God forbid, intelligence.
She turned away and strode across the carpeted floor to the glass display case where the better lingerie was located. There was no ring on his finger, so the gift must be for a girlfriend. As she bent down to unlock the case and pulled out some lacy, sexy underclothes, she tried (and failed) to ignore the jackhammer pounding of her head.
Back at the counter, she laid out a half-dozen bras and knickers for his inspection. “These are very nice,” she informed him. “Notice the lace detailing.”
He prodded at a pair of knickers with his free hand and, with a cursory glance, shoved them aside as if they were £1.99 cotton pants. “These won’t do. Let me see your nightgowns.”
She bent down with a put-upon sigh and withdrew several negligees from beneath the counter. “These ones are lovely—”
“I need those cost overrun estimates ASAP,” he said into the phone, and dropped the mobile back into his Barbour. “Haven’t you anything that doesn’t look as if it came out of a stripper’s closet? The lady’s tastes are conservative.”
“Well in that case,” Natalie said with barely concealed irritation, “we have a nice assortment of flannel granny gowns.”
He leaned forward, his expression combative. “Show me something else.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
As Natalie glared back, her mobile came to life, vibrating on the counter behind her. “Excuse me.” Before he could object, she dove back under the counter to (1) look for the least sexy nightgown she could find and (2) take her call.
The moment she saw Dominic’s name on the screen, Nat pressed ‘Answer’. “Dom!” she hissed. “Where were you last night?” His side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.
“Went back to mine,” he said, and yawned. “I had a few pints with the boys, got pissed, passed out.”
This, Natalie knew, was probably a lie. Not the ‘went back to mine’ part, but the ‘passed out’ part. He’d likely spent the night in bed with his latest slag du jour.
“Don’t forget, Alastair’s anniversary party is tomorrow night,” she reminded him.
“Oh, shit,” he groaned. “All right, just be ready when I pick you up.” He paused and added ominously, “We need to talk.”
She frowned. “Talk? About what?”
“I can’t go into it on the phone, can I?” he snapped.
Natalie sighed. When Dom was in One of His Moods, a single cross word from her could easily escalate into a shouting match. She hadn’t the energy – or time – to deal with him now.
He might be playing Glastonbury this summer, and he might rock a guitar, but on a day-to-day basis Dominic Heath was a nightmare. His temper was legendary. Last week he’d trashed a curry house in Soho because the vindaloo wasn’t spicy enough.
Nor had two years of therapy cured his sex addiction; Natalie recently discovered he was shagging his sex therapist.
Good thing she planned to dump him at Alastair’s party tomorrow night.
Her customer leaned over the counter. “What are you doing down there, having a chat with the bras and knickers?”
“I’m on the phone,” Natalie retorted. “Do you mind?”
“Actually,” he replied, his expression grim, “I do.”
She glared up at him and returned to her call. “We’ll talk later,” she hissed, and rang off.
Natalie rummaged under the counter until she found a negligee and a matching dressing gown of apricot silk. She stood and tossed both on the counter. “I think the Queen herself would approve of these.”
He studied the items with a frown. “Very well, ring them up. And hurry. I haven’t got all day.”
Wordlessly she complied. He paid the entire bill – just over £250 – in cash.
“Oh, and I want them gift-wrapped,” he added as Natalie pulled out a carrier bag. “Can you manage that, do you think?”
“Sorry, but I haven’t any boxes.”
“You do,” he retorted. “I see them, there—” he pointed to the shelf behind her “—and I see tissue paper, as well.”
“Oh, fancy that! Right you are.” Natalie grabbed up a couple of flat boxes and tissue, flung the items inside, and thrust the boxes in the bag. “Here you go. Happy Christmas.”
“What about wrapping paper? Bows? Ribbons?”
“You have to go to the gifting counter for that.” She glanced at the Guardian Mrs. Tuttle had left under the counter. “I could wrap it in yesterday’s newspaper, if you like. Is the Guardian all right? Or do you prefer the Telegraph?”
“We’re talking about an overpriced Christmas gift,” he said, his jaw set in a tight line, “not yesterday’s cod. And I haven’t time to wait in another queue. Just give me the damned boxes so I can be on my bloody way.”
Natalie held the carrier bag out. “Here you go. Have a lovely day,” she gritted out. “Hope to see you again soon!”
“Oh, you will,” he promised her grimly. “Count on it.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” she muttered as he departed, carrier bag in hand. “Like the plague. Or my next gyno exam.”
Thank God, Natalie consoled herself as she rang up a bra and a pair of Wolford tights for the next customer in the queue, I’ll never, ever see him again.
She probably shouldn’t have had that third glass of Pinot.
Of course, Natalie reminded herself as she made her way unsteadily through the crowd, she hadn’t actually drunk the wine; she’d hurled most of it at Dominic.
Too bad she’d missed.
Natalie paused in the drawing room doorway. Her gaze swept past the clusters of elegantly-dressed people clutching glasses of champagne, intent on finding the door. The exit had to be around here somewhere.
As she lifted her tissue – already soggy – and blew her nose, Natalie scowled.
Bloody Dominic.
This disaster of an evening was entirely his fault. After all, they’d come to Alastair’s party together. She’d even bought a new dress for the occasion. But she never imagined Dominic would dump her halfway through the party to announce his engagement…to his ex-wife.
Natalie sniffed. She honestly didn’t give a fig if Dom and Keeley got back together again; they deserved each other. No, it was the public humiliation factor that upset her.
She’d seen the furtive
