Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 28
ОглавлениеThe next morning, after stopping to buy a copy of the Mail and the Mirror on her way to work, Natalie returned to her car and threw the tabloids on the passenger seat. She’d read them once she got to work.
She was halfway down Pont Street when her car died.
As she gripped the steering wheel in disbelief, the Peugeot shuddered, let out a rattle, and ghosted to a stop. The car behind her let out an impatient – and very loud – honk. Natalie stared at the instrument gauges in consternation. The car’s lights were still on; the bloody petrol tank was full.
But the engine refused to turn over.
She tried to start it again, but nothing happened, only a horrible sort of grinding noise that didn’t augur well.
Another couple of horns joined the one behind her. A man got out of the car behind and strode up to the driver’s window.
Cautiously she lowered the window.
“Are you out of petrol?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. My car just…stopped.”
“Then we’d best get you out of the road.”
As she remained at the wheel to steer, he pushed the little car out of harm’s way and called a towing service.
“They’ll be along shortly,” he informed her. “It’s probably your fuel pump.”
Natalie thanked him and offered to pay for his trouble, but he waved her thanks off and returned to his car.
Good thing he’d declined, because thanks to Rhys’ ridiculous budget, she had no cash. She’d just spent her last five quid at the newsagents.
Ten minutes later, a tow truck arrived and the ginger-haired driver jumped down and hitched the Peugeot’s bumper to a winch. “Where’re we takin’ ‘er, then?” he asked.
“Dashwood and James department store,” she replied, “on Sloane Street. There’s a car park nearby.”
He opened the tow truck door for her. “Right. In you go.”
Fifteen minutes later the Peugeot was unhitched and deposited in a parking spot. “That’ll be fifty quid,” Ginger-Hair announced as he wrote up the bill and handed it over.
Natalie blinked. Fifty quid! “I haven’t any cash on me,” she apologised as she scrabbled in her handbag for her wallet, “but you take credit cards, don’t you?”
He nodded. “All the majors.”
As she withdrew her wallet and flicked through dozens of plastic-encased credit cards, Natalie suddenly remembered that Rhys had closed all of her accounts. Every. Single. One.
Oh, crikey. She had no way to pay the tow-truck driver.
“Erm, you see, the thing is,” she told him with a nervous smile as she dropped the wallet back into her handbag, “I haven’t any cash on me, and my credit’s been cancelled.”
As his genial face darkened into a scowl, she added quickly, “But I have money upstairs, in my – in my desk.” Of course she didn’t. She’d just have to borrow fifty quid from the petty cash box and pay it back later. “If you wait here, I’ll be right back—”
“Oh, no.” He eyed her grimly. “I’ll just go wif you.”
Wordlessly she nodded, and together they went inside and took the lift to the fourth floor.
“Wait here,” Natalie told him as she left him in the conference room. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“Awright. But if you’re not back in five minutes—” he drew his bushy red brows together “—I’ll come and find you.”
Her heart thrumming, Natalie assured him that wouldn’t be necessary and hurried off to her desk. At least it was early; no one else was in yet. She jerked open the bottom left drawer with trembling hands and took out the petty cash box.
She lifted the lid. A neatly stacked pile of pound notes was rubber-banded together. Her fingers were unsteady as she counted out fifty quid and laid it on the desk. She’d borrow the money from mum or grandfather and put it back later, just as soon as she paid off that nasty ginger-haired bloke—
“You’re in early this morning, Natalie.”
With a start, she looked up to see Ian Clarkson standing beside her desk. “Ian! You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”
“I came in early to work on the website. I might ask you the same question.” He eyed the cash box inquiringly but said nothing.
“I had…things to do.” Her glance strayed involuntarily to the tabloids and the packet of licorice allsorts she’d tossed on the blotter.
Ian reached down and picked up the Daily Mail. “‘Rhys Gordon and Natalie Dashwood share an intimate dinner at the Harwood Arms. Full story and photos on page two’,” he read aloud. He looked at her and smiled. “Well, well. You and Gordon are getting quite cosy, aren’t you?”
Natalie put the cash box back and slammed the drawer shut. “It was a business dinner, Ian, nothing more. Now if you’ll excuse me—” she pushed back her chair and stood “—I’ve things to be doing, and a tradesman waiting to be paid.”
But he didn’t move. He glanced at the fifty quid in her hand and said softly, “It looks to me as though you’re stealing from petty cash. Is that what you’re doing, Natalie?”
She stared at him, her eyes wide with unease, and opened her mouth to say no, of course not. But nothing came out. The words froze in her throat.
“Don’t worry.” His voice was a gentle caress. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
And as his eyes met hers, dark with amusement, she felt dread settle itself in her stomach.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she retorted. “Of course I’ll put the money back. Not that it’s any of your concern,” she added as she picked up the money and moved to brush past him.
“You’re right, it’s not.” He caught her arm. “But Rhys wouldn’t approve of you nicking money from the cash box. Sir Richard would be shocked. His own granddaughter, a thief…”
Natalie stared him down. “Let go of me.”
But his hand only tightened on her arm. “I could have you charged with theft.” His lips curved upwards. “I caught you in the act, you naughty girl.”
Real fear twisted inside her. “Are you threatening me?”
Ian dropped his hand from her arm. “Oh, nothing so dramatic. Don’t worry, Miss Dashwood. Our little secret.”
“‘Scuse me,” came the belligerent voice of the tow-truck driver from the doorway, “but I want me money.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Clarkson murmured. “Your tradesman is getting impatient,” and with a wink, he turned away and strode back to his office.
After she paid the driver and made herself a cup of tea, Natalie returned to her desk and sank down in the chair. Her hand shook slightly as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips. Ian Clarkson was a nasty piece of work under any circumstances; but now that he’d caught her taking money from the cash box, he had something – no matter how trivial – to hold over her.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was already half eight. Gemma and Rhys would be in soon; she hadn’t much time. She reached for one of the tabloids lying on her desk to have a quick look, and nearly choked on her tea.
Over a photo of herself looking up adoringly at Rhys, the headline trumpeted, ‘“I’ve Moved On,” Natalie Says.’ She let out an indignant gasp. They’d made it look as if she’d moved on, all right…straight into Rhys Gordon’s arms!
“Crikey!” she said out loud. “So much for being nice to the press.”
“You’ve seen the tabloids.” Rhys, briefcase in hand, stood in the doorway.
She looked up, startled. “Yes. You’re in early.”
“I’ve a lot on today. So, you didn’t like the stories?”
“No! They took an innocent comment and twisted it round to mean something entirely different,” she fumed.
“Welcome to the British media,” he said dryly.
Natalie frowned and held out a copy of the Guardian. “Oh – have you seen this? Klaus has made a deal with H&M to do a one-off line of clothing.” She looked at Rhys in outrage. “After he turned us down flat!”
Rhys took the paper from her and scanned the article. “Did you notice the date his collection debuts?” Grimly he tossed the paper aside. “It’s the Saturday of our re-launch.”
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.
