threw them on the table. “Goodnight, Miss Dashwood. I’ll be in touch.”

Rhys Gordon was tired. It had been a long, mind-numbing day filled with one meeting after another. As he headed back to the Connaught, he decided to duck into the bar for a drink.

“Whiskey, please,” he told the barman. “Neat.” He turned around to survey the room as he waited. His gaze drifted to a corner table near the fireplace and skidded to a stop.

Natalie Dashwood and Ian Clarkson sat at the table, talking in low voices over drinks. Rhys frowned. Natalie had her back to him, but he recognised her at once. He knew that Chanel clutch she always carried, tossed on the table between them.

What was she doing here, having drinks with Clarkson?

“Your whiskey, sir,” the barman said.

“Thanks.” Rhys turned back to pick up his drink from the bar and took a slow, measured sip. Then he returned his attention to the corner table.

Were they having an affair? He discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. To his knowledge Natalie had never encouraged Clarkson. On the contrary, she went out of her way to avoid him.

Why, then, was she having a drink with him in a quiet corner of the bar? Rhys took another sip of whiskey and watched as Clarkson reached out to touch her face. Natalie flinched.

Rhys’s fingers tightened around his glass. He wanted to fly off the barstool and throttle Ian, but steeled himself to remain seated. Ian stood and tossed money on the table, and strode towards the door. Rhys turned back to the bar and waited until Clarkson passed. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at Natalie.

She sat alone at the table, staring down at her drink with a blank look.

Rhys set his glass down on the bar and stood up. Screw staying out of it. He’d get to bottom of this, and find out what that slimy bastard had said to Natalie…

His mobile rang. He glanced down at the screen. Phillip Pryce.
Bloody hell
. He had to take the call, it was important. “Phillip. Did you talk to the manufacturers? When can they start production?”

When Rhys finished his call a couple of minutes later, he turned back to the table in the corner.

Natalie was gone.

Chapter 24

“Don’t forget, Alastair,” Cherie warned him as she picked up the bedside phone that evening, “I’ve made reservations at Le Caprice next Friday. It’s Hannah’s sixteenth birthday.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, frowning distractedly as he scanned the latest overhead figures. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “I’ll add it to my calendar.”

A week later, Friday night arrived. The phone rang. Cherie, dressed and ready to go to dinner, picked up.

“Neil!” Pleasure warmed her voice. “You’re still coming tonight, I hope?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Seven-thirty. Alastair’s running late. He’ll meet us at Le Caprice.”

“In that case, why don’t Duncan and I pick you up?”

And so it was arranged. The pique Cherie felt towards Alastair remained, increasing exponentially when he phoned midway through the starters to say he’d be there soon.

“If I don’t make it by dessert,” Alastair told her, “go ahead and give my present to Hannah.”

His present – a heart pendant with a tiny diamond suspended in its centre – was tucked in the jeweller’s box in her handbag.

The mains arrived, and then dessert, but Alastair did not.

Cherie was tight-lipped with fury. It was one thing for him to cancel dinner with her; but to miss his daughter’s sixteenth birthday celebration, after she’d reminded him several times – well, it was unforgiveable.

“Don’t blame Alastair,” Neil said later, as he stood in the foyer of her house. “He has a lot on his plate. I’m sure he’s under a great deal of pressure—”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” she said tightly. “He missed Hannah’s birthday dinner completely.”

“Hannah doesn’t seem to mind.” She and Duncan had gone upstairs to see her new laptop. Neil followed Cherie into the kitchen and watched from the doorway as she made coffee, slamming drawers and cabinet doors in the process.

“Hannah,” Cherie informed him shortly, “is far more forgiving than me.”

Neil reached in the fridge for the milk. “Why don’t you go with me to my book club meeting on Monday? I need an ally. The hostess is quite formidable.”