Prada And Prejudice

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “Perhaps we should let Hannah work at the store this summer. What do you think?”

“I don’t see why not. Is she in trouble?”

“She’s been late to class, twice. Ever since she broke up with Duncan, she’s been impossible.”

“I didn’t realise they’d broken up.” Alastair lifted his brow. “Shame, he’s a nice young man. If you like, I’ll speak to Sir Richard tomorrow and arrange something.”

“Yes, please do. Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up, and tell Hannah to come down.”

As he disappeared upstairs, Cherie rinsed her hands and wondered why she hadn’t told Alastair about Hannah’s failed attempt to lose her virginity, or Neil’s phone call.

Surely there was no need to trouble her husband with a litany of Hannah’s misdeeds. He had enough on his plate with the company’s finances in turmoil; he didn’t need to fret over his daughter’s budding sexuality as well.

And there was no reason for her to feel guilty for having a chat with Duncan’s father, she told herself firmly.

No reason at all.

“Why didn’t you return my messages?” Natalie’s mother reproved her at dinner that evening.

“I couldn’t, I was at lunch with Rhys Gordon. He wanted to discuss the store and the problems we’re facing.”

Celia Dashwood’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not having sex with that man, are you?”

Natalie nearly choked on her water. “Mum, honestly! No, I’m not. We don’t even like each other.”

“It looks as though you like each other well enough, judging from those photos in the tabloids.”

Natalie nudged at a bit of chicken with her fork. “It’s only publicity. And those pictures…they were taken out of context. They were innocent.”

“Innocent?” her mother echoed, and raised her brow. “Is that what you call it? You were pressed against that man in full view of the world, twined round him like a garden hose!”

Natalie dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter. “Mum, please! I can’t bear any more. It’s mortifying.”

“Oh, very well. Tell me about Rhys Gordon,” her mother said, her face alight with curiosity as she took a sip of wine. “Is he as difficult as they say?”

Natalie felt a renewed wave of humiliation as she remembered his comments to the man on the phone. “He’s worse.” She could still hear Rhys’s words, could see him leaning back in his high-backed chair, could hear his throaty chuckle as he discussed her with his friend.

Probably quite a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…

“He’s ruthless and crude and sneaky,” she went on. “I despise him.”

“My word, you make him sound dreadful, like Machiavelli,” Lady Dashwood said mildly.

“Picture Machiavelli on a motorbike, and you’re there.”

“I’m sorry I missed the board meeting, I wanted to meet him.” She glanced out the window. “At least those reporters are gone.” She stood up. “I’ll go and fetch our pudding.”

Natalie stood. “I’ll get it.” She’d do anything to escape her mother’s questions about Rhys.

As she entered the pantry and grabbed a serving spoon from the drawer, her mobile rang. She frowned. She didn’t recognise the number. She hoped it wasn’t a reporter… “Hullo?”

“Natalie? It’s Rhys.”

She froze, spoon in hand. “What do you want?”

He paused. “I called to see if everything’s all right. You never came back. Gemma said you were upset.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her words chilly. “You needn’t worry.”

“Why did you leave so suddenly?”

“Something came up. Sorry, I have to go.” She pressed ‘end call’ and set it to vibrate.

Almost immediately it began to buzz like an angry bee. Rhys again! Stubborn, pushy, awful man… Furious, Natalie tossed the mobile on one of the pantry shelves.

…there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James…

“Natalie,” her mother called out, “are you bringing the trifle?”

“Yes, sorry.” She picked up the bowl and hurried back into the dining room.

As they settled down to dessert, Natalie fumed. Rhys must’ve got her mobile number from Gemma, the interfering cow. She scowled and pushed the trifle around on her plate, creating aimless chocolate swirls on the china.

“Darling,” her mother said in exasperation as she laid her fork aside, “what’s wrong? You barely touched your dinner; now you’re playing with your trifle! Don’t you like it?”

She smiled wanly. “I love it. I just…had a difficult day.” She pushed her plate away. “I think I’ll go home and turn in early—”

The throaty roar of a motorcycle engine pulling up outside interrupted her.

Before Natalie could do more than exchange a startled glance with her mother, the doorbell rang. Then someone pounded on the door.

“Who in heaven’s name is that, and at this hour?” Celia Dashwood harrumphed. “If it’s another reporter—”

“I’ll get it,” Natalie said, her words grim. She rose and tossed her napkin down. “It’s probably Machiavelli.”

“What—?”

Nat strode to the door and flung it open. Rhys Gordon, his hand raised to knock again, stood on the doorstep. Anger suffused his face.

“I’m not leaving this doorstep,” Rhys told her with grim determination, “until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Chapter 9 (#ulink_8116e431-879e-5096-b5b7-3a6f5d135b48)

Natalie glared at him. “What do you mean?” She remained in the doorway but drew the door shut behind her. “And how’d you know I was here?”

“Gemma told me. Never mind that – what the hell’s going on?” Rhys snapped. “And don’t say ‘nothing’,” he warned, “because something’s obviously wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong! And Gemma’s an interfering cow.”