Katie Oliver - The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Prada and Prejudice / Love and Liability / Mansfield Lark

“You’re drunk, Dom. And we’ve nothing to talk about. You’re with Keeley now.”

“I’m not, not really! It’s all for publicity. There’s no reason we can’t still see each other. I miss you, Nat.” He leaned forward unsteadily to kiss her.

Natalie backed away in disgust. “You want me as your bit on the side, you mean.”

“Come on, Nat, it’s not like that. Besides,” he pointed out, “the tabs all say you and Gordon are having a go—”

The door swung open. “Is everything all right?” Rhys asked. He fixed his piercing gaze on Dominic.

Dominic turned back to Natalie with an accusatory glare. “What’s ‘e doing here?”

Natalie glanced at Rhys. “I ran out of petrol last night, and Rhys—”

“—I brought her home, mate,” Rhys finished, and lifted his coffee mug to Dominic in mock salute.

Nat leaned forward, playing along, and stood on her toes to kiss Rhys on the cheek. He smelled enticingly of soap and aftershave. “You were a star last night. Thanks again.”

He handed her his half-empty mug. “You’re welcome. Now I’ve got to go. I’ll see you this afternoon?”

Natalie nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Rhys left, and Dominic’s scowl deepened. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He swayed slightly on his feet and demanded, “What’s going on? I’ve seen the tabloids. You’re not shagging that plonker, are you?”

A distracted smile curved Natalie’s lips. “Not yet.” Her smile vanished as she added crossly, “What do you care, anyway? You broke up with me, or have you forgotten?”

“Look, Nat,” he protested, “he’s 28, practically old enough to be your…your uncle! Besides, I still love you—”

“Oh, piss off, Dominic. Go sleep it off. And then go…smash a guitar, or something.” She left him in the hall, scowling, and shut the door smartly in his face.

Dominic didn’t take Natalie’s advice. Instead he found himself, two hours and a half a bottle of Chivas Regal later, slumped next to Keeley in the front row of Klaus von Richter’s spring preview fashion show.

How in bloody hell had that happened?

He crossed his arms against his chest and slouched back in the folding metal chair. He’d refused to go. But Keeley glared at him and hissed, “Remind me again why I agreed to this engagement, Dominic. Perhaps I should call it off.”

So here he was, crammed in with a gazillion fashionistas, all crossing their stiletto-heeled legs and shouting into their mobiles in rapid-fire French, English, and Italian.

“Why am I here?” he grumbled to Keeley as his right eye was nearly taken out by the wildly gesticulating editor of Italian Vogue sitting next to him.

“Because I need clothes for our honeymoon,” she snapped, “and because Maison Laroche’s show is the absolute best. People would kill for front row seats. Klaus’ clothes are genius.”

Dominic snorted. “Don’t know why any of this lot bothers going to fashion shows. All they wear is black.”

But as the lights dimmed and the show began, Dominic leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. Clouds of fog, pulsing techno music, and long-legged models striding out on the catwalk combined to create a throbbing spectacle of light, sound, and beauty. The clothes were all right, he supposed…

…but the models were bloody amazing.

Keeley poked him sharply in the ribs. “You can roll your tongue back in your mouth anytime,” she hissed in his ear.

When the show ended – all too soon, in Dominic’s opinion – Keeley grabbed him by the arm and dragged him backstage to meet the iconic fashion designer. Klaus von Richter was bald, and he wore black, from the cashmere scarf flung around his neck to his black-booted feet. What was it with fashion people and black? Dominic wondered.

“Klaus!” Keeley gushed. “The show was fantastic.” She air-kissed him on both cheeks.

He took her hand in his black fingerless gloves and lifted it to his lips. “ Merci , my dear,” he said in German-accented English. “What can I possibly create that is beautiful enough for you to wear, eh?”

Keeley smiled. “Everything you create is beautiful, Klaus. I love the black velvet strapless dress – stunning…”

Although Klaus nodded distractedly, his eyes lasered in on Dominic. “You,” he purred, “you are Keeley’s fiancé, non?”

“Yeah,” Dominic muttered. The way this German bloke stared at him – like a half-starved alley cat eyeing up a dish of Devonshire cream – made him more than a bit uncomfortable.

Klaus reached out and grabbed Dominic’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head this way and that, and pronounced, “You haf excellent bone structure. You haf modelled before?”

Dominic scowled and jerked his head free. “No! I’m a rock singer, not a bloody model.”

“You will model for me, for Maison Laroche,” Klaus announced. It wasn’t a question; it was a command.

“I don’t do that modelling shit.”

“But you will, for me. You’re perfect.” Klaus narrowed his eyes and walked slowly around Dominic, one hand on his chin. “You haf exactly the look I want. However, your clothes—” he eyed Dominic’s faded Levis and Motörhead T-shirt “—must go. We will dress you in von Richter, no?”

“No!” Dominic snapped.

Klaus snapped his fingers at one of his assistants. “Bring the sample suit to my dressing room. Jetzt !” He turned back to Keeley and Dominic. “Come back with me, and we will talk.”

“Come on ,” Keeley hissed, tugging on Dominic’s arm as he balked. “Are you mental? Do you know what an honour this is?”

“Honour, my arse,” Dominic hissed back. “He’s a nut job!”

The designer came straight to the point once they were seated in his dressing room. “I haf created my first men’s fragrance. I want Dominic to be the face of Dissolute . He has exactly the look I want – insolent, aristocratic, a touch dissipated. Perfect for the print ads…like a modern-day Dorian Gray, no?”

Dominic had no idea what the old queen was banging on about. “I don’t know shit about modelling, and I don’t know Dorian Gray, neither. I can’t do it, anyway. I’m starting a new tour next month. Then I’ll be in the studio. Sorry, mate.”

“We’ll work around your schedule.” Klaus flipped open an enamelled case and withdrew a tiny pinch of snuff, then thrust it delicately up first one nostril, then the other. “You will pose for print ads in the fashion magazines, and film a television commercial. Nothing more will be required of you.”

“Nah, sorry, can’t do it,” Dominic said firmly. “My fans would say I’d sold out.” He paused as one of the models came in to get a cigarette and blatantly eyed him up. He smiled. Hm…perhaps he should reconsider. How bad could it be, if doing this gig for Klaus meant he could hang out with girls like that?

Klaus saw the mingled lust and indecision in Dominic’s eyes, and moved in for the kill. “You’ll be well paid.” He leaned forward almost coquettishly, and whispered a sum in Dominic’s ear.

“Blimey.” Dominic blinked. With the amount of dosh Klaus had offered him, he could pay off his debts, buy that new Maserati Ghibli he’d had his eye on, and still have enough left over to buy a ‘57 Strat…

“So?” Klaus said finally, with a touch of impatience. “What do you say? You will sign with Maison Laroche to be the new face of Dissolute ?”

Keeley looked over at Dominic, her eyes shining, and nodded imperceptibly.

Dominic let out a short breath. He hated to sell out. But he really needed the dosh that von Richter was offering him.

Sod selling out. Sod his fans. Filthy lucre won the day.