six years old.”
Alastair, taken aback by her outburst, frowned. “Sorry, pet, I didn’t realise it bothered you so much.”
“I’m sick of everyone treating me like a child.”
“Well, then,” Alastair told her evenly, “perhaps it’s time you stopped behaving like one.”
Hannah glared at him. Wordlessly she grabbed up her bags and stormed past him, up the stairs to her room.
As Cherie came into the hallway, Alastair looked at her in consternation. “I can’t seem to put a foot right where Hannah’s concerned these days.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome to my world, darling,” she said dryly.
Rhys took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s nearly nine, Miss Dashwood. It’s time you went home.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll call a taxi.”
“No need, I drove. I even topped up the petrol in the Peugeot before I left this morning.” She got to her feet. “Besides,” she added primly, “taxis are a needless expense.”
“You’re learning,” he said, and smiled in approval. “Go home. And no more £11,000 chandelier purchases, mind.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, and gave him a cheeky smile in return. “I’ve no other weddings on the immediate horizon.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same. My best mate’s getting married soon, poor sod.” He hesitated. “Would you like to come along?”
Natalie gazed at him in mild surprise. He’d actually asked her out. She’d come in to Rhys’s office, ready to thrust a nice, sharp Sabatier between his shoulder blades; now she was contemplating an invitation to go to his best friend’s wedding.
How had that happened?
He added quickly, “I’ll understand if you’re busy—”
“No! I’d love to go,” Natalie said, equally quickly.
“Good.” He cleared his throat. “It’s next Saturday afternoon. I’ll fetch you at two o’clock, if that suits?”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll see you here on Monday, then, nine a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t. Goodnight, Mr. Gordon.”
“Goodnight, Miss Dashwood.”
After Natalie left, Rhys tapped a few more keys on his laptop, his thoughts elsewhere. On a pair of wide, grey-blue eyes, to be precise, and a pert little bottom encased in nicely-fitted jeans…
He closed his laptop with a snap. Don’t go there, mate, he warned himself grimly.
He’d gone and asked Natalie to Ben’s wedding. What in fuck was he thinking? Now he’d have to introduce her to Ben, and Sophie. At this rate, he’d be taking her round to meet his mum, and then he’d be the next poor sod to walk down the aisle…
Perhaps Ben was right. What he needed was a pint and a pretty distraction. A girl who looked nothing like Cat…
…or Natalie Dashwood.
He punched in Ben’s number. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve asked Natalie along to your blasted wedding,” he said without preamble. “Let’s go grab a pint.”
“OK.” Amusement coloured Ben’s voice. “Are we celebrating something?”
“The only thing I’m celebrating,” Rhys said as he gathered up his briefcase and gym bag, “is the end of another work week in this financial hellhole. Hurry your arse up. I’ll meet you at the Bull and Feathers in twenty. And if you’re late,” he added as he left the office, “you’re buying the first round.”
“I’ll put a pair of armchairs there,” Natalie said on Monday morning, pointing to one corner of her new office, “and a desk – Sheraton – here. As for the carpet—” Natalie eyed the beige Berber with distaste “—it’s got to go.”
Rhys appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, ladies. What’s going on in here?”
“Miss Dashwood has decided to redecorate,” Gemma informed him. She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “She wants an antique desk in her office…and new carpet.”
Natalie held a swatch of toile fabric against her smart new Armani jacket for Rhys’s consideration. “What do you think of this for the armchairs?”
“I think, Miss Dashwood,” he said shortly, “that you’ll make do with the same desk and chair that everyone else has.”
Her gaze swept over the grey metal desk with its sticking drawer and the lopsided wheeled chair in dismay. “But you said I might make the space my own.”
“And you certainly may.” He regarded her levelly. “With a plant, or a picture. Right now, I suggest you get whatever supplies you need from Gemma and get settled. Let’s meet in my office in twenty minutes. We’ve a lot of ground to cover.” And he turned on his heel and left.
“Well, that’s you, off to a great start,” Gemma said to Natalie with a smirk. “Come on, let’s get you sorted with pens and pads and things, so I can get on with my own work.”
“Thanks.” Uncertainly Natalie asked, “Where does one get a latte around here?”
“Coffee’s in the kitchenette. It tastes like burnt cork. If you want a latte, you have to go to the coffee shop.”
Natalie followed the PA out. “I’ll need a cup before I meet with Mr. Gordon.” She went into the tiny kitchen and took a Styrofoam cup from the stack and poured herself some coffee. It smelled like wet dog. There was a glass jar labelled ‘Coffee Fund’ half-filled with pound coins.
Guiltily, Natalie eyed the jar. She hadn’t any cash; but she was in desperate need of caffeine. She promised herself she’d stick in a couple of pounds the next time she came in.
Cautiously she took a sip of the brew, and nearly spat it out. Gemma was right — it was awful.
“Well, hello there.”
She gave a violent start and turned around.
Ian Clarkson stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the doorjamb. “First day at your new job, is it?”
“Oh! Yes. Sorry, you startled me.” She indicated the carafe. “I tried the coffee just now, but it’s noxious.”
“There ought to be a hazardous warning sticker on the pot. We can skip out and get a cup round the corner, if you like.”
“Oh, no thanks,” she said hastily. “I’ve got to
