Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (33 page)

Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs. “Ian?”

“Yes. I’ve come to collect my stuff. I left a message.”

She appeared on the top step. “I know. I left the gates open and the door unlocked.”

“Thanks,” he said shortly, and moved past her up the stairs. “I shan’t be long.”

“I go to hospital tomorrow.”

He paused on the step below her. “Yes, I know. I didn’t think you’d want me there.”

“I don’t. But—” she took a breath “—if you want to come, I won’t object. It’s your child too, after all.”

“Yes, well, with the re-launch tomorrow, I don’t know when – or if – I can get away.”

She bristled. “Surely you can ‘get away’ for the birth of your child! You can’t bear to leave
her
, can you?”

Ian regarded her coldly. “This is so unnecessary, Alexa. Natalie and I aren’t having an affair. I can’t believe you’d take a tabloid photo at face value. There’s nothing wrong in talking to someone on a park bench—”

“But there’s something wrong with
kissing
someone on a park bench – especially when that ‘someone’ isn’t your wife!” Alexa snapped. “Or should I not have taken
that
particular photo at face value?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ian bit off, “I haven’t time for this,” and he stormed past her up the remaining steps and strode down the hallway. “I’ll get my stuff and go.”

“Yes, do.” Alexa, arms crossed, waited on the stairs as he went into their bedroom and rummaged through his dresser.

In a moment he appeared at the top of the stairs with a rucksack and a few suits slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got what I need. I’ll call tomorrow to check you’re all right.”

Alexa pressed herself against the wall as he went back down. “Don’t bother. I don’t want you to put yourself out.”

He paused. “Look, you threw me out, Alexa. If you need me, call. I’ve got my mobile.” He descended the stairs and left, slamming the front door behind him.

As she heard the Audi drive off, Alexa took a deep shaky breath and went back upstairs.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t
. She needed a clean nightgown for her hospital stay; might as well pack now, while she still had a bit of energy left—

Halfway down the hall, she paused. Something black lay on the carpet. She lowered herself into an awkward squat and picked it up.

It was Ian’s mobile phone.

He sometimes clipped it to his belt; he must’ve dropped it when he was fetching his clothes. He’d soon realise it was gone. She’d have to hurry.

Without hesitation, Alexa scanned his text messages, looking for anything to or from Natalie Dashwood. There was nothing. Next, she checked his photos to see if he had pictures of Nat on his mobile. Again, there was nothing.

She frowned. Ian was clever, of course he wouldn’t leave evidence of his affair on his mobile for her to find. Still, she’d check his phone messages too, just in case.

The messages were all recent, all mundane – an appointment reminder from Dr. Martin, his GP; a call from Rhys about a cancelled meeting; scheduled maintenance for the Audi. Alexa was about to switch off the mobile when she noticed a single, saved message.

It was dated two weeks ago – Sunday, the night Natalie had called Ian so late. Alexa played it back.

“Ian, it’s Natalie.” Her voice was low but determined. “I want proof before this goes any further. Prove that what you say is true, or I promise you, I’ll call the police.” There was a click as she abruptly rang off.

Alexa lowered the phone and stared at it in confusion. What was Natalie on about? Proof of what, exactly?

The phone on the hall table jangled, startling her. She grabbed it. “Hello?”

“I’ve lost my mobile,” Ian said shortly. “I’m calling from the petrol station. Can you see if I left it?”

“I’ll go and check.” She made a point of putting the phone down, and picked it up a moment later. “Sorry. It’s not here.”

“You’re certain? It’s got to be there.”

“It’s not. Sorry.” She hung up and put Ian’s mobile in her hospital bag, under a pile of knickers.

Whatever was going on, she’d find out. And the only place to start, Alexa decided as she fetched her handbag and car keys, was London…Ladbroke Grove, to be exact.

She had to talk to Natalie.

Tomorrow would be too late. Between the re-launch and her scheduled C-section, there’d be no chance to get to the bottom of this. Alexa returned to the bedroom and dug Ian’s mobile back out, then tucked it in her handbag and went downstairs.

Should she call Natalie?
Alexa wondered as she got in the car and started the engine.

No. This visit definitely needed to be made in person.

There was a knock on the conference room door, and Alastair’s secretary came in. “Mr. James, sorry to disturb, but you have a call. It’s urgent.”

Alastair rose and excused himself from the meeting. Rhys scowled but made no comment. There were still several last-minute details to go over before the re-launch the next day – the distinct possibility of sweatshop protesters at Phillip’s fashion show being only one of them — and time, like Rhys’s temper, was running dangerously short.

“It’s Mrs. James,” Corinne said as she led Alastair back to his office. “Hannah’s been injured.”

“Injured?” Confusion clouded his expression. “How on earth could she be injured? She stayed home today, she wasn’t feeling well…” He strode into his office and stabbed at the blinking line. “Cherie, what’s happened?”

“Alastair? Oh, God, please get here as soon as you can! I’m at St. George’s, Hannah may need surgery—”

Between her sobs and disjointed attempts to explain, Alastair determined that his daughter had been struck by a motorcycle and had suffered a concussion and possible internal injuries. Exactly how this sequence of events had happened was not clear.

“I’m on my way,” he said tersely, and went back to the conference room to inform Rhys he was leaving.

“Leaving?” Rhys threw down his pen. “For God’s sake, man, we’ve a dozen details yet to discuss—”

“My daughter’s in hospital,” Alastair snapped. “Sorry, Gordon, but my family comes first.”

There was a shocked silence. “Of course. Carry on,” Rhys told the others as he thrust his chair back and stood up. “Keep me informed of your decisions. I’ll have my mobile with me. I’m going with Alastair.”

He followed Alastair out. “You’re upset, you shouldn’t drive,” he said. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Twenty minutes later, a ward sister at St. George’s General Critical Care Unit directed Alastair to a curtained cubicle. Only family were allowed into the surgery area; Rhys remained behind in the waiting room.

Cherie saw Alastair and went, sobbing, into his arms. “This is my fault,” she told him brokenly, “my fault.”

“Of course it’s not, darling,” he murmured, perplexed, as he stroked her hair. “It was an accident.”

“But it
is
my fault!” She looked up at him, her expression bleak. “Hannah snuck out of the house while I was at Waitrose. I didn’t know she was gone. At noon she came in the kitchen door. Neil was there – I’d just told him we couldn’t see one other. I told him I love
you
, and only you—”

Alastair stepped back and dropped his hands from her. “I don’t care what you told him. Tell me what happened to Hannah. What did she see? Whatever it was, it obviously upset her.”

“She saw us together, and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“And why would she do that?” he asked softly.

Cherie sobbed. “It was…we were hugging, Neil and I. I’d just told him we shouldn’t see one another; that it would only lead to trouble. Hannah saw us and completely misread the situation, and she ran out, and I went after her, but she ran into the street behind a bus, straight in the path of a motorcycle.” Sobs shook her shoulders. “It knocked her into the air, Alastair, like a…a rag doll.”

There was a long, terrible silence before Alastair spoke. “If anything happens to Hannah, Cherie,” he informed his wife with quiet conviction, “I’ll hold you and Neil personally responsible. And I’ll never forgive either one of you.”

Chapter 43

Midway through the Destroyers’ rehearsal on Friday afternoon, Dominic’s mobile rang. “Dom,” his agent, Max Moore, said in a rush, “thank God I reached you!”

“What is it, Max?” Dominic said as he towelled his face off. Things weren’t going well. The boys in the band were throwing major attitude, and Mick kept giving Dominic mock bows and calling him ‘yer lordship’.

“I’ve got someone on the line, wants to speak with you.” Max paused. He added in an awed whisper, “It’s your father, Lord Locksley.”

Dominic swore. He hadn’t spoken to his father in almost eleven years. “I don’t want to talk to him,” he snapped, but Max had already transferred the call.

There was a pause. “Rather too late for that, Rupert,” his father said.

Shit
. “Rather too late all round, isn’t it?” Dominic retorted. “Sorry about the media flap, but someone found out my identity and leaked it to the press. It wasn’t me.”

“Well, in the end, it doesn’t matter who it was, does it? The damage is done. Your mother and I have been besieged by reporters ever since the story came out.”

Dominic’s hand tightened on the phone. “Yeah, well, at least I spared you from embarrassment for ten years.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” his lordship returned, his words chilly. “Your behaviour is a continued source of embarrassment, particularly to me.”

“Right,” Dominic agreed, and tightened his jaw. “Never mind the fact that I make shedloads of money and donate to charity and sell millions of records.” He felt the same old mingled anger and hurt welling up. “I met the Queen last year, did you know? But none of that matters, because I’m not doing what
you
want. I’ve never measured up to your impossible standards, have I, dad? And I never will.”

“I won’t deny that I’m profoundly disappointed in you, Rupert. And while I agree that you’ve done well for yourself, materially at least, I don’t consider the scandal-plagued life you lead as something to be proud of.” He paused. “But I didn’t call to revisit old ground.”

“Why did you call, then?” Dominic asked. “Enlighten me.”

“I wished to inform you that as far as I’m concerned—” his words were coldly polite “—you’re no longer my son.”

Dominic felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Although he’d known this day would come, hearing the words spoken left him momentarily stunned, scarcely able to breathe.

“I’m seeing the family solicitor early next week. It’s against your mother’s wishes, I might add, but nonetheless—” Lord Locksley cleared his throat “—I’m disowning you. Upon my death, the title and property will pass to your brother, Liam. I’m sorry it’s come to this. Goodbye, Rupert.”

And with that, he disconnected.

“What’s wrong?” Gemma asked, her face creased with concern as she sat next to him and slipped her arm through his. “I took the afternoon off to come and watch you rehearse, but you look like you just lost your best mate
and
the EuroMillions, all in one go.”

“It’s my father. He’s about to disown me. The old sod,” he added with a scowl.

“Oh, Dom – I’m sorry. That’s rough. Is there anything I can do?”

He smiled wanly and gave her thigh a squeeze. “You’re doing it. You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

She leaned over and brushed her lips against his. “I don’t like to see you sad,” she murmured, and stroked his cheek.

He reached up and took her face in his hands. “Thanks, babes. You’re an angel.” He kissed her, tenderly at first, then with increasing ardor. A moment later, out of breath, he dragged his mouth away and groaned. “God…I want you so bad.”

“Me, too. Let’s go,” Gemma whispered, her forehead pressed against Dominic’s. “Let’s get out of here.”

He grinned. “Come on. I know just the place.”

“You’ve got on too many bloody clothes!” Dominic complained five minutes later.

“Careful, these jeans cost £150,” Gemma scolded as he yanked them over her hips and down her legs.

“I don’t care what they cost, I just want ‘em off,” he said testily, and paused. They were hiding out in the band’s cramped storage room, twined together behind a ragtag collection of half-stacks, guitar stands, and towering amp cabinets. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I do.” Gemma smiled as he tugged impatiently at the buttons of her shirt. “Good thing I always carry one in my handbag.” She reached over and retrieved it.

“I thought you weren’t that kind of girl,” Dominic muttered as he pushed her shirt off.

“I’m not! I keep it just in case.”

“Just in case what? You shag a random rock star?”

She laid her hand lightly on the bulge in his jeans, and her eyes widened. “Oh, Dominic,” she murmured, and blushed. “No wonder Nat stayed with you for two years.”

“I never had no complaints,” he said smugly.

“Show me,” Gemma breathed, and planted her mouth firmly on his.

And with a grin, he did.

“Hannah has a mild concussion, and trauma to the spleen,” Dr. Tran informed Alastair and Cherie outside Hannah’s hospital room. “We’ll need to remove it straight away.”

“But if you remove it, what then?” Cherie asked anxiously. “Will she be all right?”

“Her liver will assume the spleen’s functions, such as filtering her blood; but she’ll be more susceptible to infection. The liver can’t compensate for that.” He smiled. “But she’s young and in excellent health, so her prognosis is very good.”

“Is there someone in the family who can donate O-negative blood?” a nurse asked Alastair and Cherie.

They shook their heads. “Neither of us is O-negative,” Alastair said.

“Unfortunately, O-neg is the most common blood type, so we’ve a short supply at the moment. Hannah will need a transfusion during her surgery.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Alastair said, and strode away to the waiting room.

“What’s happening?” Rhys asked, his face creased with concern. He stood and threw away the Styrofoam cup of coffee he held. “How’s Hannah?”

“She needs surgery. Her spleen needs to come out. She’ll need O-negative blood, but supplies are low. I’ve got to find a donor, as quickly as possible.” Alastair’s hand shook as he withdrew his mobile phone and began to press buttons.