I worth the wait?” Rhys asked afterwards, raising himself up on one elbow to look at her.
“Umm,” Natalie sighed. “Worth every minute. You were brilliant.” Her eyes drifted closed.
He kissed her shoulder. “Sleep, darling.”
She smiled and murmured something unintelligible.
Rhys pulled the blankets up and covered her, then kissed her tenderly on the side of her mouth. He studied her, loving the sight of her in his bed, then flung his arm over her and fell into a deep and satisfied sleep.
The sound of the newsreader’s voice on the clock radio woke Rhys and Natalie the next morning.
“—shocking video of the fashion designer verbally and physically abusing an Indian store clerk in Knightsbridge has gone viral—”
Rhys lifted his head from the pillow and squinted at the clock. “Shit!” He sat up abruptly and slapped the alarm off, then flung back the covers. He had a meeting with Sir Richard at nine, less than forty minutes from now.
“What time is it?” Natalie murmured, and rolled over sleepily.
“Eight-fifteen. We overslept.” He pulled on a shirt and buttoned it up quickly. “I’ve a meeting with the board at nine to update them on the re-launch. Hurry and get dressed.”
“But…we can’t go in together!” she exclaimed as she got up.
“Why not?”
“Because then everyone will know we slept together.”
He grabbed a tie from the tie rack. “Natalie, the entire UK already thinks we’ve slept together.”
“That’s different! I don’t want Gemma, or Alastair, or, God forbid, grandfather to know about us just yet.” And especially not Ian, she almost added. “I want to keep our relationship private. At least for now,” she amended.
“Fine. Take a taxi, then,” Rhys said shortly. “I haven’t time to argue, I’ve got to go.” He leaned forward as he knotted his tie and kissed her briefly. “I’ll see you later.”
Traffic through Knightsbridge on Monday morning was as thick and slow as treacle. Alastair moved to switch off the radio just as the presenter said, “Klaus von Richter, head of design for Maison Laroche couture, is in a bit of hot water this morning—”
Hannah stayed his hand. “Wait, dad, I want to hear this.”
“Why, in heaven’s name?” Alastair demanded irritably.
Hannah shushed him and leaned forward to listen to the newscaster. “A video of von Richter’s verbal assault of 19-year-old store clerk Rajid Singh was posted to YouTube late yesterday and already has over three million hits. Singh’s father has filed assault charges against the designer. Executives at Maison Laroche are demanding von Richter’s resignation—”
Hannah switched off the radio and leaned back, stunned. Her mobile began to vibrate. Holly.
“Oh my God!” Holly wailed. “Klaus might lose his job because of me! Why did you post that bloody video? I told you not to! If anyone finds out—”
“Don’t worry, they won’t,” Hannah assured her, aware of her father’s curious glance. “I just got to work, talk later.” She thrust her mobile in her handbag. “Holly,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “She’s such a drama queen.”
Alastair negotiated a turn, his thoughts elsewhere. “Hannah, there’s been a change in your work schedule.”
She glanced at him warily. “What sort of change?”
He parked the Mercedes in his designated spot in front of the department store. “You’ll be in the ladies’ sportswear department for the rest of the week.” Human resources assured him that Jago Sullivan would be sacked on Friday afternoon.
“But I only just started in the stockroom!” she protested.
“You’ve been there nearly a month. There’s much more to Dashwood and James than the stockroom.”
“It’s because of Jago, isn’t it?”
Alastair’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No. I told you when you started that you’d be moving departments.”
“You don’t like him, so you’re moving me out.” When he said nothing, Hannah snapped, “You’re judging Jago because he’s working class. You’re wrong about him, dad. He’s ambitious. He’s going to school at night to learn to be a chef—”
“We’ll talk later.” Alastair shut off the engine. “For now,” he added as he cast his daughter a quelling glance, “report to the third floor. And I’ll hear no more about it.”
Natalie made it through the doors of Dashwood and James with only a couple of minutes to spare. The day passed in a blur of last-minute preparations for the re-launch – meetings with Phillip, Rhys and Sir Richard, calls to confirm delivery of the Portaloos, re-launch posters to review and approve… There was barely time for a salad at her desk.
It was six o’clock when Natalie finally slung her handbag over her shoulder and headed, exhausted, out the door.
Not only hadn’t she done her laundry yesterday – too busy rolling in the sheets with Rhys, she reflected guiltily – but she had nothing in her fridge for dinner…unless you counted a month-old stalk of asparagus and a half-bottle of Krug.
God, what she’d give for a nice, juicy takeaway burger right now…
A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to see Ian standing before her. Natalie came to an abrupt stop.
“Keep walking.” He took her elbow and propelled her forward; in his free hand he held a folder. “The park’s just ahead. Let’s find a bench and chat, shall we?”
Wordlessly Natalie walked with him, across the street and into Hyde Park, to an empty bench shaded by a lime tree. No one was about; only a young woman, walking her dog and talking on a mobile further along the path.
When they were seated, Ian handed her the folder. “Have a look. This should allay any doubts you might have about your father’s guilt.”
With trembling fingers, Natalie took the folder. She opened it and paged slowly through the photocopied ledger account entries. The method was clever. Small amounts of money – a hundred pounds here, fifty quid there – were paid out to various vendors.
“The vendors with tick marks—” Ian pointed to several entries “—billed the store and were paid, some in cash. But the vendors didn’t exist, and the cash went straight into your father’s pockets.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her expression confused. “Why would he risk everything for such small amounts of money?”
“It added up over time – two
