Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (25 page)

He lifted his brow. “What else does a man need but a sofa, a table, and a bed?”

“Beer, I suppose, and a flat-screen TV?”

“Too right,” he agreed with a grin. “So? What do you say?”

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “I normally do laundry, but I suppose it could wait. What did you have in mind?”

“We could both do with a break, we’ve worked really hard on the re-launch. I thought we’d do a bit of rural sightseeing. And that’s all I intend to say on the matter.”

“Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going? How should I dress for this mysterious outing?”

“Wear long sleeves and jeans, and proper shoes – no stripper heels, please. Save those for later.”

Natalie blinked. “Rhys—!”

He came closer. “Don’t look so shocked, Miss Dashwood. I know you want to finish what we started just as much as I do.”

She blushed.

He grinned and turned away to pick up his things. “I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Long sleeves and jeans—? But it’s nearly June!” she protested. “Can’t you tell me a bit more?”

“You’ll see on Sunday.” He smiled briefly and turned to go. “Now get back to work.”

“The
Dissolute
campaign has great buzz,” Simon Templeton, advertising director of the Templeton advertising agency, informed Klaus on Friday afternoon. “Everyone loves Dominic. Feedback’s been positive, despite the Wedding-gate fiasco.”

“Sometimes, notoriety is good.”

An assistant brought Klaus an espresso. So far, the only information Dominic had produced concerning Phillip Pryce’s line of clothing for Dashwood and James was a couple of sketches and a photo of a dress from last season’s Rochas collection.

Von Richter scowled. Did Dominic Heath really believe him to be such a fool?

Since the rock star had produced nothing useful on Phillip, he’d have to find another way to sabotage Dashwood and James.

“Is the espresso not to your liking, Herr von Richter?” Simon Templeton inquired as displeasure flickered on the German designer’s face. “I can assure you, it’s made from the finest Sumatran fair trade beans.”

“Fair trade,” Klaus said derisively. “That’s just an excuse to charge more money,
nein
?”

“Well, no. It ensures fair wages and treatment of the workers—”

Klaus snorted. “Workers should be glad to have any job and take what wages they get. It’s preferable to starving in the streets, no?”

Simon kept his expression neutral. “Surely you don’t advocate the use of sweatshops, Herr von Richter?”

“No, of course not. Bad for business, you know.”

“The media would tear you apart,” Simon agreed. “There’s no tolerance for that sort of thing these days.”

“No,” Klaus agreed thoughtfully. “No tolerance at all.”

“Well, if there’s nothing else-?” Simon began.

Klaus stood up abruptly. “No, there is nothing else. I’ll be in touch.” He turned away to retrieve his mobile and called down to his driver. “I have an interview with
BritTEEN
magazine at two. And stop at the newsagents on the way.”

The minute the staff meeting ended, Holly James left the
BritTEEN
offices and dashed downstairs to the corner newsagents. Every day she bought a pack of Polos and a Diet Coke from Rajid, the owner’s son. Even on a completely crap day – today being no exception – he was always good for a laugh.

She waved to Rajid and went to the newsstand. As she flipped through the latest issue of
Vogue
, Klaus von Richter strode in, grabbed a newspaper, and flung it on the counter.

He wore the imperious air of an Important Person like an accessory.

Holly joined the queue and fished out her mobile. No messages. Out of boredom – the queue was longish – she decided to video Klaus for her sister. Klaus tossed a package of Mentos atop the
Telegraph
and handed his Amex Black to Rajid.

“May I see a photo ID, sir?” Rajid inquired politely.

Klaus gave him a withering stare. “You are joking.”

Rajid shook his head. “It is store policy, sir.”

“I’m buying two pounds’ worth of items.”

“I am sorry.” Rajid was sympathetic but implacable. “Store policy.”

“Listen to me, you idiot,” Klaus snapped, “I’m Klaus von Richter, the creative director of Maison Laroche.”

“A thousand apologies, sir,” Rajid said firmly, “but I must see your identification. That is the rule.”

By now, the queue had grown to half a dozen people, all in a hurry to purchase their newspapers and cough drops and Galaxy bars. “I don’t care about rules, you stupid boy!” Klaus hissed, and leaned over to grab a fistful of Rajid’s shirt. “Rules do not apply to me. Run my card now, or there’ll be trouble.”

“Release my son.” Rajid’s father, an older but far more implacable Sikh, joined his son. “Release him, or I promise I will have you charged with assault.”

Klaus thrust Rajid away with a curse and a shocking string of racial epithets. “Keep your newspaper and your Mentos,” he spat. He swept everything off the counter to the floor, then stormed out of the newsagents…

…unaware that Holly James had captured the entire ugly exchange on video.

Chapter 32

Promptly at nine on Sunday morning, Natalie heard the roar of an engine outside her flat.

“What in the world—?” She ran to the window and peered down. A gleaming silver Triumph motorcycle waited at the curb, a man in a helmet and a black leather jacket sitting astride. He rested one booted foot on the street, revved the engine, and lifted the visor of his helmet.

Dark blond hair, dark blue eyes…

“Rhys,” Natalie murmured. She threw the sash up. “You can’t be serious! You brought your motorbike?” she called out.

“Get your arse down here! Time’s wasting.”

“I think I prefer the Jag,” Natalie said five minutes later as she regarded the Triumph doubtfully.

“Just put the helmet on. You loved it last time.”

“I was drunk last time.”

Once she was helmeted and straddled behind him, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

“Hang on,” he warned over the rumble of the engine. “I don’t drive like your granny.”

With a roar, they were off. Natalie clung to Rhys as they manoeuvreed their way out of London and onto the A3, headed west. Streets and buildings passed by in a blur, giving way gradually to rolling green countryside.

Exhilaration overtook her as they roared past hedgerows and fields dotted with cows and black-faced sheep. There was only the Triumph, the road, and Rhys’s broad, muscled back. Her nose was assaulted by the smells of leather, petrol, and occasionally, the scent of wildflowers.

Just past noon, they stopped for lunch. Natalie was ravenous. Over fish and chips and pints of beer, Rhys told her about his Thunderbird and his love affair with motorcycles.

“It’s my only escape,” he said, and thrust a pickled onion in his mouth. “No mobile, no laptop, no demands – just me and the road and plenty of horsepower.”

“I didn’t think I’d like it,” Natalie admitted, “but it’s brilliant. Except for the seat…my bum’s a bit sore.”

Rhys nodded. “It will be, the first couple of times out. You’ll feel it in your legs tomorrow.”

“I already do.”

Rhys paid the bill and they returned to the bike. “Ready?”

“Let’s walk first,” Nat suggested impulsively as she eyed the row of shops lining the main street.

“OK.” He shoved his wallet in his back pocket. “But only if you promise not to buy anything.”

“I’m very restrained in my spending these days.” She stopped and pointed. “But there’s a sweet shop, so I’m afraid—” she smiled triumphantly “—all bets are off.”

Rhys took her hand, and they made their way to the confectioners. Outside the door he paused. “I’ll probably regret this, but get whatever you like. I’ll buy.”

“Oh, you’ll definitely regret it,” Natalie agreed. “We’ll get something for your mum. Jamie says she likes sweets.”

“Jamie?”

“Yes, you know, your brother? We had a pint together the night you threw him out of your flat.”

Rhys frowned. “I didn’t throw him out.”

“You did! When I left, we went to the pub around the corner.”

“As I recall,” Rhys murmured, “you left just as things got interesting. I had a very different idea of how the evening would end. And talking to Jamie wasn’t it.”

Natalie blushed. “Do you fancy shortbread?” she asked him. The woman at the till was avidly listening to every word.

Rhys leaned forward to kiss her. “I don’t fancy shortbread,” he said against her lips, “or chocolate, or gumdrops. I fancy you. I want to make you dinner. And I’ve dessert of another kind altogether in mind.”

“You’ve forgotten Lesson Number One,” she murmured. “‘Behave with decorum at all times’.”

“I’m the instructor, so I’m allowed to break the rules.”

The woman behind the till rang everything up and handed the bag of sweets to Natalie. She leaned forward. “That’s Rhys Gordon, that is,” she whispered. “And you’re Natalie Dashwood. I’ve read all about you in the tabloids.”

“Oh, no,” Natalie said hastily, “you’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not.” The woman looked past her and eyed Rhys appreciatively. “You want my advice? Run along and have some of that dessert on offer. I would!” She winked.

Scarlet-faced, Natalie took the bag and fled the shop.

Rhys tossed the candy into the Triumph’s saddlebag and swung his leg over the seat. “Are you ready, Miss Dashwood?”

She settled herself in behind him and slid her arms tightly around his waist. “I’m ready, Mr. Gordon.”

With a throaty rumble, they roared off into the drowsy late afternoon countryside, back to London.

“What should I do?” Holly fumed as she slid into a booth at the pub on Sunday afternoon.

“Do about what?” Hannah asked without looking up from her mobile. She was used to her sister’s dramatics.

Holly brandished her mobile. “I’ve got a video of Klaus von Richter throwing a major tantrum at the newsagents on Friday,” she confided in a low voice. “Rajid asked for ID, and Klaus went mental! Here, look.”

As Hannah watched the video, her eyes grew wide. “Did you post this?”

“No! Are you crazy? If Klaus – or Sasha! – found out, I’d lose my job. Klaus is very important in the fashion world.”

“But he treated Rajid horribly…and he’s a racist git.” Hannah leaned forward. “Hols, you have to post this. Offer the story to the tabloids, make yourself a bit of money—”

“No! If I go to the tabs, everyone including Klaus will know I took that video, and I’ll be sacked.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Just say you want to be a – what do you call it? –an unnamed source,” Hannah said.

Holly shook her head firmly. “I can’t take the chance. My job means too much to me.”

“Send me the video,” Hannah offered. “I’ll post it, and no one need know you had anything to do with it. Come on! What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Losing my job, that’s what. I’m not at home any more. I have to pay rent, not to mention buy groceries—”

Hannah snorted. “You eat nothing but salad and veg…a head of lettuce can’t cost that much. And even if you lost your job, you could always come back home.”

“No thanks!” Holly said, and shuddered. “I like being on my own. And I like my career as well, thank you very much.”

“So you won’t do it? You won’t expose this guy’s racist behaviour to the world?”

“No. I’m staying well out of it. Now let’s order, I’m starving. Split some chips with me?”

Hannah nodded, distracted. The minute Holly went to the loo, she’d grab her mobile and forward the video to her own phone. And tonight, she’d upload it straight onto YouTube.

After all, Hannah reasoned, she was doing the right thing for Rajid and his father. Holly would thank her. Eventually.

“You never said you could cook like this,” Natalie told Rhys that evening, as she squeezed lemon juice on her scallops.

Rhys dished out a generous portion of asparagus risotto onto her plate. “You never asked.”

The scallops melted in her mouth, buttery and sweet. She closed her eyes. “This is really, really good.”

He poured her a glass of Sancerre and sat down across from her. “I thought white was safer than red, in the event you decided to toss your glass at me.”

“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” she demanded, indignant.

“Certainly not. I lost a perfectly good shirt to you that night. Not to mention a shoe.”

“That’s it – I’m buying you a shirt and a new pair of shoes. I should have done, anyway.”

“You’re on a budget. You can’t afford it.” He lifted his brow. “Besides, I have twelve other shirts just like it. I hardly need another. And I didn’t like those shoes, anyway.”

“You’re impossible to please, you know that.”

“I may be impossible,” he conceded as he set aside his glass and leaned forward to take her hand in his, “but I’m not impossible to please.” He turned her palm up and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.

A shiver of desire shot through her at the touch of his lips on her skin. Suddenly any clever remarks – or any remarks at all, for that matter – went straight out of her head.

Rhys glanced at her. Spending the day in the sun and wind on the motorbike had put a bloom of colour on Natalie’s cheeks and left her hair tousled and messy.

“Riding on the back of a motorbike suits you,” he said, his lips moving against her skin. “We should do it more often.”

“Rhys,” Natalie murmured as his lips moved slowly along the inside of her forearm, inch by delicious inch, “I wasn’t quite finished with my risotto…”

He stood and pulled Natalie to her feet as he wrapped his arms around her. “You are now.” His mouth came down on hers.

She gave herself over to the taste and feel and sheer physicality of him – the muscled length of his arms, the heat of his body against hers, the thick softness of his hair beneath her fingers. He smelled of a heady mix of soap and the outdoors, fresh and very, very masculine.

As his lips moved down the column of her neck to her throat, leaving a wet trail of heat, Natalie groaned.