as his eyes met hers, dark with amusement, she felt dread settle itself in her stomach.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she retorted. “Of course I’ll put the money back. Not that it’s any of your concern,” she added as she picked up the money and moved to brush past him.
“You’re right, it’s not.” He caught her arm. “But Rhys wouldn’t approve of you nicking money from the cash box. Sir Richard would be shocked. His own granddaughter, a thief…”
Natalie stared him down. “Let go of me.”
But his hand only tightened on her arm. “I could have you charged with theft.” His lips curved upwards. “I caught you in the act, you naughty girl.”
Real fear twisted inside her. “Are you threatening me?”
Ian dropped his hand from her arm. “Oh, nothing so dramatic. Don’t worry, Miss Dashwood. Our little secret.”
“‘Scuse me,” came the belligerent voice of the tow-truck driver from the doorway, “but I want me money.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Clarkson murmured. “Your tradesman is getting impatient,” and with a wink, he turned away and strode back to his office.
After she paid the driver and made herself a cup of tea, Natalie returned to her desk and sank down in the chair. Her hand shook slightly as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips. Ian Clarkson was a nasty piece of work under any circumstances; but now that he’d caught her taking money from the cash box, he had something – no matter how trivial – to hold over her.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was already half eight. Gemma and Rhys would be in soon; she hadn’t much time. She reached for one of the tabloids lying on her desk to have a quick look, and nearly choked on her tea.
Over a photo of herself looking up adoringly at Rhys, the headline trumpeted, ‘“I’ve Moved On,” Natalie Says.’ She let out an indignant gasp. They’d made it look as if she’d moved on, all right…straight into Rhys Gordon’s arms!
“Crikey!” she said out loud. “So much for being nice to the press.”
“You’ve seen the tabloids.” Rhys, briefcase in hand, stood in the doorway.
She looked up, startled. “Yes. You’re in early.”
“I’ve a lot on today. So, you didn’t like the stories?”
“No! They took an innocent comment and twisted it round to mean something entirely different,” she fumed.
“Welcome to the British media,” he said dryly.
Natalie frowned and held out a copy of the Guardian. “Oh – have you seen this? Klaus has made a deal with H&M to do a one-off line of clothing.” She looked at Rhys in outrage. “After he turned us down flat!”
Rhys took the paper from her and scanned the article. “Did you notice the date his collection debuts?” Grimly he tossed the paper aside. “It’s the Saturday of our re-launch.”
Nat regarded him in dismay. “He wants to steal our thunder!”
“Not to worry. We won’t let him.” He turned to go. “Oh, before I forget…I’ve scheduled a ten o’clock with Phillip Pryce. I want you there. He’s keen to talk to us about a possible joint partnership.”
Natalie pushed the tabloids aside. “Good, I told him to contact you. He’s amazing. He’s not very well known yet, but all the fashion magazines say he’s the next Olivier Theyskens.”
Rhys looked at her blankly. “Who?”
Natalie sighed and turned on her laptop. “Never mind.” She typed ‘mechanics, London SW1’ into the search engine. “Do you know anything about cars?” she asked as he disappeared into his office.
“A bit. Why?”
“Mine died on the way in. And no, I wasn’t out of petrol.”
“It just quit? Were the lights and radio working?”
“Yes, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.”
“Then it’s not the battery. It sounds like the fuel pump needs replacing.”
Natalie’s heart sank. “How much will that cost?”
“You’ll have to call a mechanic.”
A mechanic meant more money, money she hadn’t got. She felt a headache brewing…
“Here.” Rhys returned to her desk and handed her a credit card and five quid. “Use this. You can pay me back later.” He glared at her. “And you’re not to charge anything else.”
Her eyes widened. “Thanks. I won’t. And I will pay you back. What’s the cash for?”
“Fetch me a coffee when you get sorted,” Rhys called out from his office, “a tall espresso macchiato—”
“—black, no sugar,” she finished, and grimaced. “How you can drink it without sugar is beyond me.” Natalie stood and grabbed the five pounds and thrust the memory of her unpleasant run-in with Ian Clarkson firmly aside.
It was only fifty quid, after all. She’d borrow the missing money from mum and return it to the cash box this afternoon…
…just as soon as she’d been to the coffee shop to fetch Rhys his bloody espresso macchiato.
The meeting with Phillip Pryce began in the conference room promptly at ten a.m.
“The British public love Natalie,” Phillip enthused to Rhys, Alastair, and Sir Richard. “They can’t get enough of her, or of her—” he cleared his throat “—affair with Rhys Gordon.” He winked at Natalie.
“Ah, yes,” Rhys said inscrutably, “that.” His glance flickered to Natalie, who was blushing furiously, and back to Phillip. “Complete bollocks, of course. Good thing Dominic’s Wedding-gate has eclipsed us in the tabloids for the moment.”
Natalie forced a smile as laughter erupted at his words, but inside she was indignant, and a tiny bit hurt. How quickly Rhys dismissed their time together yesterday! Had it meant so little to him?
After all, she’d never told anyone about her guilt over her father’s death, only Rhys. She pressed her lips tightly together and forced her attention back to the discussion.
“I’ve designed my line around Natalie,” Phillip was saying. “It’s targeted at young, on-trend women, available exclusively at Dashwood and James.” He looked expectantly from Rhys to Sir Richard and Alastair. “If you gentlemen concur, that is.”
Rhys leaned forward. “What price point are we talking about? Your pieces are normally rather expensive.”
“About half the cost of my regular line…but still consisting of quality construction. The average secretary or bank teller can afford my clothing, even on a budget. And,” he added after a dramatic pause, “I want Natalie Dashwood to represent the new line. She’ll model in all of the print ads.”
Natalie blinked. “But…I’ve never modelled in my life.”
Phillip waved his hands in dismissal. “No matter, you’re a natural! Slim, gorgeous, photogenic—and everyone adores you. They’ll flock into D&J to buy my clothes, I assure you.”
Sir Richard drew his brows together. “We need to see some examples of your work before we reach a decision, young man.”
“Yes,” Alastair, who until then had been silent, agreed. As he toyed with his pen, his gaze strayed to Rhys. It struck him, not for the first time, that Gordon reminded him of someone…but the thought, elusive and