Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 37

Chapter 29

Alexa Clarkson was half asleep when Ian’s mobile buzzed late on Sunday night. She raised herself on one elbow and peered at the bedside clock. It was half past midnight. She listened, straining to hear, but there was nothing. Ian must’ve let the call go to voicemail.

Curious, she waited until she heard the shower come on. As soon as he shut the bathroom door, she got out of bed – made awkward by her last weeks of pregnancy – and crept into the sitting room. She rubbed the swell of her stomach and frowned.

When had she and Ian last made love? She couldn’t remember. Ages… She couldn’t blame him, really. Who’d want to make love to a woman as big around as Brixton?

Not for the first time, she wondered if he was having an affair.

His mobile lay on the hall table. She picked it up, one ear cocked to make sure the shower still ran, and scrolled down the list of recent calls to the last one.

Natalie Dashwood.

Alexa’s frown deepened. Why would Natalie call Ian so late on a Sunday night? Surely it could wait until morning, at work. And why hadn’t he answered?

The shower stopped. She tossed the mobile back on the table and returned to their bedroom, sliding under the covers just as the door opened. Light spilled into the room.

“Alexa? I thought you were asleep.” Ian, a towel wrapped round his hips, regarded her from the doorway.

“I was. Your mobile woke me, so I got up to take a wee. Who was it?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.

“Oh, it was just a message from Gordon.” He dropped the towel to the floor and rummaged in his dresser for a pair of boxers. “We’ve a meeting at four and he warned me it’ll most likely run long.”

What an accomplished liar he is, Alexa realised suddenly. What else has he lied about? “Is it the website again?” she managed to ask, hoping her voice didn’t betray her thoughts.

He nodded. “Final review and then hopefully we’re done with the damned thing.”

“I hope so. You’ve worked late, a lot.” She stretched. “Well, bed for me. Maybe this time I’ll actually sleep.”

“Goodnight.” He turned away. “I’ll be in soon. I need to check my emails.”

“Goodnight.” Although she was tired, as she turned off the bedside lamp, Alexa couldn’t stop thinking about Natalie’s phone call. Why had she called Ian? Were they having an affair? How long had it been going on?

And just what, exactly, was going on?

There was no possible way that Nat and her husband were involved. The very idea was ludicrous. She and Natalie had known each other for yonks; they’d bonded over Enid Blyton and gobstoppers, and later over music and boys and clothes. Nat would never do something like this to her, or to their long-standing friendship.

Yet why else would she call Ian so late on a Sunday night?

Exhaustion finally caught up to her, and Alexa fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

Cherie found the photo albums in a basket on a bottom shelf of the sitting room bookcase. She knelt to pick one up and flipped idly through the pages.

She studied pictures of Hannah and Holly, their faces alight with excitement as they sat in front of the Christmas tree; Alastair, holding newborn Hannah with a look of equal parts adoration and terror on his face; Holly balancing unsteadily on her first two-wheeled bicycle.

She took an armful of albums and sat on the sofa, flipping the pages until she found photos of her wedding day. Her throat tightened. She and Alastair had been madly, crazily in love.

They had two lovely daughters and a pleasant, privileged life. Yet they’d become two strangers sharing the same house.

When had things gone so wrong between them?

“Hello, darling,” Alastair said as he arrived with two cups of tea. He handed her one and sat down beside her. “Looking at wedding photos?”

Cherie nodded. “You were so handsome in your morning suit. I couldn’t wait to get you out of it.”

Alastair lifted his brow. “And here I thought you were so innocent.”

“Oh, I was. But I wanted to sleep with you from the moment we met at that garden party at St. Anselm’s.”

“It seems I married quite a hussy,” he murmured, and leaned forward to kiss her.

The album slipped from her fingers as Cherie kissed him back, and a photo came loose and fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up.

She studied the picture of an attractive young woman seated at a desk. One perfectly groomed brow was lifted, her lips curved in a slight, knowing smile. Her dark blonde hair was twisted into a chignon at the nape of her neck.

“Who is she?” Cherie asked, curious. “She looks familiar.”

Alastair took the photo and studied it. “Oh, yes, of course. That was Fiona, my secretary. You remember, darling — she quit just after you and I got married.”

Cherie cast him a curious glance. “Why? Were you two an item?”

“Yes…but not for long. I remember she quit on a Friday, left her notice on my desk while I was at lunch, and never came back. No idea why she left. Hard to believe it was almost thirty years ago.”

“You must’ve upset her when you married me.” Cherie smiled, only half joking. “She couldn’t bear it, so she flew the coop to nurse her broken heart.”

He stared at the half-forgotten face of his secretary. She’d had eyes of such a deep and penetrating blue.

Something about those eyes niggled at him. What, exactly, he couldn’t say. It lurked now at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger precisely on what ‘it’ was.

Whatever it was, Alastair decided, there was something about Fiona Walsh that gnawed at his memory.

“What’s wrong?” Cherie asked him. “You’ve got an odd look on your face.”

“Nothing.” Alastair put the photo aside. “Feeling my age, I suppose. It was a long time ago. Let’s look at some more of those wedding pictures.”

They spent a pleasant hour flipping the pages and passing the albums back and forth. As he enjoyed the rarity of relaxing at home with Cherie, Alastair’s glance strayed once again to the photo of his secretary, tossed aside on the coffee table.

Although he didn’t mention her again, Fiona Walsh remained in his thoughts for the rest of the evening.

Rhys arrived at work at eight a.m. on Monday morning. He’d slept restlessly – no thanks to Natalie’s abrupt departure after the phone call she’d got – but at least he knew how to handle Ian Clarkson.

“Natalie’s running late,” Gemma said as he stopped at her desk. “She’ll be in soon. Oh – and the breakfast has just been delivered for Sir Richard’s meeting with the buyers. Shall I pay the boy out of petty cash? I’m skint at the moment, or I’d take care of it myself and expense it later.”

With a nod and a brief stop to pick up his messages, Rhys went into his office and picked up the phone.

“Clarkson, Gordon here. I want to see you in my office, please. Immediately.”

Rhys sat down behind his desk to wait. Ian was blackmailing Natalie; he was sure of it. He’d seen the fear in her eyes after last night’s phone call. His expression hardened. He couldn’t confront Ian directly with his suspicions; but there were other ways…

Gemma reappeared in his doorway a moment later, a puzzled look on her face.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked with a trace of irritation.

“I barely had enough money to pay for the delivery out of petty cash.”

Rhys lifted his brow. “Sir Richard’s secretary must have ordered one hell of a breakfast spread for his meeting.”

“That’s just it. She ordered the usual things – a dozen scones and croissants, and orange juice. But there’s money missing from the cash box. Fifty quid, to be exact.”

He rubbed the space between his eyes. “Natalie probably took the money out and forgot to deduct it from the tracking spreadsheet. Bloody hell! Can’t she even manage petty cash without screwing it up?”

“Mr. Gordon?” Ian stood in the doorway.

“Come in. Shut the door, Gemma, please. We’ll talk later.”

“Sounds serious,” Ian remarked as Gordon’s PA nodded and closed the door. He took a seat in front of Rhys’s desk. “Is Miss Dashwood in some sort of trouble?” he inquired guilelessly.

“No, but you are,” Rhys replied. “Mr. Clarkson, are you aware of the store’s policy regarding employee harassment?”

He raised his brow but said nothing, waiting.

“Let me refresh your memory. Harassment of a colleague – verbal or sexual – will not be tolerated. It’s come to my attention that you’ve made a pest of yourself with the ladies.”

Ian stiffened. “A bit of flirting hardly counts as harassment.”

“Oh, is that what you call it – a bit of flirting?” Rhys leaned back in his chair. “Any woman made to feel uncomfortable in your presence is a victim of harassment, Mr. Clarkson. I’ve had complaints from my own PA about you.”

“This is absurd.” Ian stood up abruptly. “You don’t like me, Gordon, and you never have. And the feeling is mutual. But you have no cause to accuse me of harassment.”

Rhys stood as well, his blue eyes snapping. “I’m warning you, Clarkson. Stay away from the women in this office, and stay away from Natalie Dashwood. Because if you don’t, I’ll have your balls for breakfast.”

“That’s what this is all about,” Ian said softly, “isn’t it? You fancy Natalie yourself!” His smile was cold. “You speak to me of bylaws, and harassment. But I wonder what the bylaws say about a superior shagging a subordinate? Particularly when the subordinate is Sir Richard’s own granddaughter—”

Rhys lunged forward and grabbed Ian by the collar. “That’s enough, you nasty-minded little prick,” he snapped. “Natalie’s off limits, got it? If you so much as breathe the same air as her again—” his eyes glittered “—I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

Ian jerked free, his face flushed with anger. “I could have you arrested for assault, Gordon. Lay a finger on me again, and I promise you’ll find yourself behind bars faster than you can say ‘quid pro quo’.” He turned away, flung open the door, and left.

Gemma looked up from her laptop as Clarkson stormed past her desk, his face like a thundercloud.

She went into Rhys’s office. “What on earth did you say to Ian?” she asked. “He came out of your office just now like a juggernaut. I’ve never seen him looking so furious.”

“I gave him a refresher course on store policy. I’ve had a number of complaints about him.” He tossed down his pen. “He won’t be bothering you – or anyone else – again.”

Gemma crossed her arms against her chest. “It’s not me he’s after, it’s Natalie. He corners her at the copier or in the kitchen at least once a week. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Oh, since her first week here.”

“And why do you suppose he’s singled Natalie out in particular?”

Gemma shrugged. “I’m sure he fancies her, but I get the feeling there’s something else going on.” She glanced at him with a frown. “It’s almost as though she’s afraid of him.”

“Like he’s got something on her, you mean?”

“Yes. Although I can’t imagine what; Natalie doesn’t have any dark secrets, she’s an open book.”

Rhys leaned forward. “Unless the secret she’s keeping isn’t hers, but someone else’s.”