Prada And Prejudice

“Oh, you cook?”

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” she said, indignant. “Yes, I cook. I make a great spaghetti Bolognese. And my Victoria sponge is better than mum’s.”

The kettle whistled. She poured hot water into their cups and handed one to Rhys.

“Thanks. Stop by my office later and we’ll go over those numbers.”

“I can’t. I’m going shopping with Tark this morning.” At his puzzled look she added, “Tarquin Magnus Campbell. He’s heir to the fourth earl of Draemar and he’s my dearest friend. He and Wren are getting married in Scotland next month, so of course I need a dress…and a wedding gift.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“If you need clothes, it means you plan to spend money. That’s never a good thing.”

“Ha bloody ha. Perhaps I might stop by your office after lunch? You could show me the figures then.”

He nodded. “I’ll see you later, then.”

The buzzer sounded again. “That’s Tarquin,” Natalie announced. She walked over and pressed the button. “Come up.”

“I should go,” Rhys said. “Thanks for the coffee.” He added pointedly, “Try to buy something on sale. And if your car ever breaks down again, promise me you’ll lock the doors and stay put.”

Natalie’s gaze collided with his. He really did have the most penetrating blue eyes. “You know,” she blurted, “you’re almost nice when you want to be.”

He raised his brow. “Only almost? I’ll have to work on that.”

Several rapid-fire knocks sounded on the door.

Natalie let out an exasperated breath. “It’s like Waterloo Station in here this morning! Excuse me.”

She left Rhys in the kitchen and hurried down the hallway to open the door, then froze. “Dominic!” She pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the hall. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

Dominic leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. He reeked of stale Gitanes and whiskey. “We need to talk, Nat.”

“You’re drunk, Dom. And we’ve nothing to talk about. You’re with Keeley now.”

“I’m not, not really! It’s all for publicity. There’s no reason we can’t still see each other. I miss you, Nat.” He leaned forward unsteadily to kiss her.

Natalie backed away in disgust. “You want me as your bit on the side, you mean.”

“Come on, Nat, it’s not like that. Besides,” he pointed out, “the tabs all say you and Gordon are having a go—”

The door swung open. “Is everything all right?” Rhys asked. He fixed his piercing gaze on Dominic.

Dominic turned back to Natalie with an accusatory glare. “What’s ‘e doing here?”

Natalie glanced at Rhys. “I ran out of petrol last night, and Rhys—”

“—I brought her home, mate,” Rhys finished, and lifted his coffee mug to Dominic in mock salute.

Nat leaned forward, playing along, and stood on her toes to kiss Rhys on the cheek. He smelled enticingly of soap and aftershave. “You were a star last night. Thanks again.”

He handed her his half-empty mug. “You’re welcome. Now I’ve got to go. I’ll see you this afternoon?”

Natalie nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Rhys left, and Dominic’s scowl deepened. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He swayed slightly on his feet and demanded, “What’s going on? I’ve seen the tabloids. You’re not shagging that plonker, are you?”

A distracted smile curved Natalie’s lips. “Not yet.” Her smile vanished as she added crossly, “What do you care, anyway? You broke up with me, or have you forgotten?”

“Look, Nat,” he protested, “he’s 28, practically old enough to be your…your uncle! Besides, I still love you—”

“Oh, piss off, Dominic. Go sleep it off. And then go…smash a guitar, or something.” She left him in the hall, scowling, and shut the door smartly in his face.

Dominic didn’t take Natalie’s advice. Instead he found himself, two hours and a half a bottle of Chivas Regal later, slumped next to Keeley in the front row of Klaus von Richter’s spring preview fashion show.

How in bloody hell had that happened?

He crossed his arms against his chest and slouched back in the folding metal chair. He’d refused to go. But Keeley glared at him and hissed, “Remind me again why I agreed to this engagement, Dominic. Perhaps I should call it off.”

So here he was, crammed in with a gazillion fashionistas, all crossing their stiletto-heeled legs and shouting into their mobiles in rapid-fire French, English, and Italian.

“Why am I here?” he grumbled to Keeley as his right eye was nearly taken out by the wildly gesticulating editor of Italian Vogue sitting next to him.

“Because I need clothes for our honeymoon,” she snapped, “and because Maison Laroche’s show is the absolute best. People would kill for front row seats. Klaus’ clothes are genius.”

Dominic snorted. “Don’t know why any of this lot bothers going to fashion shows. All they wear is black.”

But as the lights dimmed and the show began, Dominic leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. Clouds of fog, pulsing techno music, and long-legged models striding out on the catwalk combined to create a throbbing spectacle of light, sound, and beauty. The clothes were all right, he supposed…

…but the models were bloody amazing.

Keeley poked him sharply in the ribs. “You can roll your tongue back in your mouth anytime,” she hissed in his ear.

When the show ended – all too soon, in Dominic’s opinion – Keeley grabbed him by the arm and dragged him backstage to meet the iconic fashion designer. Klaus von Richter was bald, and he wore black, from the cashmere scarf flung around his neck to his black-booted feet. What was it with fashion people and black? Dominic wondered.

“Klaus!” Keeley gushed. “The show was fantastic.” She air-kissed him on both cheeks.

He took her hand in his black fingerless gloves and lifted it to his lips. “Merci, my dear,” he said in German-accented English. “What can I possibly create that is beautiful enough for you to wear, eh?”

Keeley smiled. “Everything you create is beautiful, Klaus. I love the black velvet strapless dress – stunning…”

Although Klaus nodded distractedly, his eyes lasered in on Dominic. “You,” he purred, “you are Keeley’s fiancé, non?”

“Yeah,” Dominic muttered. The way this German bloke stared at him – like a half-starved alley cat eyeing up a dish of Devonshire cream – made him more than a bit uncomfortable.

Klaus reached out and grabbed Dominic’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head this way and that, and pronounced, “You haf excellent bone structure. You haf modelled before?”