Klaus gave him a withering stare. “You are joking.”
Rajid shook his head. “It is store policy, sir.”
“I’m buying two pounds’ worth of items.”
“I am sorry.” Rajid was sympathetic but implacable. “Store policy.”
“Listen to me, you idiot,” Klaus snapped, “I’m Klaus von Richter, the creative director of Maison Laroche.”
“A thousand apologies, sir,” Rajid said firmly, “but I must see your identification. That is the rule.”
By now, the queue had grown to half a dozen people, all in a hurry to purchase their newspapers and cough drops and Galaxy bars. “I don’t care about rules, you stupid boy!” Klaus hissed, and leaned over to grab a fistful of Rajid’s shirt. “Rules do not apply to me. Run my card now, or there’ll be trouble.”
“Release my son.” Rajid’s father, an older but far more implacable Sikh, joined his son. “Release him, or I promise I will have you charged with assault.”
Klaus thrust Rajid away with a curse and a shocking string of racial epithets. “Keep your newspaper and your Mentos,” he spat. He swept everything off the counter to the floor, then stormed out of the newsagents…
…unaware that Holly James had captured the entire ugly exchange on video.
Promptly at nine on Sunday morning, Natalie heard the roar of an engine outside her flat.
“What in the world—?” She ran to the window and peered down. A gleaming silver Triumph motorcycle waited at the curb, a man in a helmet and a black leather jacket sitting astride. He rested one booted foot on the street, revved the engine, and lifted the visor of his helmet.
Dark blond hair, dark blue eyes…
“Rhys,” Natalie murmured. She threw the sash up. “You can’t be serious! You brought your motorbike?” she called out.
“Get your arse down here! Time’s wasting.”
“I think I prefer the Jag,” Natalie said five minutes later as she regarded the Triumph doubtfully.
“Just put the helmet on. You loved it last time.”
“I was drunk last time.”
Once she was helmeted and straddled behind him, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.
“Hang on,” he warned over the rumble of the engine. “I don’t drive like your granny.”
With a roar, they were off. Natalie clung to Rhys as they manoeuvreed their way out of London and onto the A3, headed west. Streets and buildings passed by in a blur, giving way gradually to rolling green countryside.
Exhilaration overtook her as they roared past hedgerows and fields dotted with cows and black-faced sheep. There was only the Triumph, the road, and Rhys’s broad, muscled back. Her nose was assaulted by the smells of leather, petrol, and occasionally, the scent of wildflowers.
Just past noon, they stopped for lunch. Natalie was ravenous. Over fish and chips and pints of beer, Rhys told her about his Thunderbird and his love affair with motorcycles.
“It’s my only escape,” he said, and thrust a pickled onion in his mouth. “No mobile, no laptop, no demands – just me and the road and plenty of horsepower.”
“I didn’t think I’d like it,” Natalie admitted, “but it’s brilliant. Except for the seat…my bum’s a bit sore.”
Rhys nodded. “It will be, the first couple of times out. You’ll feel it in your legs tomorrow.”
“I already do.”
Rhys paid the bill and they returned to the bike. “Ready?”
“Let’s walk first,” Nat suggested impulsively as she eyed the row of shops lining the main street.
“OK.” He shoved his wallet in his back pocket. “But only if you promise not to buy anything.”
“I’m very restrained in my spending these days.” She stopped and pointed. “But there’s a sweet shop, so I’m afraid—” she smiled triumphantly “—all bets are off.”
Rhys took her hand, and they made their way to the confectioners. Outside the door he paused. “I’ll probably regret this, but get whatever you like. I’ll buy.”
“Oh, you’ll definitely regret it,” Natalie agreed. “We’ll get something for your mum. Jamie says she likes sweets.”
“Jamie?”
“Yes, you know, your brother? We had a pint together the night you threw him out of your flat.”
Rhys frowned. “I didn’t throw him out.”
“You did! When I left, we went to the pub around the corner.”
“As I recall,” Rhys murmured, “you left just as things got interesting. I had a very different idea of how the evening would end. And talking to Jamie wasn’t it.”
Natalie blushed. “Do you fancy shortbread?” she asked him. The woman at the till was avidly listening to every word.
Rhys leaned forward to kiss her. “I don’t fancy shortbread,” he said against her lips, “or chocolate, or gumdrops. I fancy you. I want to make you dinner. And I’ve dessert of another kind altogether in mind.”
“You’ve forgotten Lesson Number One,” she murmured. “‘Behave with decorum at all times’.”
“I’m the instructor, so I’m allowed to break the rules.”
The woman behind the till rang everything up and handed the bag of sweets to Natalie. She leaned forward. “That’s Rhys Gordon, that is,” she whispered. “And you’re Natalie Dashwood. I’ve read all about you in the tabloids.”
“Oh, no,” Natalie said hastily, “you’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not.” The woman looked past her and eyed Rhys appreciatively. “You want my advice? Run along and have some of that dessert on offer. I would!” She winked.
Scarlet-faced, Natalie took the bag and fled the shop.
Rhys tossed the candy into the Triumph’s saddlebag and swung his leg over the seat. “Are you ready, Miss Dashwood?”
She settled herself in behind him and slid her arms tightly around his waist. “I’m ready, Mr. Gordon.”
With a throaty rumble, they roared off into the drowsy late afternoon countryside, back to London.
“What should I do?” Holly fumed as she slid into a booth at the pub on Sunday afternoon.
