you lot!”
Natalie groaned. Poor mum. There was no time to call and explain now; she’d call back after the meeting with Rhys. Bleep. “I’m on my way to fetch Nigella,” Caro chirped. “Thanks, Natty! Love you.”
Finally, she scrolled to the last message. Ian Clarkson.
Bleep. “Natalie, Ian here.” He paused. “Call me. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
Ian was married, his wife Alexa expecting their first child, yet each time he saw Natalie, he asked her, in that suggestive, smarmy way of his, to lunch or drinks. She always turned him down. She had no doubt that his message was more of the same. Without hesitation, she deleted it.
Ian was trouble she didn’t need. Or want.
She hurried back to Rhys’s office. Just outside his door, she paused. He was talking to someone on the phone.
“—the tabloids? No, there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James.”
Natalie blinked. Every tabloid in Britain was running the story of her ‘affair’ with Rhys; reporters had badgered her, and brought up bad memories, and besieged her mum’s house; and Rhys Gordon thought it made for ‘great publicity?’ Her fingers tightened on her mobile.
“The stores need every ounce of attention they can get,” Rhys went on. “What better way to grab the headlines than an ‘affair’ with Sir Richard’s granddaughter, Natalie?”
Fury swept over her. How dare Rhys use her like this, like some kind of – of media catnip? Why, the opportunistic, manipulative little prat—
“Attractive?” Rhys said into the phone. “Yes, very. But she’s not my type,” he added dismissively. “As to what she’s like…well, you’d have to ask the boyfriend, Dominic.” He let out a throaty chuckle. “Probably a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…”
Her cheeks flaming with mortification, Natalie stood rooted to the spot.
When she’d flung the wine at Dominic, Rhys Gordon had stepped in to save the day – not to avoid publicity, but to guarantee it.
It all made perfect sense. She remembered how he’d offered to take her home, how he’d leaned his head close to hers when they spoke, and put his hand on her back when he walked her outside. He’d demonstrated such concern for her…
.…all for the benefit of the bloody photographers.
Natalie turned to go. She left, glad Gemma wasn’t at her desk, and blinked back tears of anger and humiliation.
“Natalie?” Gemma called out behind her. “Were you looking for me?”
She paused to collect herself before she turned around. “Yes. Would you tell Mr. Gordon that I can’t stay? I had a call…my mother…something’s come up.”
“Is everything all right?” Gemma asked as she came closer, her face etched with concern. “You look upset.”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” And before her tears could give proof to the lie, she fled.
When Natalie came downstairs, she saw reporters loitering outside the front doors. They were as persistent – and irritating – as midges. Thrusting her sunglasses on, she detoured once again to the back service entrance and peered cautiously out. No one was in sight.
Halfway down the alley to her car, Natalie heard a shout behind her.
“Natalie! Where’s Rhys? Is it true you’re seeing each other?”
“How do you feel about Dominic and Keeley’s engagement? Give us a quote, love!”
She flung herself inside the car and slammed the door, then gunned the engine. Her heart pounded as she threw the Peugeot in gear and screeched out onto Sloane Street, narrowly missing a taxicab in the process. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Thankfully, no one followed her.
Natalie found a parking spot on a side street and let out a ragged breath. Bloody media! What she needed was someone to talk to. Someone calm and sensible…
She grabbed her mobile and scrolled to Sir Richard’s private number. “I need to see you, grandfather,” she said without preamble when he answered. “Right now.” Her voice wobbled. “Thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Cherie James peeled the last potato, ready to add it to the others arranged around the roast, when the phone rang. “Yes?”
“Hullo, darling, it’s me.”
“Alastair,” Cherie said as she eyed the roast, “don’t tell me you’re working late again. You promised to be home in time for dinner tonight—”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But Gordon wants ideas to improve our bottom line, and he wants them by tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll get home. Don’t wait up.”
“Don’t worry,” Cherie said tightly as she put the roast in the Aga and slammed the oven door, “I won’t.” The meat would taste like a boot by the time Alastair finally sat down to eat.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “We’ll go to that new French restaurant you’ve wanted to try. I’ll make reservations for Saturday night when I hang up.”
Despite her anger, she relented. “All right,” she said finally. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that you’re always staying late. I’m bloody sick of my own company.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But at least Hannah’s there.”
“Another year and she’ll be off to university.” Then what would she do? Cherie wondered, and fought back the sudden rise of despair. “I miss you,” she added softly. “I miss us.”
“As do I, darling.” He paused. “Look, if I push it, I might finish up by ten o’clock. Wait for me?”
“Of course. I’ll see you then.”
She rang off and wondered, not for the first time, if Alastair was having an affair. But as quickly as the idea occurred, she discarded it. He wasn’t that sort of man. Besides, if anyone was entitled to have an affair, Cherie reflected irritably, she was. Putting up with Alastair’s late hours, worrying about their daughters, what with Holly living on her own in London, and Hannah, off to uni next year—
Oh, stop, she scolded herself. You’ve a good husband and two lovely daughters who’ve never given you a moment’s trouble. You’ve nothing to worry about.
She took out the flour and sugar and decided to make a treacle tart for dessert.
Affairs were for other people, after all. Not for people like Alastair and her.
Miraculously, there were no reporters outside Sir Richard’s townhouse when Natalie arrived. Nevertheless,
