Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (19 page)

“I’m surprised you have time for a book club,” she said as she took down cups.

“I work from home two days a week. It’s been a boon since the divorce; with Sarah in Bath, I get to spend the time with Duncan.”

She poured the coffee. Hannah would leave soon, too, and the thought filled her with indescribable sadness. “Is Duncan ready for university?” she asked as she handed Neil his coffee.

He looked at her as he took the cup, and saw the telltale brightness of her eyes. “Cherie,” he murmured, his face etched with concern as he set the cup aside and reached out to touch the tear that slid down her cheek, “don’t cry,” and then he was holding her, kissing her, and she was kissing him back…

Cherie heard Hannah and Duncan coming downstairs, and pulled abruptly away. “That shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”

His eyes met hers. “I’m not.”

Hannah and Duncan entered the kitchen, and Neil told his son it was time to go, just as Alastair arrived home.

“Thanks, Neil,” Cherie told him, struggling to keep her composure as she walked him to the door. “For everything.”

“Yes, thanks for bringing my girls home,” Alastair added, and clapped Neil – a bit too hard? – on the shoulder. “Sorry I missed the festivities.”

Neil avoided looking at Cherie. “It was my pleasure.”

Alastair shut the door after them and turned to Cherie. “Darling,” he began, his expression contrite, “I’m so very sorry—”

“Don’t apologise to me,” she said coldly. “Apologise to Hannah.”

“I will, of course. I’ve made lunch reservations for the three of us at The Wisteria tomorrow. I finished everything up tonight so I’d have tomorrow cleared for my favourite girls.”

The Wisteria, still a trendy West End dining spot, was crowded when Alastair and Cherie arrived for Hannah’s birthday lunch the next day. She glanced at the other diners, mostly tourists and WAGs and Eurotrash, and saw a black-leather-clad young man in one corner, deep in conversation with the German fashion designer, Klaus von Richter.

“Look, mum, it’s Dominic Heath!” Hannah whispered excitedly.

“Oh, yes.” She gazed at the pop star with narrowed eyes. Although she was sorry he’d dumped Natalie Dashwood so publicly, Cherie was glad they’d split up. Her goddaughter deserved much better than that dreadful, hedonistic rock singer with his spiky black hair and tattooed arms. She shuddered.

As they were seated, Cherie felt a vague sense of disappointment. Of course, her negativity reflected her anger at Alastair more than any deficiency on the part of the restaurant. Still, her gaze was disapproving as she studied their surroundings. The gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper and rococo Victorian fittings, while perfectly suited to a bordello, looked tired and in need of refurbishment, Cherie decided.

Rather like her marriage.

“Why are we here?” Dominic demanded. “This place is naff.”

“Shut up,” Klaus snapped. “You’re a spoilt rock star who normally dines on…what? Yellow M&Ms and Jack Daniels?”

“Krug and sushi,” Dominic said indignantly. “Give me
some
credit.” He waved aside the menu the waiter held out and said, “Just a lager, mate. Thanks.” He glanced at Klaus. “What did you want to talk to me about, then?”

“I’m pleased with your work so far,” Klaus said after he’d ordered a glass of Pinot. “Despite the wedding contretemps with Keeley—” he grimaced “—everything is going well. The commercial airs on television starting tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Good, great,” Dominic said dispiritedly.

“What’s wrong? You should be happy.”

He shrugged. The truth was, he was surprised to find that he missed Natalie. Yet he’d screwed things up so badly, there was no way she’d take him back. Not even his brand new Maserati could make up for that…

…but it went a fair way towards easing the pain.

Klaus paused as their drinks arrived. After a moment and another sip of his Pinot Gris, he said, “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

He eyed Dominic. “I know who you are.”

“Of course you know who I am,” he retorted. “I’m Dominic fucking Heath, rock star.”

Klaus shook his head and took another sip of wine. He leaned forward. “You misunderstand me. I mean that I know who you
really
are.” His lips unfurled into an unpleasant smile. “You’re Rupert Locksley, heir to the sixth Earl of Earnsley.”

Dominic paled and nearly choked on his lager. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate. I was born on a council estate in Swindon. My old man’s a retired accountant—”

“You were born in Exeter,” Klaus went on, as if Dominic hadn’t spoken, “to Lord and Lady Locksley. You attended Eton. You speak fluent French and passable Latin.”

Dominic snorted. “You’ve got a good imagination, mate. The only French I know is
pommes frites
and Dom Perignon, and I went to the local comp until I did a runner at sixteen.”

“You’re very convincing, but I know better,” Klaus said. “I pay my staff well to unearth these facts. Of course, no one need know about your aristocratic background but us. Our little secret.”

Dominic eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”

“I like to have insurance, Mr. Heath. Or should I say, Rupert?”

“Don’t call me that,” Dominic snapped. “It’s not my name.”

“Ah, but it
is
your name. I have proof. And since I know your secret, I suggest you do as I ask. Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure your fans find out. They’ll be outraged to learn you’re one of the very aristos they so despise. You might have trouble filling seats at your next concert.” He smiled unpleasantly. “So I suggest you humour me.”

“Humour you how, exactly?” Dominic leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If it’s me you’re after, I don’t swing that way, mate. I like the girls, myself.”

Klaus waved his hand dismissively. “I have no interest in you. I want…” he leaned forward “…Phillip Pryce. Find out all you can about his new collection for Dashwood and James.”

“Phillip Pryce? Who’s he?”

“He’s a fashion designer, you idiot!” Klaus hissed. He set his glass down with a crack, and Dominic flinched. “Talk to your ex-girlfriend, Natalie. Tell her you want to get back together, tell her you want to marry her – I don’t care. Do whatever it takes to get information about Phillip from her.”

“I
do
want to get back with her,” Dominic said morosely, “but that’s over with, now.”

“Trust me, Dominic,” von Richter said, his expression hard. “If you want something badly enough, no matter what it is, you find a way to get it.”

“Are you having fun?” Sophie Harris asked Natalie the following Saturday. The wedding ceremony was over and the reception at Somerset House was in full swing as Sophie adjusted the bodice of her wedding gown in the ladies’ lounge.

“I am.” And she
was
enjoying herself. Ben and Sophie were lovely people, and obviously very much in love. “I can see why Rhys and Ben are best mates. Ben’s a great guy.”

“So is Rhys,” Sophie said. She hesitated. “I know we only just met, and perhaps I shouldn’t say this…but I’m glad you and Rhys are together. You’re just what he needs.” She looked quizzically at Natalie in the bathroom mirror. “You
are
together, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Nat admitted. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, if Rhys likes you enough to introduce you to his best mate,” Sophie said with a smile, “then it’s safe to say you’ll probably be meeting his mum next.”

Natalie blushed. “Oh, I doubt that! I’m just his plus one, that’s all. Tell me, is Rhys…involved with anyone?”

“Not that I know of,” Sophie answered. “He was in a relationship for a couple of years. But it ended badly.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking,” Nat added.

“Of course not. He met Caterina in Italy, in Verona. She was married to a business associate. Which suited Rhys perfectly,” Sophie added as she reapplied her lipstick, “until Cat made the mistake of falling in love.” She dropped the lipstick back in her clutch. “When he broke things off, she threatened to kill herself.”

“Good heavens,” Nat murmured. “What did he do?”

“He tried to reason with her…but she wanted her cake – Rhys – and her husband Paolo, too.”

“So what happened?” Natalie asked her, curious.

“Rhys ended things, and she swore she’d kill herself. He said he wouldn’t be held hostage to her dramas any longer, and quit his post in Verona to return to England. Cat slit her wrists…and nearly died. Her husband found out about the affair and blamed Rhys. It was very public, and very ugly.”

Two of the bridesmaids came in just then, and Natalie focused her attention on the mirror. She topped up her lipstick, lost in thought. Poor Caterina…

…and how harsh of Rhys, to treat her so cavalierly.

Nat followed Sophie back to the reception and joined Ben and Rhys at the bar.

“So,” Sophie teased Rhys as he handed her and Natalie each a champagne cocktail, “when can we expect an invitation to
your
wedding?”

“When I sprout wings out of my arse,” he retorted.

“You can’t let a couple of bad relationships turn you into a bachelor forever,” Sophie chided him. “Right, Natalie?”

“If Rhys wants to die alone in his flat with nothing but a big-screen TV and a shelf full of Bang and Olufsen to keep him company,” she said tightly, “then let him.”

“Don’t forget lots of beautiful women,” Rhys added, his eyes gleaming, “to share my lonely, high-tech flat.”

“Let me know if you need a flatmate,” Ben joked. He held up his hands as Sophie glared at him. “Just kidding, love.”

“Oh, Rhys has plenty of women at his disposal,” Natalie informed them, “including a French stripper.” She fixed him with a frosty stare. “Why stop at a chocolate bar when he can have the entire candy shop?”

“There are plenty of beautiful women in the world, Natalie,” Rhys responded evenly. “Don’t use them as a yardstick to measure yourself by. Because there’ll always be someone more beautiful.”

Her grey eyes flashed. “You arrogant prat, how dare you—”

“Just as there are plenty of better-looking men than me,” he added, “as hard as that is to believe.” He pulled Natalie, resisting, into his arms. “The only woman in this room I’m remotely interested in is you.” He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. “Would you like to dance, Miss Dashwood?”

Natalie, responding despite herself to the warm persuasion of Rhys’s lips, felt her resolve disappear along with her anger.

It was usually awkward, kissing a man for the first time. You bumped noses, or made do with a hurried brush of lips, as if to get the ‘first kiss’ officially over and done with.

But it wasn’t like that with Rhys. It wasn’t like that at all.

The moment his lips touched hers, so firm and self-assured, Natalie’s irritation melted away and turned into…need. She needed more of his mouth on hers, more of his arms around her. Her hands slid up and over his shoulders, revelling in his strength and his scent and his annoying, captivating, head-spinning…Rhys-ness.

“We’re not dancing,” Natalie breathed against his lips, and blushed.

His arms tightened around her. “Oh,” he murmured, and raised a quizzical brow, “are we meant to be dancing?”

She knew she ought to slap that self-confident smirk from his face and walk away. And she would do, she promised herself as he lowered his mouth to hers once again…

…just as soon as this kiss – and this dance-that-wasn’t-a-dance – ended.

“Get Rhys,” Ben murmured to Sophie in grudging admiration as he watched him kissing Natalie on the dance floor. “Good save.”

“You’d best devise a save of your own,” Sophie informed him tartly, “because if you don’t ask me to dance again soon, you’re spending your wedding night alone on the hotel sofa.”

Chapter 25

Phillip Pryce flung Natalie’s dressing room doors open and surveyed the contents with approval. “Impressive!
Vogue’s
fashion closet has nothing on yours, chickpea.”

Natalie sat on her bed with a sigh. “I can barely afford Oxfam, now. Not since Rhys put me on a budget.”

“Well, we’ll have pots of money after the ad comes out and my clothing line hits the stores.” Phillip riffled through her clothes rack. “With all this designer stuff, we won’t need a stylist for the shoot,” he declared. “We can do it ourselves.”

Jacques brought in some carrier bags stuffed with accessories and set them down on the floor. He sniffed. “We can’t afford a stylist with our tiny budget, anyway. Here’s the giveaway stuff from
Marie Claire
.”

Phillip waved a hand impatiently. “We won’t need it, now.”

“Wait!” Natalie cried, and sprang up as Jacques moved to take the bags away. She peered inside one and began pulling things out – a Ferragamo belt, a Marc Jacobs handbag – and said incredulously, “Who’s Marie Claire, and why is she giving all this fabulous stuff away?”

Phillip rolled his eyes. “
Marie Claire
the magazine, silly girl. When the accessories closet gets cleared out, the goodies get thrown on the giveaway table. I have connections.” He winked at her. “I’d planned to bring this stuff to the shoot tomorrow, but with your closet, we won’t need it.” He waved a dismissive hand at the carrier bags. “Keep the lot.”

Natalie squealed and clutched the bags to her chest.

“These metallic flats are perfect for the flounced skirt,” Jacques announced from within Natalie’s closet, and set them aside. “And this wide leather belt goes perfectly with the poet’s shirt.”

“I’ve never done a fashion shoot,” Natalie said, and chewed at her fingernail. She jumped as Phillip swatted her hand away.

“No nail biting,” he scolded. “Early to bed tonight, and no alcohol. We start at eight a.m. tomorrow. And don’t be late. Time is money on a photo shoot.”

“Especially this one, when there
is
no money,” Jacques added.

“Should I do my own makeup and hair?” Natalie asked.

“No,” Phillip said. “My friend’s a makeup artist, and very good. This is Tamara’s first proper job, so she’s doing it gratis. If things work out I’ll throw more work her way. Jacques and I are styling the outfits ourselves.”