Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 30

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.”

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.