Rhys frowned. “You’d best ask her soon. I’m sure she’s busy.” He eyed her quizzically. “What was it you needed, Miss Dashwood? Did you get your car seen to?”
She stared at him, her thoughts churning. Tell him the truth, tell him… But when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out.
“Natalie?” A trace of impatience entered his voice.
“You were right, it was the fuel pump. It’s in the shop. I-I wondered if I might leave a bit early today.”
“Not feeling well?”
“I’ve a headache.” It wasn’t a lie; she really did have a headache, thanks to her car, the tow-truck driver, and Ian. “I can’t seem to concentrate.”
“No problem. There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” She turned to go.
“Natalie,” Rhys said, and waited as she turned back around, “you’ve worked hard these last few weeks. Well done.”
“I’ve enjoyed it,” she said, and realised she meant it. She liked the challenge, the teamwork…the satisfaction of knowing she’d contributed to helping remake Dashwood and James into a coveted place to shop once again. “I’m learning a lot. And I’m far too busy to buy anything.”
“That’s a good thing,” he said dryly. “Perhaps—” he stopped. He’d been about to ask her out again. She was refreshing, like a Pimm’s Cup on a hot summer’s day. But she was Sir Richard’s granddaughter, after all. And Rhys was her boss. Bad enough that the tabloids were already abuzz with their so-called affair…
He had no desire to make the bloody tabloids right.
“Never mind,” he said abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Miss Dashwood.”
Natalie pushed through the store’s revolving doors a short time later and emerged on the front steps. Thank goodness Rhys had let her go early; she felt better already, with the sun warming her face, and throngs of people laden with carrier bags, hurrying past on the crowded Knightsbridge pavement—
“Leaving early, Nat?”
Startled, Natalie looked up to see Alexa Clarkson, Ian’s very pregnant wife, coming towards her. “Alexa, hi! Yes, I’m skiving off this afternoon. Are you here to see Ian?”
She nodded and held up a plastic bag, redolent of curry. “He’s working late tonight, lots of changes to the website. He’s quite put out. So I’ve brought him a late lunch. Or an early dinner, depending upon your perspective.”
Guilt stabbed Natalie. Working late, my arse, she thought darkly. “Yes, he’s got a lot to do, after his meeting with Mr. Gordon,” she said.
“And how is the infamous Mr. Gordon to work with?” she asked with avid curiosity. “I’ve read all about you two in the Mail, you know.”
Natalie blushed. “Oh, crikey, Alexa, there’s nothing going on. It’s publicity, for the store.”
“Wouldn’t mind a bit of publicity like that for myself,” Alexa confided. “I’d shag Rhys Gordon in a minute.”
Natalie laughed. “God, I’ve missed you. Things have been so manic lately. We really need to get together before the baby comes.” She raised her brow. “I suppose a wine bar’s out, though.”
“Afraid so,” Alex agreed ruefully as she glanced down at her stomach. “This little bugger’s very particular about his likes and dislikes. Even though I’m allowed a bit of wine now and then, it gives me terrible indigestion.”
“‘His’?” Nat queried. “Are you having a boy, then?”
“Don’t know. Don’t want to know, I want to be surprised. But I’ve a feeling it’s a boy. He kicks like a punter for West Ham.”
“Seriously, though, you look beautiful. Pregnancy suits you.”
Alexa snorted. “I look like a right cow, but thanks for the compliment. I’ll take any I can get, these days.” She moved the bag to her other hand. “Is Ian in, then?”
Natalie’s smile faded. “Yes.”
“I’d best get this curry upstairs before it goes cold. I’ll call you next week,” she promised. “We’ll meet up for lunch, or something.”
“I’d love that. Let’s do it.”
They hugged, and Natalie watched, smiling, as Alexa made her way up the steps and pushed her way through the revolving doors.
Her smile faded. Alexa was her oldest, dearest friend. They’d been through so much together – the loneliness they’d shared their first year at boarding school, boyfriend trouble, Nat’s father’s suicide – that saying nothing to Alexa while Ian played out this strange little game made her feel conflicted, ashamed – and guilty as hell.
She hated Ian for doing this, not just to her, but to Alexa.
You need to be nicer to me, Natalie.
Abruptly she shook her misgivings aside and made her way to the Underground station. The hell with Ian Clarkson, she decided. This was probably all just a tempest in a coffee carafe, or whatever that old saying was.
Nevertheless, as she touched her Oyster card to the reader and sat on a bench to wait for the next train, her thoughts remained troubled.
The Connaught hotel was quiet when Natalie arrived that evening. She’d tried on and discarded a dozen outfits, determined to dress as primly as possible, before settling on a knee-length skirt and a black, high-necked cashmere sweater. She gripped her Chanel clutch tightly and walked into the bar.
She paused in the doorway. The walls were panelled in soft green, and low armchairs upholstered in jewel-toned velvets were grouped around tables throughout the room. A fireplace burned invitingly at one end. Ian, seated at a corner table nearest the fire, stood as she approached.
“Natalie! Please, sit down.” He indicated a chair upholstered in ruby velvet.
“Do I have a choice?” she bit off as she tossed her clutch on the table and sat down.
“You always have a choice. You’ve obviously made yours.”
A waiter materialised at her elbow. “May I bring you a drink, madam?”
“Sparkling water, please,” Natalie told him. She was keeping a clear head. “Thanks.”
“I’ll have another martini.” Ian nudged the bowl of olives towards her. “I like it here. It’s very intimate.” His gaze drifted over her. “You look lovely tonight.”
“I saw Alexa earlier.” Natalie met his eyes. “She brought you lunch. Chicken curry, she said. How was it?”
He smiled, unperturbed. “It was good, but a bit cold.”
They were silent as the waiter brought their drinks. When he left, Natalie took a sip of her Perrier and met Ian’s gaze. “Let’s cut the crap, Ian. What is it you want?”
“You do get straight to the point, don’t you?” He smiled and thrust an olive in his mouth. “I like that. First, I’ll give you a bit of history. My stepfather was the senior accountant at Dashwood and James.” His words were measured. “He was blackmailing your father. It’s one of the reasons why the company began its unfortunate tailspin into the red…and why your father eventually killed himself.”
“And you know this how, exactly? You were just a child then, like me.”