insanely jealous.”
“Crazy for horses, were you?”
“Like most ten-year-old girls.” Natalie hesitated. “The day before he died, he and I had a falling out. He said I couldn’t have a horse until I was older. I was furious, told him I hated him, that he was the worst father in England. In the world.” Her throat tightened.
“Natalie,” Rhys said, his face creased in concern, “please, don’t upset yourself—”
“I told him I wished he were dead.” She raised her eyes to his. “And the next day, he was. My words – those horrible, childish, awful words – God, you can’t imagine how many times I’ve wished I could take them back. But of course, I can’t.”
He covered her hand in his. “You were a child,” he said softly. “You can’t possibly blame yourself.”
“But I did. For the longest time, I thought he’d killed himself because of me. Of course he didn’t; but I still wonder, sometimes, if what I said to him wasn’t the tipping point.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” His voice was low but firm. He leaned forward. “You may never know why he killed himself. But whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “I think you missed your calling. You should’ve been a psychotherapist.”
“In that case,” he said as he signalled for the waiter, “I prescribe a crème brûlée, or perhaps cake. A good pudding can set anything right.”
When they emerged from the restaurant an hour – and one shared slice of chocolate torte – later, a gaggle of reporters and the unwelcome flash of cameras greeted them.
“Bloody hell,” Rhys muttered. He took Natalie’s arm and drew her closer. “Someone must’ve seen us and tipped the press off. Let’s talk to them for a moment.”
“Can’t we just make a dash to the car and ignore them?” she whispered as she surveyed the handful of reporters.
“Lesson number three,” he murmured. “Always make nice with the press when you can. Chin up, darling. We’re on.”
Rhys skillfully deflected half a dozen rapid-fire questions, making jokes and answering queries without revealing anything of consequence. He told them that he and Natalie were working together to re-launch the Dashwood and James department stores, and promised the British public would love the results.
“Natalie, you stated that you and Dominic Heath are finished. How do you feel about that?” a female reporter asked.
“Relieved,” Natalie replied, and they all laughed. “Of course, I wish Dominic the best of luck. But I’ve moved on.”
Rhys held up his hand to stop the flow of questions. “Thank you all. Goodnight.”
“Rhys,” Natalie said in admiration as they drove away, “you were brilliant. They loved you.”
He snorted. “Trust me, the press is fickle. We’ll see in the morning, when the story hits the tabloids.”
The next morning, after stopping to buy a copy of the Mail and the Mirror on her way to work, Natalie returned to her car and threw the tabloids on the passenger seat. She’d read them once she got to work.
She was halfway down Pont Street when her car died.
As she gripped the steering wheel in disbelief, the Peugeot shuddered, let out a rattle, and ghosted to a stop. The car behind her let out an impatient – and very loud – honk. Natalie stared at the instrument gauges in consternation. The car’s lights were still on; the bloody petrol tank was full.
But the engine refused to turn over.
She tried to start it again, but nothing happened, only a horrible sort of grinding noise that didn’t augur well.
Another couple of horns joined the one behind her. A man got out of the car behind and strode up to the driver’s window.
Cautiously she lowered the window.
“Are you out of petrol?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. My car just…stopped.”
“Then we’d best get you out of the road.”
As she remained at the wheel to steer, he pushed the little car out of harm’s way and called a towing service.
“They’ll be along shortly,” he informed her. “It’s probably your fuel pump.”
Natalie thanked him and offered to pay for his trouble, but he waved her thanks off and returned to his car.
Good thing he’d declined, because thanks to Rhys’ ridiculous budget, she had no cash. She’d just spent her last five quid at the newsagents.
Ten minutes later, a tow truck arrived and the ginger-haired driver jumped down and hitched the Peugeot’s bumper to a winch. “Where’re we takin’ ‘er, then?” he asked.
“Dashwood and James department store,” she replied, “on Sloane Street. There’s a car park nearby.”
He opened the tow truck door for her. “Right. In you go.”
Fifteen minutes later the Peugeot was unhitched and deposited in a parking spot. “That’ll be fifty quid,” Ginger-Hair announced as he wrote up the bill and handed it over.
Natalie blinked. Fifty quid! “I haven’t any cash on me,” she apologised as she scrabbled in her handbag for her wallet, “but you take credit cards, don’t you?”
He nodded. “All the majors.”
As she withdrew her wallet and flicked through dozens of plastic-encased credit cards, Natalie suddenly remembered that Rhys had closed all of her accounts. Every. Single. One.
Oh, crikey. She had no way to pay the tow-truck driver.
“Erm, you see, the thing is,” she told him with a nervous smile as she dropped the wallet back into her handbag, “I haven’t any cash on me, and my credit’s been cancelled.”
As his genial face darkened into a scowl, she added quickly, “But I have money upstairs, in my – in my desk.” Of course she didn’t. She’d just have to borrow fifty quid from the petty cash box and pay it back later. “If you wait here, I’ll be right back—”
“Oh, no.” He eyed her grimly. “I’ll just go wif you.”
Wordlessly she nodded, and together they went inside and took the lift to the fourth floor.
“Wait here,” Natalie told him as she left him in the conference room. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“Awright. But if you’re not back in five minutes—” he drew his bushy red brows together “—I’ll
