And as his eyes met Rhys’s, Alastair suddenly realised that he knew someone else with those same intense blue eyes, someone who, like Rhys, hailed from Edinburgh.
Fiona Walsh.
Alastair frowned. There was no denying the physical resemblance she and Rhys shared – both tall, with dark blond hair, and those striking blue eyes. Could Rhys possibly be Fiona’s son? Of course his last name was different, but his former secretary had undoubtedly married since then, and taken her husband’s name.
It certainly explained why she’d left Dashwood and James so suddenly. Fiona had been a bit free with her favours; it was one of the reasons she and Alastair had parted. She’d been involved with a couple of other store employees. Alastair wondered idly if she’d been pregnant, and if so, which of the poor sods was Rhys’s father.
“Alastair?” Rhys flipped on the lights, signalling the end of the meeting. “Come to my office, and we’ll discuss the particulars of your suggestion to cut the stockroom staff.”
“Of course.” Alastair stood as well, gathered up his notes, and followed Rhys out of the conference room.
When she returned to her office, Natalie called Phillip Pryce to postpone their meeting.
She left a message and hung up. One thing sorted, only two million more to go. Now, all she needed to do was put the money Dom had given her back into the cash box, and no one would be the wiser…
“Oh, Nat, there you are,” Gemma said as she strode up to her desk. “There was barely enough money in petty cash to pay for the breakfast delivery for Sir Richard’s meeting this morning.”
Natalie’s heart accelerated.
“Rhys was not pleased,” Gemma added, and crossed her arms against her chest. “Did you pay for something and forget to deduct it from the tracking spreadsheet?”
Nat pretended to consider the question. “Oh, yes – I just remembered! I paid for a – a delivery, the other day.”
“A delivery? A fifty-quid delivery? What was it?”
Yes, Miss Dashwood, what was it? Natalie thought wildly. “I don’t remember, exactly. It was large. A crate. And it was cash on delivery.”
Gemma narrowed her eyes. “Who was this large crate for?”
Her mobile rang. Thank God. “Sorry,” she told Gemma, “I’m expecting an important call.” She turned away and said, “Natalie Dashwood here—”
“You shouldn’t have called last night,” Ian bit off. “You don’t dictate the terms of this arrangement.”
“Oh, hello!” she said brightly as she stood and left her desk – and Gemma – behind. “How are you?”
“Don’t ever phone me at home again. Do you understand?”
She slipped into the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. “I want proof from you before this goes any further.”
“You’ll have your proof, the next time we meet. And then I’ll have what I want. And we both know what that is. A partnership with Dashwood and James…and with you.”
She gripped the phone as fear washed over her. “It’ll never happen, you know that! Why are you doing this?”
“I needn’t justify myself to you.” He paused. “I didn’t appreciate being raked over the coals by your hot-tempered boss this morning, by the way. You haven’t told him about me, have you?”
“No! What are you talking about?”
“Rhys lectured me on sexual harassment in the workplace, of all things, then warned me to stay away from you.”
“I’ve never said a word to Rhys—”
“Yes, well, perhaps you did and perhaps you didn’t. For your sake, I hope you didn’t. If you did—” He stopped. “Well, let’s just say you’ll read all about your father very soon, along with the rest of England. Oh, and sorry to say, I can’t make our lunch date today. Rhys has moved our meeting up to one o’clock, the prick.”
“Ian, please don’t drag my father’s name through the mud. You’ll cause no end of pain for my mother, and for me. I’m begging you, if you have even a shred of decency—”
He laughed. “That’s just it, Natalie. I don’t.”
And the line went dead.
The stockroom was crowded with pallets of merchandise. New shipments would arrive on Tuesday; everything had to be inventoried and moved to the floor by then.
“Want to get lunch?” Hannah asked Jago at eleven. He usually brought a sandwich or a Pot Noodle and ate in his van.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
At Dim Sum Palace, they ate in companionable silence, exchanging amused glances as the chef screamed in Mandarin at someone in the kitchen.
“What are you doing on Sunday?” Hannah asked.
Jago took a bite of his spring roll. “I’m busy,” he answered after a moment. “I got stuff to do.”
“What stuff? I thought you said Sunday’s your day off.”
“It is,” he said evasively. “But I…promised a mate I’d help him move. Probably take most of the day.”
“Oh, well, OK. No big deal.”
Although Hannah was silent as they stood and gathered up the emptied cartons of ginger beef and Mu Shu Pork, she knew – just knew – that Jago was lying.
“So what are you doing on Sunday, really?” she asked as they walked back to work.
He looked at her in annoyance. “I told you, I’m helping a mate move—”
“That’s bollocks, and you know it.”
Jago stopped and faced her. “Look, I can’t hang out Sunday. I’m sorry. We can do something next Sunday, yeah?”
“Forget it,” she said coolly. “I’m busy then.”
He snorted. “Busy? Doing what, spending your dad’s money? You’re full of shit, Hannah. Sometimes you don’t get what you want. Get over it.”
Hannah stared at him, taken aback. Before she could form a reply, he shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel, and walked away.
It was done. Jago and Frank would be sacked at the end of the week. Alastair stood to leave Rhys’s office. “Mr. Gordon, are you free for lunch? I’d like a word.”
Rhys took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Bloody hell, this stuff gets worse every day.” He set the cup aside. “I’ve a meeting with Clarkson at one, so I need to be back by then.”
They went to a gastro pub nearby and found a table in the bar. After placing their orders – a cheddar burger and stout for Rhys, white wine and a salad for Alastair – Rhys leaned forward. “What did you want to discuss?”
Alastair paused as the waiter put a cocktail napkin down in front of each of them. “Trimming the stockroom staff should save a fair bit of money over the summer, don’t you agree?”
“Yes. It’s a workable solution, so long as Duffy has enough employees to do the job.” Rhys leaned back. “Now, tell me – what’s the real reason we’re here?”
The waiter returned to deposit their drinks and departed. Alastair took a sip of his wine. “You’re direct, Mr. Gordon. I shall be direct as well. You don’t like me,” he said bluntly. “Why is that, I wonder?”
Rhys