on Monday. I’ll be assisting Rhys.”
“Doesn’t he have a PA? That terrifying redheaded girl?”
“Yes, her name is Gemma. I’ll be helping with marketing, and things.” She bit her lip. “I’ll probably make a mess of it, like I do everything else.”
“None of that, now,” Caroline said firmly, and grabbed her hand. “What you need is an ice cream. Come on.”
When they were settled at a marble-topped table with dishes of ice cream, Natalie dug her spoon in. “Dad used to bring us here, remember?”
Caro nodded. “I was always planning my wedding. I was determined to get married in Windsor Castle, on a pink pony.”
“No, I’m sure it was a pink unicorn.” Natalie smiled. As she thought of the gown they’d just left behind at Vera Wang, her smile faded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get your dress, Caro.”
Caroline squeezed her hand. “Wanting to get that dress was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me…even if you couldn’t actually buy it.”
The sting of having her credit declined filled Natalie with renewed anger. She’d never been so embarrassed in all her life. Well, except for the humiliation she’d endured when Dominic announced his engagement to Keeley.
Nat scowled. She knew how Cinderella must’ve felt when her gown changed back into rags and nothing waited to take her home but a useless old pumpkin.
And she’d bet her granny’s knickers that Rhys Gordon was to blame.
Her mobile rang. She dug it out and glanced at the screen with a frown. Why was Rhys’s personal assistant calling her, and on a Saturday? She pressed the answer button. “Gemma?”
“Natalie? Good morning. Rhys would like a word with you in his office, right away.”
“But I’m shopping. And it’s Saturday.” Natalie paused, listening. “Indeed? Well, we’ll just see about that.” She tossed her mobile in her handbag and stood up. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. His lordship, Rhys Gordon, has summoned me to his office.”
“But we’re still shopping!” Caro protested. “Besides, he can’t just snap his fingers and expect you to drop everything—”
“You obviously don’t know Rhys.” Nat pressed her lips together. “I’ve no doubt he’s the one who’s closed out my accounts, the backstabbing, number-crunching prat. I can’t believe it, especially after we practically spent last Friday night together!” she finished, indignant.
Caro regarded her in alarm. “Oh, Natalie – you aren’t sleeping with him, are you? I saw those photos in the Mail—”
“No! We’re not sleeping together! Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Exasperated, Natalie grabbed up her bag, waved goodbye, and stormed off.
Rhys pressed the intercom and scowled at his laptop screen. Losses for the past quarter were worse than he’d anticipated. Drastic measures were needed – reduced operating hours, pay freezes…and job cuts, something he’d wished to avoid.
And the fact that Natalie Dashwood was spending for England didn’t help matters.
“Gemma, send Alastair in.” He sat back in his chair and waited, tapping his pen impatiently against his thigh. When Mr. James arrived five minutes later, Rhys said without preamble, “The markdown budget figures are worse than you originally forecast. Come and look, please.”
Wordlessly Alastair came around his desk to peer at the computer screen.
“We’re losing money at a higher rate than projected. If the numbers you give me aren’t good, Mr. James,” Rhys said tightly as he tossed his pen down, “how can my decisions based on those numbers be of any bloody use?”
“It appears the planning budget was underestimated,” Alastair agreed, his heart heavy. He knew what this meant – more hours lost to number crunching, another round of apologies to Cherie, more tension between them.
“You need to update the budget, Mr. James.”
“I’ll get on it immediately.” Alastair added, “However, I’ve made plans to spend tomorrow with my wife.”
“Well, you’ll just have to cancel them, won’t you?”
Alastair’s expression hardened. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Gordon. What’s really going on here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You seem determined to take issue with me.”
“I take issue with a good company going in the crapper. You and Sir Richard haven’t done a proper job keeping costs down and revenues up. I can’t do this alone.”
“I understand.” Alastair’s gaze was steely. “But responsibility for the state of the company’s finances doesn’t rest solely with me. This tension between us is personal on your part, Mr. Gordon.”
“Yes, it’s personal, because this is your bloody company. While you may not be the only one responsible for the years of mismanagement, you’re accountable all the same – just as I’m accountable for somehow turning this fucking mess around.”
“Let me remind you, I managed accounts worth millions of pounds when you were still in nappies, Mr. Gordon,” Alastair said icily. “I’m also a partner. As such, I demand respect. Remember – Sir Richard and I hired you. Not the other way round.”
Rhys leaned forward. “You hired me, yes. And in order to do my job, Mr. James, you bloody well need to do yours.”
“And so I shall,” Alastair returned, and tightened his jaw, “on Monday morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he gave Rhys a curt nod “—I’m leaving for the day. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Before Rhys could form a reply, Alastair turned on his heel and left.
Rhys became aware of a disturbance just outside his office. He glanced up with a scowl to see Gemma blocking the door. No one got past her. “Just a moment, Miss Dashwood,” she protested, “you can’t just barge in—”
There was a minor tussle at the door. Natalie shoved past and stormed into his office, Gemma on her heels, both of them quivering with righteous indignation.
“I’m sorry, Rhys,” Gemma apologised. “I tried to stop her—”
He thrust his chair back and stood up. “It’s all right. Close the door on your way out, please.”
“Of course.” Gemma shot Natalie a scalding glare and left, shutting the door smartly behind her.
Natalie advanced on him. “How…dare…you.” She threw her handbag on his desk. Spreadsheets and marketing reports flew up and fluttered down to the carpet.
“How dare I?” Rhys demanded.
