Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (23 page)

With a nod and a brief stop to pick up his messages, Rhys went into his office and picked up the phone.

“Clarkson, Gordon here. I want to see you in my office, please. Immediately.”

Rhys sat down behind his desk to wait. Ian was blackmailing Natalie; he was sure of it. He’d seen the fear in her eyes after last night’s phone call. His expression hardened. He couldn’t confront Ian directly with his suspicions; but there were other ways…

Gemma reappeared in his doorway a moment later, a puzzled look on her face.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked with a trace of irritation.

“I barely had enough money to pay for the delivery out of petty cash.”

Rhys lifted his brow. “Sir Richard’s secretary must have ordered one hell of a breakfast spread for his meeting.”

“That’s just it. She ordered the usual things – a dozen scones and croissants, and orange juice. But there’s money missing from the cash box. Fifty quid, to be exact.”

He rubbed the space between his eyes. “Natalie probably took the money out and forgot to deduct it from the tracking spreadsheet. Bloody hell! Can’t she even manage petty cash without screwing it up?”

“Mr. Gordon?” Ian stood in the doorway.

“Come in. Shut the door, Gemma, please. We’ll talk later.”

“Sounds serious,” Ian remarked as Gordon’s PA nodded and closed the door. He took a seat in front of Rhys’s desk. “Is Miss Dashwood in some sort of trouble?” he inquired guilelessly.

“No, but you are,” Rhys replied. “Mr. Clarkson, are you aware of the store’s policy regarding employee harassment?”

He raised his brow but said nothing, waiting.

“Let me refresh your memory. Harassment of a colleague – verbal or sexual – will not be tolerated. It’s come to my attention that you’ve made a pest of yourself with the ladies.”

Ian stiffened. “A bit of flirting hardly counts as harassment.”

“Oh, is that what you call it – a bit of flirting?” Rhys leaned back in his chair. “Any woman made to feel uncomfortable in your presence is a victim of harassment, Mr. Clarkson. I’ve had complaints from my own PA about you.”

“This is absurd.” Ian stood up abruptly. “You don’t like me, Gordon, and you never have. And the feeling is mutual. But you have no cause to accuse me of harassment.”

Rhys stood as well, his blue eyes snapping. “I’m warning you, Clarkson. Stay away from the women in this office, and stay away from Natalie Dashwood. Because if you don’t, I’ll have your balls for breakfast.”

“That’s what this is all about,” Ian said softly, “isn’t it? You fancy Natalie yourself!” His smile was cold. “You speak to me of bylaws, and harassment. But I wonder what the bylaws say about a superior shagging a subordinate? Particularly when the subordinate is Sir Richard’s own granddaughter—”

Rhys lunged forward and grabbed Ian by the collar. “That’s enough, you nasty-minded little prick,” he snapped. “Natalie’s off limits, got it? If you so much as breathe the same air as her again—” his eyes glittered “—I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

Ian jerked free, his face flushed with anger. “I could have you arrested for assault, Gordon. Lay a finger on me again, and I promise you’ll find yourself behind bars faster than you can say ‘quid pro quo’.” He turned away, flung open the door, and left.

Gemma looked up from her laptop as Clarkson stormed past her desk, his face like a thundercloud.

She went into Rhys’s office. “What on earth did you say to Ian?” she asked. “He came out of your office just now like a juggernaut. I’ve never seen him looking so furious.”

“I gave him a refresher course on store policy. I’ve had a number of complaints about him.” He tossed down his pen. “He won’t be bothering you – or anyone else – again.”

Gemma crossed her arms against her chest. “It’s not me he’s after, it’s Natalie. He corners her at the copier or in the kitchen at least once a week. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Oh, since her first week here.”

“And why do you suppose he’s singled Natalie out in particular?”

Gemma shrugged. “I’m sure he fancies her, but I get the feeling there’s something else going on.” She glanced at him with a frown. “It’s almost as though she’s afraid of him.”

“Like he’s got something on her, you mean?”

“Yes. Although I can’t imagine what; Natalie doesn’t have any dark secrets, she’s an open book.”

Rhys leaned forward. “Unless the secret she’s keeping isn’t hers, but someone else’s.”

Chapter 30

“We can save substantially if we allow more vendors to provide merchandising services,” Rhys stated at Monday morning’s financial meeting.

“Then why don’t we?” Sir Richard asked.

“To do so would necessitate redundancies. It’s been my intent to create jobs, not eliminate them.”

Alastair frowned. “Of course we don’t want anyone to lose their job, but at the same time, costs must be cut. We’re all agreed on that.”

“What do you suggest?” Rhys asked.

“Well, since we’ve cut our stock, I recommend we cut the stockroom staff as well, at least until the autumn/winter season begins,” Alastair said, and laid his pen aside. “If business improves, we’ll re-hire.” He glanced at Rhys. “Jago Sullivan and Frank Bamber are the two most recent hires.”

Rhys made a note. “Very well. I’ll consider your suggestion.” He glanced at Natalie, who was running the slide show presentation. “Let’s see the next slide, please, Miss Dashwood.”

As she nodded and clicked the mouse, his thoughts wandered back to the first, incendiary kiss they’d shared. He’d kissed his share of women over the years, no question; but Natalie Dashwood was different…distractingly, tantalisingly different.

Too bad they’d been interrupted…

He realised the staff were watching him expectantly, waiting for his breakdown of the latest sales figures.

As Rhys turned back to the screen and explained the three-colour pie chart, Alastair listened and nodded and took dutiful notes. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Hannah would be livid when she found out he’d recommended Jago for redundancy, even temporarily.

But he wanted Jago Sullivan out of Hannah’s orbit, at least for the summer. He’d deal with his daughter’s wrath later. His attention returned to Gordon.

And as his eyes met Rhys’s, Alastair suddenly realised that he knew someone else with those same intense blue eyes, someone who, like Rhys, hailed from Edinburgh.

Fiona Walsh.

Alastair frowned. There was no denying the physical resemblance she and Rhys shared – both tall, with dark blond hair, and those striking blue eyes. Could Rhys possibly be Fiona’s son? Of course his last name was different, but his former secretary had undoubtedly married since then, and taken her husband’s name.

It certainly explained why she’d left Dashwood and James so suddenly. Fiona had been a bit free with her favours; it was one of the reasons she and Alastair had parted. She’d been involved with a couple of other store employees. Alastair wondered idly if she’d been pregnant, and if so, which of the poor sods was Rhys’s father.

“Alastair?” Rhys flipped on the lights, signalling the end of the meeting. “Come to my office, and we’ll discuss the particulars of your suggestion to cut the stockroom staff.”

“Of course.” Alastair stood as well, gathered up his notes, and followed Rhys out of the conference room.

When she returned to her office, Natalie called Phillip Pryce to postpone their meeting.

She left a message and hung up. One thing sorted, only two million more to go. Now, all she needed to do was put the money Dom had given her back into the cash box, and no one would be the wiser…

“Oh, Nat, there you are,” Gemma said as she strode up to her desk. “There was barely enough money in petty cash to pay for the breakfast delivery for Sir Richard’s meeting this morning.”

Natalie’s heart accelerated.

“Rhys was
not
pleased,” Gemma added, and crossed her arms against her chest. “Did you pay for something and forget to deduct it from the tracking spreadsheet?”

Nat pretended to consider the question. “Oh, yes – I just remembered! I paid for a – a delivery, the other day.”

“A delivery? A fifty-
quid
delivery? What was it?”

Yes, Miss Dashwood, what was it?
Natalie thought wildly. “I don’t remember, exactly. It was large. A crate. And it was cash on delivery.”

Gemma narrowed her eyes. “Who was this large crate for?”

Her mobile rang.
Thank God
. “Sorry,” she told Gemma, “I’m expecting an important call.” She turned away and said, “Natalie Dashwood here—”

“You shouldn’t have called last night,” Ian bit off. “You don’t dictate the terms of this arrangement.”

“Oh, hello!” she said brightly as she stood and left her desk – and Gemma – behind. “How
are
you?”

“Don’t ever phone me at home again. Do you understand?”

She slipped into the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. “I want proof from you before this goes any further.”

“You’ll have your proof, the next time we meet. And then I’ll have what I want. And we both know what that is. A partnership with Dashwood and James…and with you.”

She gripped the phone as fear washed over her. “It’ll never happen, you know that! Why are you doing this?”

“I needn’t justify myself to you.” He paused. “I didn’t appreciate being raked over the coals by your hot-tempered boss this morning, by the way. You haven’t told him about me, have you?”

“No! What are you talking about?”

“Rhys lectured me on sexual harassment in the workplace, of all things, then warned me to stay away from you.”

“I’ve never said a word to Rhys—”

“Yes, well, perhaps you did and perhaps you didn’t. For your sake, I hope you didn’t. If you did—” He stopped. “Well, let’s just say you’ll read all about your father very soon, along with the rest of England. Oh, and sorry to say, I can’t make our lunch date today. Rhys has moved our meeting up to one o’clock, the prick.”

“Ian, please don’t drag my father’s name through the mud. You’ll cause no end of pain for my mother, and for me. I’m begging you, if you have even a shred of decency—”

He laughed. “That’s just it, Natalie. I don’t.”

And the line went dead.

The stockroom was crowded with pallets of merchandise. New shipments would arrive on Tuesday; everything had to be inventoried and moved to the floor by then.

“Want to get lunch?” Hannah asked Jago at eleven. He usually brought a sandwich or a Pot Noodle and ate in his van.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

At Dim Sum Palace, they ate in companionable silence, exchanging amused glances as the chef screamed in Mandarin at someone in the kitchen.

“What are you doing on Sunday?” Hannah asked.

Jago took a bite of his spring roll. “I’m busy,” he answered after a moment. “I got stuff to do.”

“What stuff? I thought you said Sunday’s your day off.”

“It is,” he said evasively. “But I…promised a mate I’d help him move. Probably take most of the day.”

“Oh, well, OK. No big deal.”

Although Hannah was silent as they stood and gathered up the emptied cartons of ginger beef and Mu Shu Pork, she knew – just
knew
– that Jago was lying.

“So what are you doing on Sunday, really?” she asked as they walked back to work.

He looked at her in annoyance. “I told you, I’m helping a mate move—”

“That’s bollocks, and you know it.”

Jago stopped and faced her. “Look, I can’t hang out Sunday. I’m sorry. We can do something next Sunday, yeah?”

“Forget it,” she said coolly. “I’m busy then.”

He snorted. “Busy? Doing what, spending your dad’s money? You’re full of shit, Hannah. Sometimes you don’t get what you want. Get over it.”

Hannah stared at him, taken aback. Before she could form a reply, he shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel, and walked away.

It was done. Jago and Frank would be sacked at the end of the week. Alastair stood to leave Rhys’s office. “Mr. Gordon, are you free for lunch? I’d like a word.”

Rhys took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Bloody hell, this stuff gets worse every day.” He set the cup aside. “I’ve a meeting with Clarkson at one, so I need to be back by then.”

They went to a gastro pub nearby and found a table in the bar. After placing their orders – a cheddar burger and stout for Rhys, white wine and a salad for Alastair – Rhys leaned forward. “What did you want to discuss?”

Alastair paused as the waiter put a cocktail napkin down in front of each of them. “Trimming the stockroom staff should save a fair bit of money over the summer, don’t you agree?”

“Yes. It’s a workable solution, so long as Duffy has enough employees to do the job.” Rhys leaned back. “Now, tell me – what’s the real reason we’re here?”

The waiter returned to deposit their drinks and departed. Alastair took a sip of his wine. “You’re direct, Mr. Gordon. I shall be direct as well. You don’t like me,” he said bluntly. “Why is that, I wonder?”

Rhys leaned forward. “I’m frustrated with the way you and Sir Richard have managed things. Together you own this wonderful, landmark department store, yet you’ve both let it slide for far too long.”

Their food arrived. Alastair was silent as the plate of salad was set before him. There was little he could say in his defence. Rhys was right.

Rhys picked up his burger. “You’ve so much potential with Dashwood and James, so much history, yet you don’t seem to care. You haven’t kept up with the times, either of you.

“And yes,” he added, “before you say it, I know you hired me to fix things. But at the end of the day, Alastair, it’s your company, and Sir Richard’s. Not mine.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you both deserve to lose the stores.”

“Perhaps we do,” Alastair agreed, and picked up his fork. “My marriage is in trouble at the moment. My daughter, Hannah…she’s a teenager, with all the drama and stress that entails. I’m not making excuses, mind; but it’s difficult for my wife to manage things alone just now.”

Rhys lifted his glass. “I’m sure it isn’t easy, raising a family.” There was an edge to his voice. “Requires a great deal of sacrifice, I should think.”