Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (40 page)

“I certainly hope so.” He leaned back to survey the jewels arranged in velvet-lined trays inside the display case. “I’m looking for something for a special lady.”

“Well, we have necklaces, bracelets, earrings, watches—”

His eyes met hers. “I’d like to see the engagement rings, please.”

“Of course.” With a quickening heartbeat, Natalie bent down to retrieve two velvet-lined trays fitted with an assortment of rings. “Did you have a price range in mind?”

“No. The cost is immaterial. The only thing that matters is finding the perfect ring.”

Despite the staccato beating of her heart, Natalie calmly indicated the tray to the left. “These are the men’s rings, and these are the women’s.” She eyed him reprovingly. “You know, your fiancée really ought to be here to help choose her wedding ring. I’m sure she’ll have an opinion.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt she will,” he agreed dryly. “She always does.” He studied her with a frown. “You know, now that I think of it, you’re very like her. And your hand—” he took her fingers in his “—is about the same size.”

“Really? Imagine that,” she murmured.

“Do you think she’d like any of these? After all,” he added with a gleam in his eye, “a substantial store discount would be applied to the purchase.”

“How romantic,” Natalie retorted, and pulled her hand free. “We’ve some discontinued styles if saving money is your object—”

And then he did the most extraordinary thing. He reached into his overcoat pocket (Burberry Prorsum) and withdrew a small, pale blue box (well – Tiffany, obviously).

“I know she hates me to make decisions for her,” he said quietly, “but I took the liberty of choosing this, with the understanding that it could be returned if she didn’t fancy it.”

With trembling fingers Natalie opened the box and withdrew a small, black velvet case. She let out a gasp as she lifted the lid. “Oh, Rhys,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful.”

An open, curved diamond band with a diamond solitaire nestled in the centre glittered against the velvet. There was a matching diamond wedding band.

“If you don’t like it—”

“Of course I like it!” she cried, and came around the counter to fling her arms around his neck. “I love it!” Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked at him. “But not nearly as much as I love you, Mr. Gordon.”

He kissed her. “You have to admit,” he said when he finally lifted his mouth from hers, “that I have exceedingly good taste for a man with no breeding.”

“You do,” Natalie agreed, her eyes shining. She smiled. “After all, you chose me, didn’t you?”

Sometimes your sensibilities make absolutely
no
sense!

Holly James is looking for her big break. A young journalist for
BritTEEN
magazine, she is dying to write about something more meaningful than pop stars and nail varnish. So when she spots a homeless teenager outside the office, she feels compelled to tell her story. But her evil boss Sasha has other ideas…

Holly is sent to interview a city solicitor she has never heard of. But Alex Barrington turns out to be the very opposite of fusty and boring and Holly’s interest struggles to stay strictly professional!

With Sasha sabotaging her every move, and her story about teens on the street leading her into London’s dark underworld, Holly is chasing both love and success at the same time. But happy endings like that only happen in books…don’t they?

Prologue

The girl stepped down from the bus, clutching the strap of her rucksack tightly. The doors closed behind her with a gassy wheeze, and the N38 rumbled off towards Charing Cross Road, leaving her alone on the pavement.

She eyed the deserted street uncertainly.
What now?
It was nearly dawn, and she had 50 quid to her name. That wouldn’t go far in London. At least she’d managed to sleep on the bus.

Too bad her sleep had been plagued by nightmares…

No one knew she was gone. Not mum, nor dad. Not Erik. She shuddered.
Especially
not him. So it was okay. She was in London, and she was safe. She had a bit of money. And - she slid her hand into her jeans pocket just to reassure herself - she had her mobile phone.

Her stomach rumbled. She re-shouldered the rucksack and trudged down Shaftesbury Avenue, intent on finding breakfast somewhere.

It’ll all work out
, she reassured herself. Once she had a nice greasy fry-up of bacon, eggs, and grilled tomatoes in front of her, she’d figure out what to do next.

There was a restaurant on the corner. It stayed open all night to accommodate hungry theatre-goers from the West End and time-pressed employees from the office towers nearby.

She went inside and slid onto one of the sticky red pleather banquettes and ordered fried eggs, bacon, and coffee.

Twenty-five minutes later, except for a bit of congealed egg yolk, her plate was clean. She pushed it aside and withdrew her mobile, and the black screen sprang to life.

She glanced down at the screen and frowned. The icons looked… different. And the background wasn’t the usual photo of a Himalayan sunrise; it was a snapshot of a blonde woman.

A woman she’d never seen before.

Puzzled, she pressed the “Contacts” icon. She didn’t recognize any of the listed names or numbers.

She scrolled through the list, her frown deepening, pausing on the entry named “My Phone.” She pressed it.

Erik’s picture popped up.

She gasped and dropped the phone with badly trembling fingers, and it landed with a clatter on the plate.

“You all right, love?” the waitress inquired as she paused to refill her coffee cup. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“Fine,” she mumbled, and cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”

As the waitress left, she retrieved the phone and found the “Settings” icon. Her finger shook so badly she could barely touch it. A glance confirmed her worst fears.

The mobile was Erik’s. She must’ve grabbed it by mistake on her way out the door. And he’d enabled the satellite navigation… which meant that if he tracked this phone from another device – which he most certainly would - he’d know exactly where she’d landed.

She disabled the sat nav, but she knew it was too late.

Erik already knew she was in central London. And he wouldn’t stop looking until he found her.

She found a Superdrug and went inside. She needed to change her appearance, and fast. She handed over ten quid – money she really couldn’t spare - for a box of cheap hair colour and a tube of hair gel. On her way out she nicked a pair of scissors someone had left on the counter. Ten minutes later she locked herself inside a petrol station lav and set to work.

She stood in front of the dirt-clouded mirror and held out a length of her long, honey-brown hair. After a moment’s hesitation, she whacked it off with the scissors. Grimly she cut off the rest. When she’d finished, her hair lay all over the tiled floor and the sink was stained with black dye. Someone pounded on the door.

“‘Ere, what you doin’ in there?” the woman demanded.

The girl paid no mind as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Staring back at her was a fierce creature with a menacing scowl. Her hair, now as dark as boot black, stuck up on top where she’d gelled it into a sort of Mohawk; the sides and the nape of her neck were as close-cropped as a boy’s.

Her hair. Her beautiful, long hair…

She unlocked the door and brushed past the woman waiting outside to use the toilet. After exchanging glares, the woman went inside and slammed the door.

Well, she’d done it. Erik would never recognize her now.

How could he, when she barely recognized herself?

Chapter 1

“What do we have for the Christmas issue?”

Sasha Davis stood at the head of the conference table and eyed her editorial team expectantly. “Well? Ideas? Anyone?”

Holly James raised a cautious hand.

Sasha pressed her lips together and nodded at the Assistant Features editor. “Yes, Holly?”

“What about a roundup of the staff’s worst Christmases ever? You know – missed flights, Christmas dinner disasters…”

“Derivative,” Sasha sniffed, “and predictable. What else?”

“Top five most-wanted Christmas gifts for teenaged girls?” Kate Ashby offered.

“Boring.”

“What about a celebrity roundup of favorite Christmas memories?” Mark suggested.

“It’s been done.”

“Favorite celebrity Christmas songs?” he persisted.

“No.”

“Favorite celebrity Christmases spent in rehab?”

“Look, people,” Sasha snapped, “I know it’s barely July and Christmas is the furthest thing from our minds at the moment, but I. Need. Content.”

Several more suggestions were put forward, only one of which – ten stocking-stuffer items suitable for teenage girls for under £10 – met with Sasha’s approval.

“I want fresh ideas,” she announced as she prowled around the conference table, “not a rehash of the same old tired roundups and lists. I’m thinking seasonal, but with a girly edge. I’m thinking fiction – perhaps a rollicking good ghost story-? I’m thinking-”

Her mobile rang. She glanced at the screen and said, “Excuse me, I have to take this. Five minute break.” She strode out of the conference room, murmuring into the phone as she shut the door after her.

Kate Ashby, Holly’s assistant and cubicle mate, leaned over and whispered, “Who’s on the other end of Sasha’s phone, I wonder? I bet it’s a new man.”

“Ugh - who’d be crazy enough to date a nightmare like Sasha?” Holly whispered back.

“Someone who’s into BDSM,” Kate murmured. “Think about it – Sasha would be a perfect dominatrix. Black leather bustier, a Swarovski-studded whip, her trademark black stiletto booties-”

They fell silent as the door opened and Sasha, the features editor of
BritTEEN
magazine, returned.

“As I was saying,” she began, launching back into her editorial vision for the Christmas issue, “I want a harder, less-girly edge in our articles going forward, and I want a fresh slant-”

Holly affixed an absorbed expression on her face and zoned out to study Sasha. In her severe black dress and leopard-print shoes, Sasha Davis looked like a predator…

… a very glamorous, expensively-scented predator, to be sure, Holly reflected; but one vicious enough to rip your throat out with her perfectly manicured, blush-pink nails.

“-so I’m assigning Holly to handle the interview.”

Holly blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I apologize for interfering with your customary wool gathering this morning, Holly,” Sasha said as she crossed her arms against her concave chest, “but I’ve just assigned you to interview Henry Barrington.”

“Henry… Barrington?” Holly echoed. She knew the canned bio and name of every pop musician, every actor, and every aristo and quasi-celebrity in London. Yet she’d never heard of Henry Barrington, and she had no idea who he was or what he did.

“He’s a well-regarded financial solicitor in the City. It’s rumored he might stand for MP during the next election.”

“But I haven’t time to conduct the proper research on Mr. Barrington,” Holly objected. She wondered suddenly if Sasha meant to sabotage her by assigning her to interview a dead-boring City solicitor with political ambitions.