And the Bride Wore Prada (30 page)

‘Good God,’ Tark muttered, and flew out of bed. ‘Wren? Wren, are you all right? What’s happened?’

He envisioned every sort of horror – she’d fallen, she’d hit her head, she’d cut herself badly whilst shaving – but when he flung himself into the bathroom, Wren stood, naked and dripping and unharmed, on the mat in front of the shower stall with a dazed expression on her face.

‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ he cried. He held up his hand. ‘How many fingers am I holding up? Shall I call Dr MacTavish?’

She looked at him and smiled.

‘Two. And yes, you could call the doctor...although it can wait until Monday, I should think.’

Tarquin looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t understand.’

Wren placed a hand tenderly on her stomach. ‘I’m late, Tark. Two weeks late! I missed my period, and with all the upheaval going on, I didn’t even realize it until just this moment. I think,’ she looked up at him with a hopeful expression, ‘I think I really might be pregnant.’

He tempered his own twinge of excitement at her words. ‘Are you sure? You’ve been late before, when you were stressed, and it turned out to be nothing.’

‘But I’ve never been
this
late, Tark! And it’s not only that – I’ve been moody, and teary, and my,’ she blushed, ‘my breasts have been terribly sore. I even felt a bit queasy the last couple of mornings, but I put it down to nerves.’

He allowed himself to feel a cautious, tiny stirring of optimism. ‘We can’t get our hopes up just yet,’ he warned her, ‘not until the doctor runs the proper tests.’

‘No, no, of course we can’t,’ she agreed, and flung her arms around him. ‘But I’m telling you, Tark ‒ I’m pregnant. I know it. I can
feel
it.’

It was late the next day as Natalie and Rhys arrived at Heathrow and hurried through the throngs headed towards the luggage carousels.

‘Isn’t it fabulous, darling?’ she called out as they took their place by the conveyor belt and watched luggage of every description – most of it, Natalie noted sadly, black – go rolling slowly past them.

‘Isn’t what fabulous?’ he asked, distracted.

She looked up from her mobile phone. ‘Wren might be pregnant! She’s to find out tomorrow.’

‘Yes, that’s great. Hold on – wait a minute, that’s mine!’ Rhys exclaimed, and wrenched his suitcase from the hand of a teenage boy with a guitar case slung on his back. ‘Didn’t you see the yellow luggage tag?’

‘Sorry, mate,’ the boy muttered.

‘Rhys, are you even listening to me?’ Natalie demanded. ‘She says Dr MacTavish is running the pregnancy test tomorrow to find out if they’re having a baby or not. After all this time...Oh, I’m so happy for them!’

He reached across two overstuffed backpacks to grab Natalie’s cosmetics case. ‘Who?’

‘
Wren
!’ she said crossly. ‘You’re not listening.’

‘Natalie, if you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to get our bloody luggage.’ He turned to glare at her. ‘Speaking of which, would you mind getting off that damned mobile phone and help me out, please?’

She crossed her arms against her chest and eyed him with a mulish expression. ‘Sorry, but I can’t.’

‘You can’t,’ he repeated, and stared at her. ‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because,’ she hesitated, and her lower lip quivered. ‘Oh, this isn’t at all right,’ she fretted. ‘The airport’s not the sort of place to tell you the news.’

Rhys made a monumental effort to tamp down his irritation. ‘What news? What in sod’s name are you on about? Natalie, I still have to retrieve the rest of our luggage and fetch our car from the long-stay car park! The traffic home promises to be horrendous if we don’t get ourselves out of this bloody airport
soon
.’

‘Fine.’ She sniffled. ‘Never mind, then.’

‘Oh, for...’ He glared at her, then turned away and began scanning the carousel for the rest of their suitcases.

‘Don’t you care what my news is?’ she asked, hurt. ‘Aren’t you even a little, tiny bit curious?’

He grabbed the last two wheeled suitcases and wrestled them to the ground. ‘What is it?’ he snapped, out of breath and nearly out of patience. ‘What is it that you want so much to tell me, but won’t?’

She looked at him, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. ‘Oh, Rhys...’ She fiddled with the strap of her shoulder bag.

‘Tell me, Nat,’ he said grimly. ‘What’ve you done? Did you spend all of our money in the duty-free shops again? Did you leave the coffee pot on and now our entire townhouse is burnt to the ground? Did you invite Dominic and Gemma to go on another holiday with us? What?’

‘No! Nothing like that.’

‘Then,’ he said, mustering as much patience as he could, ‘what is it? Please tell me.’

‘I...I’m pregnant.’

Rhys stared at her. ‘What? Pregnant? But we’ve just been through this, Nat. You’re not pregnant; you didn’t follow the directions on the test properly.’

‘No, I didn’t. And no, I
wasn’t
pregnant.’ She looked up at him expectantly. ‘But I am now.’

‘How do you know?’ he scoffed. ‘Did you buy another kit and have another wee on a stick? Look how well that turned out.’

‘No. I went to see Dr MacTavish the other day, and I had a proper test done this time.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I wasn’t completely sure, and I didn’t want to make the same mistake I made last time, and get everyone’s hopes up – and get
your
hopes up, only to dash them. But I’ve been feeling really tired, and cranky, and – oh, just a bit off, I suppose.’

He shook his head slightly, still disbelieving. ‘You’re – you’re sure? You’re going to have a baby.
Our
baby.’

‘Well, who else’s baby would it be?’ Natalie retorted. ‘There’s no question,’ she added firmly. ‘I’m definitely, unequivocally, pregnant. I’m due in September.’

Rhys let out a short breath. ‘Oh. So you’re really...Oh my God!’ He dropped the suitcases and threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly as he lifted her off her feet. ‘You’re really pregnant!’

‘I am,’ she said, laughing as he spun them both around. ‘Ooh, stop – you’re making me dizzy.’ Her face went pale.

He set her back down with great tenderness. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s just – what fantastic news! How did you keep it quiet all this time?’

She gripped the handle of one of the wheeled suitcases and fell into step beside him. ‘I didn’t want to steal Dom and Gemma’s thunder. Yesterday was about them, not me. And then there was the news about Colm’s father, and Caitlin’s pregnancy, and Helen and Colm’s engagement, and...’ her voice trailed away. ‘Well, the time was never right.’

‘I’m glad you waited. This’ll be our secret, at least for a day or two.’

She followed him down the ramp towards the exits. ‘Don’t you want to tell our parents? Your mum, and mine, and Alastair, and Jamie?’

‘Are you serious? Of course I do. I want to shout it from the rooftops!’ he exclaimed, and grinned. ‘But first, let’s keep it to ourselves. Just for a bit.’

‘Do you mean like the time I borrowed Alastair’s Mercedes, and backed it into a ticket machine, and you had it fixed, and
then
we told him about it?’

Rhys smiled and kissed her. ‘Yes, darling. Exactly like that.’

And even though the long-stay car park attendant couldn’t, at first, find their car, and even though Natalie left her allergy pills in Scotland and sneezed half the way home, and even though traffic through London was every bit as horrendous as he’d predicted, as he drove them home, Rhys reflected that on the whole, he was really a very, very lucky man.

Loved being swept away by
And the Bride Wears Prada
? Turn the page to say ‘I do’ to
Love, Lies and Louboutins
– the next fabulous book in Katie Oliver’s
‘
Marrying Mr Darcy’ series.

Chapter 1

Gemma Heath leaned forward and picked up the morning edition of the London
Probe
from her desk. It was time for a coffee, and a quick catch-up on the latest celebrity gossip was just what she needed after a crazy-busy morning.

She glanced around her tiny but oh-so-familiar office. Dominic had said she might quit her job at Dashwood and James now that they were married; it wasn’t as if she
needed
to work as Rhys Gordon’s personal assistant any longer.

Her husband was a rock star, after all, with masses of fans and masses of money. She could afford to stay home, just like the other celebrity wives. Gemma sipped her tea and frowned. But she still hadn’t turned in her notice. She liked her job, for one thing. She’d worked damned hard to get here.

No matter what the tabloids might say, Dom’s money
wasn’t
the reason she’d married him.

She’d married him because she loved him.

Oh, the money was nice, and no mistake. After years of riding the tube and buying her knickers in three-packs at Primark, she loved strolling into Prada, Boodles, or Hermès and laying down the black AmEx card to buy shoes or a bracelet or a gorgeous silk scarf without a thought to the cost.

But Dominic meant more to her than a generous credit line or a hefty amount on their bank balance. He was sweet, and loving, and attentive – and he’d put his womanizing escapades of the past firmly behind him.

Despite his birth into the aristocratic Locksley family, Rupert had left at seventeen to go on the road, travelling with the band in a van that was forever breaking down, living on Pot Noodles and struggling to make it as a musician, and he’d done it with no help from his family.

He changed his name to Dominic Heath to please his father,

Lord Locksley, who demanded his son not ‘besmirch’ the Locksley name with his regrettable rock career

Crikey, hard to believe people actually used words like‘besmirch’ in this day and age
, Gemma thought uncharitably as she set her cup down. But in her father-in-law’s case, she wasn’t surprised. If you looked up ‘snob’ in the OED, you’d find Charles Locksley’s photo staring right back at you.

Truth to tell, he always made her feel lacking... in background, in comportment, in – well, in just about everything. Still, she and the Locksleys were family now, whether his lordship liked it or not, and he’d just have to get used to it.

“Good morning, Gemma.”

She looked up as Rhys, her boss at Dashwood and James, strode in with his briefcase in hand and headed to his office.

“Good morning, Rhys. Shall I get you a coffee?”

“No, thanks, I got one on the way in. The meeting ended early.”

As she heard his briefcase snap open and the sound of his voice on the phone, asking to speak to someone at the Croyden store, Gemma hurriedly flicked through the
Probe.

She had to let Rhys know her decision, and soon. Today, possibly...

She sighed. She loved her job as Rhys’s assistant. It was demanding, but paid well; and Rhys was wonderful to work with, challenging at times, with the devil’s own temper, but fair.

And now, thanks to Dominic, she could become a lady of leisure if she liked – and hopefully a mum as well, and soon.

The thought made her smile in anticipation. She adored Dom and couldn’t wait to start a family with him.

Gemma took another sip of her tea and had a quick glance at the headlines. Another reality show star admitted she’d had Botox – really, was that even
news
? – and that hot new Latin pop singer was back in rehab again, no surprise there-

She turned the page, and froze. What the hell-?

Dominic stared back at her in lurid, four-color glory. Her rock star husband was prominently featured on pages three and four of London’s most notorious tabloid – with a beautiful girl clinging to his arm, looking up adoringly into his eyes.

And this girl, Gemma noted in burgeoning anger, wasn’t
her
.This particular girl – Christa, the new pop singing sensation - had striking turquoise-blue eyes, a face to make an angel weep, and a body to make the devil smile.

Christa shot to fame when her duet with Dominic, “Promise Me Stars,” rocketed to number one on the UK charts. Half Indian and half British, Christa was beautiful, talented, and popular – but she’d disappeared shortly after producing a single smash album. Why, everyone wanted to know, had she withdrawn so abruptly from the music scene? And where had she gone? Her producer wanted to know. The tabloids wanted to know. Her fans wanted to know.

But Christa wasn’t talking.

Now, here she was...boarding a private jet –
Dom’s
private jet – on Dom’s arm! The photographs swam out of focus as tears blurred Gemma’s vision. Everyone warned her that Dominic was a serial womanizer who’d cheat on her and break her heart into tiny pieces at the first opportunity. He’d sworn to her that he’d changed – and she’d believed him.

Now it looked as if they’d all been right.

Without bothering to read the story that accompanied the coy headline
(“Dominic and Christa: Making More Than Music?”
), Gemma snatched up the phone and punched in Dominic’s private mobile number with vicious jabs of her indigo-blue fingernails.

Twelve rings later, there was a fumbling sound and a muffled “Hello?”

Gemma wasted no words. “What’s Christa doing with you,” she demanded, her voice unsteady, “and why are you both canoodling on your jet on page three of the
Probe
?”

“Wha…? Gemma...is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, Dominic,” she snapped, “who else would it be?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is she there with you now?”

“No, of course she’s not! And we weren’t ‘canoodling’!” he added grumpily as he sat up – alone - in bed. “What the hell does ‘canoodling’ mean, anyway?”

“What’s going on, Dominic? Why are you and this
singer
-” she invested the word with scorn “-so bloody cozy in the
Probe
?”

On the other end of the phone, Dominic let out a short breath. “Listen, babes, it’s nothing. Christa’s just feeling a bit...overwhelmed. All the sudden fame’s got to her. She needs some time away.”

“Time away from what?” Gemma demanded, and angrily brushed

her tears aside. “Being famous, and gorgeous? Yes, that takes
so
much out of a girl! And what about me, you knob? I could do with a little ‘time away’ myself, you know!”