Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (3 page)

“Got her,” Gordon said, and bent down to grab the teacup-sized ball of fluff as she darted past. She sank her tiny teeth into the fleshy bit between his thumb and forefinger. “Shit!” He dropped her, and she promptly took a wee on his shoe.

Nat gasped, horrified, and picked her up. “Nigella!”

“Have you a towel?” he asked evenly as he eyed his dripping shoe.

“Of course.” She led him inside the flat and returned a moment later with a rumpled, coffee-stained tea towel.

He wiped his shoe and returned the towel. “Thanks. Now I really must go, before you – or your sister’s dog – destroy another article of my clothing.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said again, her eyes luminous and wide as she met his gaze, “I really am—”

“Forget it.” He turned away, his expression unreadable. “It’s been…memorable, Miss Dashwood. Goodnight.”

Dazed, Natalie blinked at the empty doorway. Crikey, but she felt awful. First his shirt, then his shoe…yet he’d been quite decent about it all. She brightened. She’d ask grandfather to send a cheque to cover the damages. Except…she didn’t know Mr. Gordon’s proper name, much less his address.

“Wait!” she cried again, and dashed into the hall to run after him. She paused unsteadily at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Gordon – wait! I don’t even know your first name!”

But the roar of his motorbike engine, fading rapidly away into the night, told her that he was already gone.

Chapter 3

The blare of the alarm clock woke Natalie from a deep sleep on Monday morning. She opened her eyes – ugh, felt like they were glued shut – and rolled over to turn off the alarm. It was 8:15 a.m.

Bloody hell.

The Dashwood and James board meeting grandfather wanted her to attend started at nine. She had less than forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and make her way to Knightsbridge from Ladbroke Grove in London rush-hour traffic.

Bloody,
bloody
hell…

She picked up her phone and called a minicab. In twenty minutes flat she showered, dressed, flung some dog kibble into a dish for Nigella, and thrust her feet in a pair of Prada pumps.

“Where to, love?” the driver asked as she rushed down the steps of the mansion flat and flung the door open. Despite his best efforts, they didn’t reach Sloane Street until nearly an hour later.

“Thanks.” Natalie flung a twenty-pound note at him, slammed the door, and ran up the steps into Dashwood and James’ flagship store. She glanced at her wristwatch. Between traffic and roadwork delays, she was twenty-seven minutes late.

“Good morning, Miss Natalie,” Henry the lift operator greeted her as he slid back the private car’s door. “Fourth floor?”

“Yes, thanks, Henry. Is everyone here for the meeting?”

“Oh, yes, everyone, including the new chap. The one,” Henry added darkly, “what’s supposed to save D&J’s bacon.”

“What’s he like?” Natalie asked him curiously.

He drew his bushy silver brows together. “He didn’t say much. Kept himself to himself, if you know what I mean.”

On the fourth floor, which was given over to offices and conference rooms, Henry slid back the elaborate turn-of-the-century lift door for her and touched the tip of his cap. “Here we are, Miss Natalie. Best of luck to you.”

“Thanks, Henry. I’ve a feeling I’ll need it.”

As she approached the closed conference room door and eased it open, Natalie was desperate for an aspirin. Her head was pounding. But she hadn’t anything but a petrified cough drop.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologised as the door swung open. “I didn’t hear the alarm—”

When she caught sight of the man standing at the head of the conference table, Natalie’s voice trailed away. Her eyes widened in mingled dismay and horror.

Oh, blimey, no. It couldn’t be.

He had darkish blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a Thomas Pink shirt, obviously a different one today, because this one was striped, without a wine stain. And he most definitely didn’t reek of second-hand Pinot Noir or dog wee.

Natalie cringed inwardly. To think that only last night she’d twined her arms around his neck, pressed herself shamelessly against him, and begged him to have sex with her.

“Natalie,” Sir Richard said, “allow me to introduce our new Operations Manager, Rhys Gordon.”

Mortification swept over her as their eyes met. Rhys Gordon rescued companies from the brink of financial ruin and turned them back into the black. He was famously good at what he did. Photos and articles about him appeared regularly in the business pages of newspapers and magazines, and occasionally in the tabloids as well.

Natalie bit back a groan. She’d thrown herself at Mr. Gordon, grandfather’s newly hired Operations Manager, like a cheap slapper.

Just let me die now…

Gordon’s expression gave nothing away. “You’re late.” He levelled a dark blue gaze on her. “The meeting started half an hour ago.”

“Sorry.” She wasn’t, not really. She hated meetings and hated apologising, but needs must. Natalie glanced at him, noting distractedly that his eyes were a deep and penetrating blue, and shrugged. “I overslept. I had a—” she flushed “—a bit of a late night last night.”

The men at the conference table – Ian Clarkson, Alexa’s husband, actually
winked
at her, the cheeky bastard – pushed back their chairs and rose as Natalie rounded the table and kissed her grandfather, Sir Richard Dashwood, on his papery cheek.

“Next time, Miss Dashwood,” Rhys said sharply, “you’ll get here on time. Or you can bloody well stay home.”

Natalie bristled. So, the media stories about Mr. Gordon were true. He had a reputation for being abrasive, arrogant, and impatient…and those were his good qualities. Nor did his expertise come cheap. But he was said to be worth every penny.

If you didn’t stab him with the nearest letter-opener first
, she reflected grimly.

“My granddaughter usually gives these board meetings a wide berth, Mr. Gordon,” Sir Richard informed him. He gave Natalie a look of mild reproof. “You’re lucky she showed up at all.”

“It’s no matter to me if she shows up or not,” Rhys responded. His gaze locked with Natalie’s. “But if she cares anything about saving the family business, I’d suggest she take a more active interest going forward.”

“This store is my birthright, Mr. Gordon,” she retorted. “It’s been in the Dashwood family for 150 years. Whilst you,” she added tartly, “are merely an employee.”

His eyes narrowed, but he turned away and said, “We’ve a lot of ground to cover, gentlemen. Sit down, Miss Dashwood, so we can get back to the matter at hand.”

Alastair James gestured Natalie into a seat. “Rhys was just about to discuss his findings as a mystery shopper.”

“Mystery shopper?” Natalie echoed. With a sense of impending doom, she sank down next to Alastair. “Do you mean to say Mr. Gordon pretended to be a store customer?”

“That’s exactly what he means.” Rhys looked at her the way the devil must eye a new arrival to Hell. “I’ve visited all of the store’s departments recently to assess our customer relations. You’re just in time for my report.”

Her heart sank into her Prada pumps. She remembered she’d been particularly rude to that bloke in the Barbour jacket on Saturday. She only hoped he hadn’t lodged a complaint. But even if he had, perhaps – she cast a sidewise glance at Rhys Gordon – perhaps the new Operations Manager wouldn’t mention it.

“First,” Gordon began, “I want to address the issues I encountered in the lingerie department. My treatment was abysmal,” he said as his hard blue gaze met Natalie’s, “in every respect.”

“
Your
treatment?” she squeaked. She sat up straighter as she realised with dawning horror that
he
was the customer she’d waited on. She hadn’t recognised him, dressed in his Barbour jacket and jeans. No wonder he’d worn those sunglasses! Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Not only was my sales clerk rude and unhelpful,” he went on, “she encouraged me to shop elsewhere; carried on a personal conversation on her mobile, which, by the way, is forbidden on the sales floor, refused to wrap my purchase, and—” he paused for the maximum effect “—when I left, told me she looked forward to my next visit, like the plague…or her next gyno exam.”

Several gasps went round the table, the loudest one being Natalie’s own.

“Who was this cheeky little madam?” Sir Richard demanded, outraged. “I shall have her sacked at once!”

“Oh, you don’t want to sack anyone, grandfather,” Natalie said hastily, before Rhys could respond. “It’s the holidays, after all! You know, good will to men. And women. And perhaps,” she added as she glared at the new OM, “the sales clerk was having a bad day. She might even have been a bit hung over.”

“If customers in this store are treated the way I was, Miss Dashwood,” Gordon retorted, “then it’s no wonder that Dashwood and James is losing its arse. And if nothing is done to remedy the situation, it bloody well
deserves
to lose its arse.”

Chapter 4

Sir Richard slapped his age-spotted hand on the conference table and leaned forward to glare at Rhys, seated at the opposite end of the table.

“We’re all agreed that something must be done,” Sir Richard snapped. “But what, precisely? Can you tell us that?”

Rhys eyed him. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Sir Richard, but financially, your stores are in the crapper. Unless you take cost-cutting measures at once, doors will have to close. Jobs will be lost. Is that what you want?”

“Certainly not,” Alastair interjected. “That’s why we hired you.”

Sir Richard’s scowl deepened as he flipped through the pages of Rhys’s business plan. “You want to get rid of the children’s wear department.”

“Sell children’s clothing online,” Rhys said. “You’ll save on operating costs and better utilise your floor space.”

The assorted executives and board members ranged around the table gave cautious nods; a few of them shifted uneasily in their seats. Sir Richard was notoriously resistant to change. Would he listen to reason from the new OM?

Not bloody likely.

“We’ve got to increase the advertising budget,” Rhys went on. “Dashwood and James need more visibility on television and radio, and in the print media as well.”

“Bah!” Sir Richard snorted. “Waste of money.”

“At the very least,” Rhys continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “you’ll need to refurbish the flagship store and increase publicity…or you’ll never climb out of the red.”

“And where is all this money to come from?” Sir Richard demanded.

“From better use of the money you have.” Rhys threw his pen down. “Make maximum use of your retail floor space, offer a wider range of merchandise, make the departments more inviting, and dwell time will increase.”

Natalie frowned. “‘Dwell time?’” she echoed.

“The time a customer spends on the selling floor. Currently, it’s barely twenty minutes. That’s abysmal.”

Sir Richard gave a derisive snort. “What is it you want us to do, Mr. Gordon? Cut, or spend?”

“Both.” Rhys stood and swept a challenging glance around the table. “The flagship store needs an update.” Cautious nods all around. “To do so won’t come cheap. We’ll cut expenses elsewhere—” he lifted a folder filled with a thick sheaf of papers “—for example, shut down that antiquated lift—”

“What? You can’t do that!” Natalie gasped, horrified. “Henry’s operated that lift for fifty years!”

“Indeed?” Rhys said, and raised his brow. “Then that’s twenty years too long, Miss Dashwood. The man is nearing eighty. He should be retired.”

“And you plan to decide that
for
him, do you?” she shot back.

“There’s a perfectly good, modern lift in the middle of the store.” His words were steely. “Using the original is expensive, probably unsafe – and pointless, as well.”

At the thought of Henry – so proud of his uniform and cap – being made redundant, Natalie stood up. “I won’t allow it!”

“Sit down, Miss Dashwood,” Rhys snapped. “We’ll discuss this offline, after the meeting.”

She glared at him. “You can be sure we will, Mr. Gordon.” She sat back down, quivering with outrage.

He returned his attention to the men ranged around the table. “Now, gentlemen, as to the store’s return policy—”

“What’s wrong with the return policy?” Sir Richard barked. “It’s worked perfectly well for all these years.”

“It’s too generous,” Rhys retorted. He threw the folder down before him like a gauntlet. “Any return is accepted, no matter how long since its purchase, even without a receipt. That’s madness. The company’s haemorrhaging money it can’t afford to lose.”

“Nonsense—”

“I recommend that after thirty days’ time, or if the customer has no receipt, we no longer accept returns or exchanges.”

A hush fell over the conference table. Only the muted sounds of London traffic four storeys below broke the silence. Implementing a change of this magnitude to the generous and longstanding Dashwood and James return policy was blasphemy.

Sir Richard leaned forward, his face flushed. “What’s to make our stores stand out if we do away with our return policy?”

“Quality,” Rhys responded. “Excellent customer service, and good value for money.” His gaze swept the table. “The fact is, Dashwood and James have become irrelevant. We can’t hope to compete with Selfridges or Marks and Spencer unless we update the store and, more importantly, update its image. If you aren’t willing to do that, gentlemen—” he reached out to take up his folder, his face set “—then I’ll leave you to it.”

Silence greeted his words.

“Gordon’s right.” Alastair eyed the men ranged round the table. “We can’t move forward if we cling to the past. Sir Richard, if you’re in accord, I suggest we take a vote on the matter.”

Ten minutes later, it was settled.

“The ‘ayes’ have it,” Alastair announced. “George, please note that there was one ‘nay’.”

Everyone looked at Natalie. She pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up in defiance.