They found a sofa at Habitat that they agreed was perfect – a chocolate brown sectional with lime green toss pillows. Rhys bought a pair of lamps as well, and a coffee table of burled walnut. Then it was on to Peter Jones for cookware and glasses, and an overpriced gastro pub for lunch.
“Tell me,” Natalie ventured as they returned to the car, laden with carrier bags, “what goes on at a stag party? I’ve always wondered.”
Rhys shrugged. “The usual, I suppose.” He opened the boot and tossed the bags in.
“And what’s that? Does a girl jump out of a cake? Cavort naked on the table? Grab your tie and pull you into a back room?”
He held the door open for her. “Not at any of the stag do’s I ever went to. Perhaps I’m going to the wrong ones.”
“You can’t tell me there aren’t girls,” she persisted as Rhys settled himself behind the wheel and started the engine.
“Of course there are,” he conceded, “but they usually have surgical enhancement and two inches of slap on their faces. Not my thing at all. Mostly, we get drunk and tell dirty jokes, then reel home to sleep it off. And pay the price the next day with a whacking great hangover.”
“That’s bloody stupid.”
“It is bloody stupid. About as stupid as the typical hen night, I imagine.”
Nat smiled wryly. “Touché. So – when do I get to see this flat of yours?”
“No time like the present.”
In Covent Garden, he turned onto Endell Street and came to a stop in front of a row of buildings. “Mine’s that one,” he said, and pointed to a white-fronted, three-storey house in the middle. “Three bedrooms, three levels, a private terrace, and…” he lifted one brow “…two reception rooms.”
“Oh, Rhys,” Natalie breathed as they entered the first-floor reception room, “it’s gorgeous!” Two floor-to-ceiling windows faced the street. A black marble fireplace was the focal point at one end, built-in bookcases at the other.
The kitchen consisted of gleaming black marble counters and stainless steel appliances, with a breakfast bar and room for a table in the window nook. And the private terrace needed only a wrought iron table and chairs and a few potted plants to make it perfect.
“And fairy lights,” Natalie added as she surveyed the terrace. “You’ve got to have fairy lights.”
“I’ll add them to the list.” Rhys studied her, amused. She was as excited as a child on Christmas morning. He realised with a start that his attraction to Natalie had grown from appreciation of her physical beauty, to something more.
He liked the way she widened her eyes whenever she was surprised or indignant. He liked her quirky personality, and – despite the fact that she frustrated the hell out of him at times – he liked the challenge she presented.
Rhys allowed himself to imagine sharing this flat with her, imagined her walking around in that T-shirt he liked, and nothing else. With a sigh, he shoved the thought aside.
Natalie Dashwood was Sir Richard’s granddaughter, and off limits. He’d invited her along to Ben’s wedding; that was enough. Further involvement would only lead to trouble. They made a good working team. He didn’t want to complicate things with a relationship.
Hadn’t he learnt his lesson with Cat?
“I should go,” Natalie said finally. Shadows stretched across the terrace as she made her way back to the French doors. “Tomorrow’s Monday, after all.”
“At least let me buy you dinner,” Rhys said. “I owe you that much, after you helped me furnish my entire flat.” He paused. “Not to mention, you found me a reasonably priced cheese grater.”
She smiled. “OK. I’m starving, anyway. I’m ready to eat my shoe.”
“I think,” Rhys said as he took her arm and led her downstairs, “that we can do a bit better than that.”
As they lingered over a delicious dinner of chilled courgette soup and butterflied mackerel at The Harwood Arms on Fulham Road, Natalie let out a sigh of contentment.
“That’s the best meal I’ve ever had,” she told Rhys.
“I’m glad you liked it.” He reached for the bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and topped up her glass. “I always try to come here when I’m in London.”
“Where else have you lived?” she asked. “Besides Edinburgh.”
He shrugged. “I worked in New York for a couple of years. Then Amsterdam, Brussels, Verona…”
She pouted. “That’s not fair! I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve only ever been to Scotland, to visit Tark.”
“Ah, yes. Owner of the Scottish castle and the £11,000 chandelier.” Rhys leaned back. “What was it like for you, growing up?”
Natalie shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. We lived in Warwickshire, and the house always needed roof repairs or a plumber. There was always damp, and limescale on the taps and toilets. The water came out brown and smelt like rotted eggs.”
Rhys raised a brow. “Sounds disgusting.”
“It was. Dad once hung out a sign on the gate: ‘Limescale Peeling’. Her smile faded. “It was his little joke.” She paused. “He killed himself. When I was ten.”
“Yes, I remember it was in all of the papers. I’m sorry.”
“Mum found him. He’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. Halcion. Half the bottle was gone.” She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. “People think it’s an easy way to die, but it’s not. It’s…horrible.”
Rhys was silent.
Natalie lifted her glass and took a long sip. “The hell of it was,” she said finally, “we never knew why he did it.”
“There were no business problems? No signs of depression?”
She was silent, remembering.
“Why do those men from the newspapers take pictures of us, mummy?” she’d asked, when a firestorm of flashbulbs erupted as their car emerged through the gates and turned onto the road one morning.
Her mother, attention focused on the road ahead and her mouth set in a grim line, replied, “It’s nothing to worry about, darling. Your father owns a very famous department store.”
“But other people own famous department stores,” Natalie persisted, “and they don’t have their picture in the newspaper. And they’re taking pictures of us, not daddy—”
“Never mind,” Lady Dashwood said sharply. “Do sit back and be quiet, Natalie, or you
