Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (17 page)

Nat regarded him in dismay. “He wants to steal our thunder!”

“Not to worry. We won’t let him.” He turned to go. “Oh, before I forget…I’ve scheduled a ten o’clock with Phillip Pryce. I want you there. He’s keen to talk to us about a possible joint partnership.”

Natalie pushed the tabloids aside. “Good, I told him to contact you. He’s amazing. He’s not very well known yet, but all the fashion magazines say he’s the next Olivier Theyskens.”

Rhys looked at her blankly. “Who?”

Natalie sighed and turned on her laptop. “Never mind.” She typed ‘mechanics, London SW1’ into the search engine. “Do you know anything about cars?” she asked as he disappeared into his office.

“A bit. Why?”

“Mine died on the way in. And no, I wasn’t out of petrol.”

“It just quit? Were the lights and radio working?”

“Yes, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.”

“Then it’s not the battery. It sounds like the fuel pump needs replacing.”

Natalie’s heart sank. “How much will that cost?”

“You’ll have to call a mechanic.”

A mechanic meant more money, money she hadn’t got.
She felt a headache brewing…

“Here.” Rhys returned to her desk and handed her a credit card and five quid. “Use this. You can pay me back later.” He glared at her. “And you’re not to charge anything else.”

Her eyes widened. “Thanks. I won’t. And I
will
pay you back. What’s the cash for?”

“Fetch me a coffee when you get sorted,” Rhys called out from his office, “a tall espresso macchiato—”

“—black, no sugar,” she finished, and grimaced. “How you can drink it without sugar is beyond me.” Natalie stood and grabbed the five pounds and thrust the memory of her unpleasant run-in with Ian Clarkson firmly aside.

It was only fifty quid, after all. She’d borrow the missing money from mum and return it to the cash box this afternoon…

…just as soon as she’d been to the coffee shop to fetch Rhys his bloody espresso macchiato.

Chapter 21

The meeting with Phillip Pryce began in the conference room promptly at ten a.m.

“The British public love Natalie,” Phillip enthused to Rhys, Alastair, and Sir Richard. “They can’t get enough of her, or of her—” he cleared his throat “—affair with Rhys Gordon.” He winked at Natalie.

“Ah, yes,” Rhys said inscrutably, “that.” His glance flickered to Natalie, who was blushing furiously, and back to Phillip. “Complete bollocks, of course. Good thing Dominic’s Wedding-gate has eclipsed us in the tabloids for the moment.”

Natalie forced a smile as laughter erupted at his words, but inside she was indignant, and a tiny bit hurt. How quickly Rhys dismissed their time together yesterday! Had it meant so little to him?

After all, she’d never told anyone about her guilt over her father’s death, only Rhys. She pressed her lips tightly together and forced her attention back to the discussion.

“I’ve designed my line around Natalie,” Phillip was saying. “It’s targeted at young, on-trend women, available exclusively at Dashwood and James.” He looked expectantly from Rhys to Sir Richard and Alastair. “If you gentlemen concur, that is.”

Rhys leaned forward. “What price point are we talking about? Your pieces are normally rather expensive.”

“About half the cost of my regular line…but still consisting of quality construction. The average secretary or bank teller can afford my clothing, even on a budget. And,” he added after a dramatic pause, “I want Natalie Dashwood to represent the new line. She’ll model in all of the print ads.”

Natalie blinked. “But…I’ve never modelled in my life.”

Phillip waved his hands in dismissal. “No matter, you’re a natural! Slim, gorgeous, photogenic—and everyone adores you. They’ll flock into D&J to buy my clothes, I assure you.”

Sir Richard drew his brows together. “We need to see some examples of your work before we reach a decision, young man.”

“Yes,” Alastair, who until then had been silent, agreed. As he toyed with his pen, his gaze strayed to Rhys. It struck him, not for the first time, that Gordon reminded him of someone…but the thought, elusive and quicksilver, evaporated as quickly as it formed. “Let’s see your ideas, Mr. Pryce.”

“Of course. Jacques, please,” Phillip called out. His assistant strode to the easel with a portfolio under his arm.

The sketches he displayed were exciting – a striped bateau top paired with a flounced skirt of floral and plaid; a vest with a crested pocket worn over a full-sleeved poet’s shirt. Each sketch was more original and appealing than the one before.

“Have you a manufacturer in place?” Rhys asked.

Pryce nodded. “Everything will be produced in Nepal at half the expense of my regular line. What do you think?”

Rhys tapped a finger to his chin. “I like it. Sir Richard, Mr. James? Natalie? Are you all agreed?”

They voiced their shared enthusiasm for the idea.

“Have you any samples made up?” Natalie asked.

“Yes.” Jacques disappeared and returned with a rack of clothing. Phillip passed the garments around for inspection. Natalie examined the flounced skirt. The seams were finished, and the plaid repeats matched perfectly. There wasn’t a fault to be found in the quality or construction of any of the pieces.

“All right, Mr. Pryce,” Rhys said, “it looks like we have a deal. We can’t pay much up front – after all, you’re new, and we’re taking a risk – but you’ll get a generous share in the profits, provided the collection sells well.” He glanced at Natalie. “And I have it on very good authority that it will.”

Natalie returned to her desk and realised with surprise that it was nearly noon. “Gemma,” she called out, “where’re you going for lunch?”

“I’m not,” Gemma called back crossly. “I have a gazillion copies to run for Rhys. They have to be ready by the time he gets back, and the bloody machine keeps jamming.”

“Oh. Well in that case, I’ll eat what I brought, then. Unless you want me to go out and get you something…?”

“Thanks, no. I started a new diet today – all the green tea, kale, and cabbage soup I want. Unfortunately, it’s turned my pee chartreuse.”

Natalie left her desk and went into the kitchen. As she bent over to retrieve her lunch from the fridge, she heard someone come in.
Oh, sod’s law
,
please let it not be Ian—

“Hello, Natalie.” Amusement coloured his voice. “You’re looking very well.”

She straightened abruptly and turned to see Clarkson lounging in the doorway. “Sorry, I haven’t time to chat.” She clutched her lunch bag. “I’m working through lunch.”

“Well, I won’t keep you, then. When can we talk?”

“We’ve nothing to talk about,” Natalie snapped, and moved to brush past him.

His hand shot out to grip her arm. “You need to be a bit nicer to me, Natalie.”

She didn’t like the subtle threat in his voice. Her heart beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings in her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said as he glanced down the hall and drew her back into the kitchen, “that you and I are having lunch at that new bistro round the corner. My treat.”

She yanked her arm free. “I’ve just told you, I haven’t time for lunch, and I
don’t
go out with married men, especially not when they’re married to my best friend—”

“You’ll make an exception. Or I’ll go to Rhys and tell him you nicked fifty pounds from petty cash this morning.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” she retorted, “right now. And I’ll tell him why I did it. My car broke down, and I hadn’t any cash or credit cards on me to pay the tow-truck driver. I’ll return the money this afternoon.”

“But you haven’t returned it yet, have you?”

Natalie met the dark amusement contained in his eyes. “I won’t be threatened, Ian. In fact,” she added, “Rhys might find more fault with
you
for attempting to blackmail me. It might even be enough to get you sacked.” She brushed past him.

He gripped her elbow and said in a low voice, “I have information about your father, Miss Dashwood. He committed suicide when you were ten, didn’t he? Shame, that.”

Natalie paled. “Yes, it’s common knowledge that he killed himself. Why would you even bring that up?”

“Is it common knowledge that he embezzled money from Dashwood and James to support his mistress?”

She stared at him. “What? I don’t know what you mean! My father would never do something like that—”

“Oh, but he did. And I have proof.” He smiled, gratified to see the uncertainty and fear flicker across Natalie’s face.

“What sort of proof?”

“I see I’ve got your attention at last. We’ll discuss it further tonight, at the Connaught, since you can’t make it for lunch. Shall we say, eight o’clock, in the Coburg bar?” His smile faded. “We’ll have a drink, and finish our conversation.”

Natalie took a deep, shuddering breath. “What do you want? Why are you doing this? You bastard—”

“That’s not very nice, Natalie. You have a lot to learn about how this all works.”

And he released her arm, turned on his heel, and left.

Chapter 22

When Natalie returned to her desk, Gemma was still at the copier. Rhys, back from his meeting and immersed in a phone call at his desk, didn’t look up as she passed his office door. Her hand shook slightly as she sat down and picked up the phone to ring her sister.

“Caro, hi, it’s me. Yes, I’m fine.” She paused. “I can’t make it for dinner at yours tonight, sorry. Work stuff, and my car’s died. I’ll call tomorrow. Yes, I promise. Love you.”

As she hung up the phone, Natalie knew she’d be unable to concentrate on work. Ian and his threat hung over her like a poisoned cloud, unseen and noxious. She closed her eyes and considered her options.

She could tell someone…but whom? Certainly not grandfather; his health was fragile at best, and the news that she was being blackmailed might provoke a heart attack. She loved him too much to take that chance. And mum – did she even know about this mess of her father’s creation? Did she know he’d had a mistress?

Somehow, Natalie doubted it.

Her fingers tightened on the paper clip she held. She needed to calm her racing thoughts and think this through. Ian hadn’t provided any proof of his allegations. Perhaps there
was
no proof, and he only wanted to get back at her, because she’d turned him down one time too many.

But even as the thought occurred, she discarded it. Ian was too sure of himself. He had something, something damaging. But what? The thought of sitting at a table, sharing a drink with him, made her skin crawl. Tonight, all he wanted was a drink with her, and to trot out his terms and conditions.

But next time…what then? How far might Ian take this? And more importantly – what did he want?

With sudden resolve, Natalie stood up. She’d march into Rhys Gordon’s office right now, and she’d come clean about borrowing fifty quid from petty cash to pay the driver. He’d understand. And after all, she reasoned, it was Rhys’s fault she had no money, what with his bloody unreasonable budget, and freezing all her credit cards.

Besides, the guilt was making her miserable. She made her way to Rhys’s office and knocked on his doorframe. “Do you have a moment?”

He glanced up. A pair of black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose; he took them off and tossed them aside. “Of course, come in. Good job on snagging Phillip Pryce and his collection. You were right – he’s good. I’m no fashion expert, but even I was impressed.”

Natalie blinked, surprised. Praise, coming from Rhys Gordon? Was the sky about to fall? “Thank you.”

“You put in a lot of effort to get him.” He leaned back in his chair. “Your contacts – Poppy and Penelope Simone, Phillip, even that manky little sod, Dominic – have proven invaluable. Are they all on board for the re-launch?”

She nodded. “All except Poppy – I haven’t talked to her yet. But I know that she’ll do it.”

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.”