care what people think. I’m used to their contempt.”
Your mum’s gone, Ian. He still remembered the landlord’s wife, with her East End accent. She’s scarpered, and left the rent unpaid. Looks like it’s a foster home for you, poor mite…but I reckon it’s for the best. Your mum was a whore and no mistake. Taking in men at all hours…while you slept in the next room…not right, it weren’t.
His early life had been a succession of foster homes, each one more abusive and loveless than the last, until he’d been adopted at thirteen by his stepfather, and things had improved.
But love? Love was still a foreign concept. Although he understood it in the abstract, it meant nothing to him.
“I understand Dashwood and James in a way no one – especially not Rhys Gordon – ever will,” Ian went on, his words measured. “I know what needs doing, and I’m not afraid to do it. I’ll start by sacking the nonperformers and re-staffing. I’ll insist that your grandfather retire. He’s past it, you know. He’s not capable of keeping up with technology or making the changes that need to be made.”
“That’s not true,” Natalie protested, her face flushed with anger. “Grandfather’s as sharp as a carpet tack. He looks on his employees at the store as family.”
“Family,” Ian said, and let out a mirthless laugh. “Business is business, Natalie, and sentiment only clouds the bottom line. I can make Dashwood and James something to be proud of again, given half a chance. And you’re going to help make it happen.”
“No.” Natalie’s voice was low but firm. “Rhys is already turning the store around. I’m not going to marry you, Ian! Alexa's pregnant, and she’s my dearest friend.”
“I’m sorry, but ‘no’ isn’t an option, Natalie,” he said. “Not if you want me to keep your father’s past quiet.”
He reached out to touch her face, and she flinched. “At the moment, I only want you to be a bit more…accommodating. That’s not so much to ask, surely?” He leaned forward and laid his hand over hers on the table, and she moved to pull it away.
“Natalie,” he murmured as he tightened his grip on her wrist, “listen to me. When I ask you to lunch, or out for a drink, I expect you to smile nicely and say ‘yes.’” He let go of her hand and sat back. “I’ve given you a lot to think about. I’ll let you mull it over.” He drained the rest of his whiskey and stood up. “We’ll talk again soon.”
He withdrew several bills from his wallet and threw them on the table. “Goodnight, Miss Dashwood. I’ll be in touch.”
Rhys Gordon was tired. It had been a long, mind-numbing day filled with one meeting after another. As he headed back to the Connaught, he decided to duck into the bar for a drink.
“Whiskey, please,” he told the barman. “Neat.” He turned around to survey the room as he waited. His gaze drifted to a corner table near the fireplace and skidded to a stop.
Natalie Dashwood and Ian Clarkson sat at the table, talking in low voices over drinks. Rhys frowned. Natalie had her back to him, but he recognised her at once. He knew that Chanel clutch she always carried, tossed on the table between them.
What was she doing here, having drinks with Clarkson?
“Your whiskey, sir,” the barman said.
“Thanks.” Rhys turned back to pick up his drink from the bar and took a slow, measured sip. Then he returned his attention to the corner table.
Were they having an affair? He discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. To his knowledge Natalie had never encouraged Clarkson. On the contrary, she went out of her way to avoid him.
Why, then, was she having a drink with him in a quiet corner of the bar? Rhys took another sip of whiskey and watched as Clarkson reached out to touch her face. Natalie flinched.
Rhys’s fingers tightened around his glass. He wanted to fly off the barstool and throttle Ian, but steeled himself to remain seated. Ian stood and tossed money on the table, and strode towards the door. Rhys turned back to the bar and waited until Clarkson passed. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at Natalie.
She sat alone at the table, staring down at her drink with a blank look.
Rhys set his glass down on the bar and stood up. Screw staying out of it. He’d get to bottom of this, and find out what that slimy bastard had said to Natalie…
His mobile rang. He glanced down at the screen. Phillip Pryce. Bloody hell. He had to take the call, it was important. “Phillip. Did you talk to the manufacturers? When can they start production?”
When Rhys finished his call a couple of minutes later, he turned back to the table in the corner.
Natalie was gone.
“Don’t forget, Alastair,” Cherie warned him as she picked up the bedside phone that evening, “I’ve made reservations at Le Caprice next Friday. It’s Hannah’s sixteenth birthday.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, frowning distractedly as he scanned the latest overhead figures. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “I’ll add it to my calendar.”
A week later, Friday night arrived. The phone rang. Cherie, dressed and ready to go to dinner, picked up.
“Neil!” Pleasure warmed her voice. “You’re still coming tonight, I hope?”
“Yes. What time?”
“Seven-thirty. Alastair’s running late. He’ll meet us at Le Caprice.”
“In that case, why don’t Duncan and I pick you up?”
And so it was arranged. The pique Cherie felt towards Alastair remained, increasing exponentially when he phoned midway through the starters to say he’d be there soon.
“If I don’t make it by dessert,” Alastair told her, “go ahead and give my present to Hannah.”
His present – a heart pendant with a tiny diamond suspended in its centre – was tucked in the jeweller’s box in her handbag.
The mains arrived, and then dessert, but Alastair did not.
Cherie was tight-lipped with fury. It was one thing for him to cancel dinner with her; but to miss his daughter’s sixteenth birthday celebration, after she’d reminded him several times – well, it was unforgiveable.
“Don’t blame Alastair,” Neil said later, as he stood in the foyer of her house. “He has a lot on his plate. I’m sure he’s under a great deal of pressure—”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” she said tightly. “He missed Hannah’s birthday dinner completely.”
“Hannah doesn’t seem to mind.” She and Duncan had gone upstairs to see her new laptop. Neil followed Cherie into the kitchen and watched from the doorway as she made coffee, slamming drawers and cabinet doors in the process.
“Hannah,”
