Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (4 page)

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Gordon said. “You’ve made the right decision.”

Natalie snorted.

“Have you anything to add, Miss Dashwood?” Rhys crossed his arms against his chest and met her eyes. “The floor is yours.”

She glared, but shook her head. What was the point?

He turned back to the other board members. “We’ve a lot of work ahead. I’ll want your input. I need viable suggestions for improvement when we re-convene tomorrow morning.”

The men rose. One by one they filed out and murmured their goodbyes to Natalie. She smiled, despite the renewed throbbing in her head, and waited until no one was left.

No one, that was, except Rhys Gordon.

Fury swept over her anew, and she stood up and launched into him. “Henry will be devastated if he loses his job, Mr. Gordon. Everyone adores him. He’s a fixture here at Dashwood and James, and so is that bloody lift!”

“I see. Are you quite finished?” he asked evenly.

Natalie blinked. “Well…yes, I suppose I am.” She frowned. “Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” He tossed the folder he held onto the table. “Henry often takes customers to the wrong floor; he can barely see. We’ve had complaints, and they’ll only increase if something isn’t done. If he retires, he’ll receive a generous pension. If he stays, we’ll find him a job in the office. I’ll let Henry decide.” He folded his arms against his chest. “Does that meet with your approval, madam?”

“I suppose,” she said, grudgingly. Her eyes narrowed. “You knew who I was when you bought that nightgown from me on Saturday, didn’t you? And you knew last night.”

He didn’t look up as he began thrusting papers into another folder. “Yes, on both counts.” He glanced up. “I saw the wine in your hand and the murderous look in your eye when Dominic made his announcement. So I did the only thing I could, and put myself in front of you.”

“You stepped in front of Dominic on
purpose
? Why, in sod’s name? I ruined your suit!”

“Because, my dear, clueless girl, there was a photographer from the
Mirror
behind you, and one from
Hello!
on the side, waiting to snap publicity shots of Dominic and Keeley. How would it have looked if you’d doused them both with Pinot?”

Natalie flushed. “Not good,” she said in a small voice.

“I don’t want Dashwood and James immersed in a lawsuit. Bad press is the last thing we need right now.”

Natalie sank into one of the high-backed chairs. Her head pounded like the drums at Salamanca. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognise you at the party,” she murmured. “I should’ve done.”

“You might have, if you weren’t so trolleyed…or if you ever read the business section of a newspaper.”

Natalie bit her lip. “Do you suppose we could just…forget about last night?”

“If that’s what you want.” He gathered up his things, his face unreadable.

Natalie studied him through her lashes. The tabloids said he was a womaniser who could turn on the charm whenever he chose. Not that she’d seen any evidence of
that
so far…

“Tell me – are things at Dashwood and James really so bad?”

“Honestly? They’re worse. There’s a long, uphill climb ahead if we have any hope of re-establishing profitability.”

Her eyes widened. “That sounds serious, indeed.”

“It is. Sir Richard wouldn’t have brought me on, otherwise.”

“Do you really think,” she asked, scepticism plain on her face, “that you can drag Dashwood and James, kicking and screaming, into the 21
^st
century?”

As his gaze met Natalie’s, Rhys couldn’t help but notice her wide grey eyes, liberally fringed with thick dark lashes.

“I do. And I will.” He forced his attention back on the remaining papers scattered on the table before him. “It won’t happen overnight, of course, and it won’t be easy. But it
can
be done.”

“And you’re just the man to do it, are you?”

“I am.” He regarded her with one brow lifted. “Whether you believe that or not is strictly up to you.”

“I don’t believe things are as bad as you say.”

“Profits are down by sixty-one percent, Miss Dashwood. I can show you the figures. And as I stated in the meeting, the average dwell time in the stores is less than twenty minutes.”

“How much should it be?” she asked, curious.

Rhys slid a folder into his briefcase. “Ideally, forty-five minutes to an hour. That’s why Sir Richard needs me.”

“Quite sure of yourself, are you?” The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable.

“I know what needs to be done.” Rhys snapped his briefcase shut. “And I’ll do it…with the board’s approval, of course.”

There was a knock on the conference room door, and Gemma, Rhys’s newly assigned personal assistant, strode in. “Mr. Gordon, I have the tabloids you wanted.” She flicked a glance at Natalie. “Miss Dashwood.”

“Gemma.” Wearing a black sheath dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, Gemma Astley was attractive, well-groomed, and terrifyingly efficient.

As Gemma handed Rhys a neatly fanned-out assortment of tabloids, Natalie felt a sudden flicker of unease. She remembered the white glare of flashbulbs last night when Dominic had announced his engagement to Keeley.

Her unease increased. Surely they hadn’t got any photos of
her
last night? As Gemma left, Natalie came around the table beside Rhys and peered over his shoulder…

…and wished for the second time that day that she could die. Or disappear into the floor – whichever came first.

She and Rhys were splashed on the front pages of the red-tops – the
Daily Mirror,
the
Sun
, and the
Star
among them. Natalie’s photographs, thank God, looked OK. No melting mascara, no wildly smeared lipstick.

The headlines, however, were another story.

She let out a sharp breath as Rhys flicked through the
Sun
. ‘Rhys Gordon’s Latest Takeover’ read one headline, above a photo of Rhys with his face close to hers. Another image, this one featuring Natalie tossing her wine at Rhys’s shirt, was captioned, ‘Ex Marks the Spot!’

But worst was the photo of Rhys, his hand resting low on Natalie’s back as they left the party, headlined, ‘Gordon and Dashwood – Spreadsheets, or Bed Sheets?’

Natalie squealed in outrage, then grabbed the
Daily Mail
from Rhys and began to read aloud. “Rhys Gordon, hired to rescue the troubled Dashwood and James department stores, attended a Holland Park soirée Friday evening, along with Sir Richard Dashwood’s granddaughter, Natalie.

“Dominic Heath, Ms. Dashwood’s pop star ex-boyfriend, announced his engagement to Keeley, ex-wife and former lead singer for The Tarts. Unfortunately, ‘Ex’ did not mark the spot for Natalie…

“Gordon stepped between the pair and got a chest full of Pinot Noir for his trouble. Sorry, Ms. Dashwood, but Gordon prefers his wine, like his women, of a more mature vintage…”

She flung the paper down. “This is a bloody nightmare! Everyone’ll think we’re having an affair!”

Rhys shrugged, unperturbed. “The publicity will generate interest, not just in us, but in Dashwood and James. And that’s what we want.”

“It’s not what
I
want! And there
is
no us! This is awful!”

“Lesson number one,” Rhys said. “There’s good publicity, and bad. You want to get as much of the first as you can and as little of the second as possible.”

“But I don’t want Dominic – and all of London – thinking we’re an item!”

“Why? Are you worried that Dominic will believe it’s true? He dumped you, if you recall, in a very public way.”

She glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me. And no, I don’t care what Dom thinks. It’s just…I hope grandfather doesn’t see this. He’ll think that I…that we…” her words trailed off.

“Your grandfather may be old, but he’s shrewd, Miss Dashwood. He’ll see this for what it is – media speculation, nothing more.” Rhys smiled slightly. “Don’t forget lesson number one – good publicity is always preferable to bad.”

She resisted the urge to clutch at her hammering head. “And what’s lesson number two?”

He eyed her pale face. “That the best cure for a hangover is a good fry-up. Unless I miss my guess, you’re hung over.”

“I don’t have a drink problem, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, defensively.

“I think you’ve had a lousy couple of days.” He took her arm. “It’s nearly noon, so you’ll have to make do with lunch instead. Come on. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

Chapter 5

Rhys took Natalie to an Italian restaurant around the corner. “Two house salads and two orders of lasagna,” Rhys told the waiter when they were seated. He glanced at Natalie inquiringly. “What will you have to drink?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, irritated. “Why don’t you order that for me, as well?”

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine.” He leaned forward, completely unrepentant, and added, “The lasagna’s very good, but get whatever you like.”

“I’ll have the lasagna,” she told the waiter, ignoring Rhys’s smirk as she handed back her menu, “and water with lemon, please.”

“Tell me about yourself,” he prompted, and fixed that intense blue gaze on her. “Where did you go to school, what sort of jobs have you had?”

She raised her hand to stop the flow of questions. “Blimey! Is this an interview? I thought you wanted to talk about the store.”

“I do. But I want to understand why you’re not more involved. Sir Richard tells me you have a dual degree in business and marketing. Why not use it?”

Natalie shrugged. “The store was always grandfather’s thing. I worked there when I was a teenager, on holidays and during the summer.”

“What did you do?”

“What didn’t I do? I worked the perfume counter, and ladies’ shoes. I manned the till, or answered phones and filed paperwork when grandfather’s secretary was out, and I unpacked and shelved merchandise in the stockroom.”

“Did you plan any events for Dashwood and James?”

She shook her head. “Grandfather says store events are costly, and a waste of time.”

“He’s wrong. Dashwood and James are in dire need of some public relations magic right now.”

The waiter brought their salads, heaped with shaved Parmesan and fragrant with basil and oregano. Rhys speared a forkful of greens. “What are you doing now? When you’re not attending soirées in Holland Park, that is.”

“Oh, the usual,” she replied airily. “Christening ships, cutting ribbons – just another day in the exciting life of a department store heiress.” She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap.

He smiled slightly. “Fair enough, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did.” She took a bite of salad. “I took a gap year after uni to travel. I do some charity work, and I help mum with the odd church boot sale…” Her voice trailed away. “But I don’t – work, at the moment.” As she said the words aloud, Natalie felt, suddenly, a bit ashamed. Defensively she added, “I’m not really the nine-to-five type.”

The truth was, she didn’t do anything useful, or clever. She couldn’t knit, or decoupage, or balance spreadsheets, or play the guitar. Ever since she’d met Dominic, she’d drifted along in his wake. Her gap year had stretched into two. And now, she began to realise what a waste most of it had been.

But she’d never, ever admit as much to Rhys.

“I see. So how do you fill your time?” he inquired.

“Well…I weekend with friends in the country, and I go on tour with Dominic – not now, obviously – and I shop—”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his seat and eyed her, his gaze inscrutable. “Judging from the bills pouring in from every boutique and department store in London, shopping is an art form you’ve mastered admirably well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Natalie demanded.

“It means your spending is out of control. It’ll have to stop. And as for Dominic—”He paused. “It’s a good job that he dumped you. He’s destructive and irresponsible.”

“He’s an artist,” she said in his defense. “He’s temperamental—”

“Temperamental?” Rhys echoed, incredulous. “He’s a bloody nightmare! And he treats you like crap, yet you defend him.”

“Dominic can be incredibly sweet.”

“So can ethylene glycol,” Rhys retorted, “but it’ll kill you, just the same.” He paused as the waiter delivered their entrees. He lifted a forkful of lasagna to her lips. “Here, try this.”

Startled, she tasted it. “Oh,” she admitted, and wiped a bit of sauce from her mouth, “that’s really good.”

“You won’t find better anywhere in London. As to Dominic,” he added, “I suggest you avoid him. And watch your behaviour when you’re in public.”

She bristled. “My behaviour? Why, for heaven’s sake? I’m not a member of the royal family!”

“No.” He leaned forward. “But you’re in the public eye. You never know when a photographer might be around, or someone with a camera phone. You need to behave with the utmost decorum, especially now. After all, stories about our alleged affair are already all over the tabloids.”

“Crikey,” Natalie exclaimed as she flung down her napkin, “that’s hardly
my
fault, is it? Am I doing anything
right
? You’ve done nothing but criticise me! My behaviour, my spending habits, my relationships—”

“You’re a smart girl who’s been sheltered from your family’s financial problems – and life in general – for far too long. That’s probably not your fault.”

“Well, thank you for
that—
” she sputtered.

“—but it’s time you learned what we’re dealing with. Things can’t go on as they have.” He studied her. “I’m here to help your family, Natalie. I’m not the enemy.”

“Yes, you were brought on to help Dashwood and James,” Natalie agreed, stung by his criticism, “so I suggest you stick to your hire agreement, and do your job. But my behaviour – and my relationship with Dom – is none of your bloody business!”

Rhys threw down his own napkin. “I don’t give a shit about your relationship with that guitar-smashing fuckwit,” he snapped. “It’s your life; throw it away however – and with whomever – you wish. But I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from making yourself the next four-colour photo op in the
Daily Mail
…for the store’s sake, if not your own.”