concert.” He smiled unpleasantly. “So I suggest you humour me.”
“Humour you how, exactly?” Dominic leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If it’s me you’re after, I don’t swing that way, mate. I like the girls, myself.”
Klaus waved his hand dismissively. “I have no interest in you. I want…” he leaned forward “…Phillip Pryce. Find out all you can about his new collection for Dashwood and James.”
“Phillip Pryce? Who’s he?”
“He’s a fashion designer, you idiot!” Klaus hissed. He set his glass down with a crack, and Dominic flinched. “Talk to your ex-girlfriend, Natalie. Tell her you want to get back together, tell her you want to marry her – I don’t care. Do whatever it takes to get information about Phillip from her.”
“I do want to get back with her,” Dominic said morosely, “but that’s over with, now.”
“Trust me, Dominic,” von Richter said, his expression hard. “If you want something badly enough, no matter what it is, you find a way to get it.”
“Are you having fun?” Sophie Harris asked Natalie the following Saturday. The wedding ceremony was over and the reception at Somerset House was in full swing as Sophie adjusted the bodice of her wedding gown in the ladies’ lounge.
“I am.” And she was enjoying herself. Ben and Sophie were lovely people, and obviously very much in love. “I can see why Rhys and Ben are best mates. Ben’s a great guy.”
“So is Rhys,” Sophie said. She hesitated. “I know we only just met, and perhaps I shouldn’t say this…but I’m glad you and Rhys are together. You’re just what he needs.” She looked quizzically at Natalie in the bathroom mirror. “You are together, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure,” Nat admitted. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, if Rhys likes you enough to introduce you to his best mate,” Sophie said with a smile, “then it’s safe to say you’ll probably be meeting his mum next.”
Natalie blushed. “Oh, I doubt that! I’m just his plus one, that’s all. Tell me, is Rhys…involved with anyone?”
“Not that I know of,” Sophie answered. “He was in a relationship for a couple of years. But it ended badly.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking,” Nat added.
“Of course not. He met Caterina in Italy, in Verona. She was married to a business associate. Which suited Rhys perfectly,” Sophie added as she reapplied her lipstick, “until Cat made the mistake of falling in love.” She dropped the lipstick back in her clutch. “When he broke things off, she threatened to kill herself.”
“Good heavens,” Nat murmured. “What did he do?”
“He tried to reason with her…but she wanted her cake – Rhys – and her husband Paolo, too.”
“So what happened?” Natalie asked her, curious.
“Rhys ended things, and she swore she’d kill herself. He said he wouldn’t be held hostage to her dramas any longer, and quit his post in Verona to return to England. Cat slit her wrists…and nearly died. Her husband found out about the affair and blamed Rhys. It was very public, and very ugly.”
Two of the bridesmaids came in just then, and Natalie focused her attention on the mirror. She topped up her lipstick, lost in thought. Poor Caterina…
…and how harsh of Rhys, to treat her so cavalierly.
Nat followed Sophie back to the reception and joined Ben and Rhys at the bar.
“So,” Sophie teased Rhys as he handed her and Natalie each a champagne cocktail, “when can we expect an invitation to your wedding?”
“When I sprout wings out of my arse,” he retorted.
“You can’t let a couple of bad relationships turn you into a bachelor forever,” Sophie chided him. “Right, Natalie?”
“If Rhys wants to die alone in his flat with nothing but a big-screen TV and a shelf full of Bang and Olufsen to keep him company,” she said tightly, “then let him.”
“Don’t forget lots of beautiful women,” Rhys added, his eyes gleaming, “to share my lonely, high-tech flat.”
“Let me know if you need a flatmate,” Ben joked. He held up his hands as Sophie glared at him. “Just kidding, love.”
“Oh, Rhys has plenty of women at his disposal,” Natalie informed them, “including a French stripper.” She fixed him with a frosty stare. “Why stop at a chocolate bar when he can have the entire candy shop?”
“There are plenty of beautiful women in the world, Natalie,” Rhys responded evenly. “Don’t use them as a yardstick to measure yourself by. Because there’ll always be someone more beautiful.”
Her grey eyes flashed. “You arrogant prat, how dare you—”
“Just as there are plenty of better-looking men than me,” he added, “as hard as that is to believe.” He pulled Natalie, resisting, into his arms. “The only woman in this room I’m remotely interested in is you.” He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. “Would you like to dance, Miss Dashwood?”
Natalie, responding despite herself to the warm persuasion of Rhys’s lips, felt her resolve disappear along with her anger.
It was usually awkward, kissing a man for the first time. You bumped noses, or made do with a hurried brush of lips, as if to get the ‘first kiss’ officially over and done with.
But it wasn’t like that with Rhys. It wasn’t like that at all.
The moment his lips touched hers, so firm and self-assured, Natalie’s irritation melted away and turned into…need. She needed more of his mouth on hers, more of his arms around her. Her hands slid up and over his shoulders, revelling in his strength and his scent and his annoying, captivating, head-spinning…Rhys-ness.
“We’re not dancing,” Natalie breathed against his lips, and blushed.
His arms tightened around her. “Oh,” he murmured, and raised a quizzical brow, “are we meant to be dancing?”
She knew she ought to slap that self-confident smirk from his face and walk away. And she would do, she promised herself as he lowered his mouth to hers once again…
…just as soon as this kiss – and this dance-that-wasn’t-a-dance – ended.
“Get Rhys,” Ben murmured to Sophie in grudging admiration as he watched him kissing Natalie on the dance floor. “Good save.”
“You’d best devise a save of your own,” Sophie informed him tartly, “because if you don’t ask me to dance again soon, you’re spending your wedding night alone on the hotel sofa.”
Phillip Pryce flung Natalie’s dressing room doors open and surveyed the contents with approval. “Impressive! Vogue’s fashion closet has nothing on yours, chickpea.”
Natalie sat on her bed with a sigh. “I can barely afford Oxfam, now. Not since Rhys put me on a budget.”
“Well, we’ll have pots of money after the ad comes out and my clothing line hits the stores.” Phillip riffled through her clothes rack. “With all this designer stuff, we won’t need a stylist for the shoot,” he declared. “We can do it ourselves.”
Jacques brought in some carrier bags stuffed with accessories and set them down on the floor. He sniffed. “We can’t afford a stylist with our tiny budget, anyway. Here’s the giveaway stuff from Marie Claire.”
Phillip