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

The waiter brought their salads, heaped with shaved Parmesan and fragrant with basil and oregano. Rhys speared a forkful of greens. “What are you doing now? When you’re not attending soirées in Holland Park, that is.”

“Oh, the usual,” she replied airily. “Christening ships, cutting ribbons – just another day in the exciting life of a department store heiress.” She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap.

He smiled slightly. “Fair enough, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did.” She took a bite of salad. “I took a gap year after uni to travel. I do some charity work, and I help mum with the odd church boot sale…” Her voice trailed away. “But I don’t – work, at the moment.” As she said the words aloud, Natalie felt, suddenly, a bit ashamed. Defensively she added, “I’m not really the nine-to-five type.”

The truth was, she didn’t do anything useful, or clever. She couldn’t knit, or decoupage, or balance spreadsheets, or play the guitar. Ever since she’d met Dominic, she’d drifted along in his wake. Her gap year had stretched into two. And now, she began to realise what a waste most of it had been.

But she’d never, ever admit as much to Rhys.

“I see. So how do you fill your time?” he inquired.

“Well…I weekend with friends in the country, and I go on tour with Dominic – not now, obviously – and I shop—”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his seat and eyed her, his gaze inscrutable. “Judging from the bills pouring in from every boutique and department store in London, shopping is an art form you’ve mastered admirably well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Natalie demanded.

“It means your spending is out of control. It’ll have to stop. And as for Dominic—”He paused. “It’s a good job that he dumped you. He’s destructive and irresponsible.”

“He’s an artist,” she said in his defense. “He’s temperamental—”

“Temperamental?” Rhys echoed, incredulous. “He’s a bloody nightmare! And he treats you like crap, yet you defend him.”

“Dominic can be incredibly sweet.”

“So can ethylene glycol,” Rhys retorted, “but it’ll kill you, just the same.” He paused as the waiter delivered their entrees. He lifted a forkful of lasagna to her lips. “Here, try this.”

Startled, she tasted it. “Oh,” she admitted, and wiped a bit of sauce from her mouth, “that’s really good.”

“You won’t find better anywhere in London. As to Dominic,” he added, “I suggest you avoid him. And watch your behaviour when you’re in public.”

She bristled. “My behaviour? Why, for heaven’s sake? I’m not a member of the royal family!”

“No.” He leaned forward. “But you’re in the public eye. You never know when a photographer might be around, or someone with a camera phone. You need to behave with the utmost decorum, especially now. After all, stories about our alleged affair are already all over the tabloids.”

“Crikey,” Natalie exclaimed as she flung down her napkin, “that’s hardly my fault, is it? Am I doing anything right ? You’ve done nothing but criticise me! My behaviour, my spending habits, my relationships—”

“You’re a smart girl who’s been sheltered from your family’s financial problems – and life in general – for far too long. That’s probably not your fault.”

“Well, thank you for that— ” she sputtered.

“—but it’s time you learned what we’re dealing with. Things can’t go on as they have.” He studied her. “I’m here to help your family, Natalie. I’m not the enemy.”

“Yes, you were brought on to help Dashwood and James,” Natalie agreed, stung by his criticism, “so I suggest you stick to your hire agreement, and do your job. But my behaviour – and my relationship with Dom – is none of your bloody business!”

Rhys threw down his own napkin. “I don’t give a shit about your relationship with that guitar-smashing fuckwit,” he snapped. “It’s your life; throw it away however – and with whomever – you wish. But I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from making yourself the next four-colour photo op in the Daily Mail …for the store’s sake, if not your own.”

She blinked, outraged. “How dare you! You have no right—”

“I haven’t time to waste discussing your messy personal life, Miss Dashwood. I’ve better things to do, like trying to keep your grandfather’s stores solvent. Because the truth is,” he added coldly, “some of us actually do have to work for a living.”

Natalie blinked, too astonished to speak. The diners nearest to them had gone quiet; even the clink of silverware had ceased. Mortification washed over her as she realised they’d heard every outrageous word Rhys said to her.

“You can run grandfather’s company however you like, Mr. Gordon,” Natalie said, her voice unsteady as she pushed her chair back. “But you won’t run me. I’m not one of your projects, and I don’t need advice on how to conduct my messy life – particularly not from a rude, arrogant prat like you. So you can just – fuck right off!” She let out a single, hiccupping sob and fled.

Chapter 6

As she emerged on the street, fury catapulted her forward. She scrabbled in her handbag for her sunglasses and thrust them on. Her head was pounding and her thoughts were in turmoil.

She pondered various ways to kill Rhys Gordon. Which would be more satisfying – a slow, torturous death, or something quick and violent? Tough call, that…

“Natalie!” someone shouted behind her. “Is it true you’re having an affair with Rhys Gordon?”

Suddenly she was surrounded by paparazzi, jostling one another as they thrust microphones and cameras in her face. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“Will Rhys turn the company round, or is Dashwood and James past redemption?”

“Tell us, Natalie – is Gordon as hard-driving in bed as he is in the boardroom?”

“No comment,” she managed, flustered. She began to tremble. Thank God she had sunglasses on; if they saw her tears, they’d probably say she’d had a lovers’ spat with Rhys!

“What does Dominic Heath think of your new boyfriend?”

“Rhys Gordon is not my new boyfriend!” Natalie sputtered. “He’s not my boyfriend at all!”

Suddenly Rhys appeared, thrusting his way through the crowd of reporters, and took possession of her arm.

“Is it true, Rhys?” a female reporter for the Mirror called out. “Are you and Natalie an item, or not?”

“What does Miss Dashwood say?” he countered, unperturbed.

“She says you’re not.”

He glanced at Natalie, his expression unreadable. “Then we’re not.” He turned back to the reporters. “Now bugger off, the lot of you.”

Shaken, she let Rhys draw her away. “Thanks,” she murmured, and cast a hunted look over her shoulder as the media hounds dispersed to return to their cars and news vans to sniff out a story elsewhere. “They came out of nowhere. Even after two years with Dom, I still hate it.”

Reporters had often waited outside Dom’s townhouse in Primrose Hill, hoping for a quote or a photograph. It was a nuisance; but it went with the territory when you dated a pop star.

No, far worse was the débâcle with her father when she was a child. Journalists had loitered at the gates to her family’s Warwickshire home for days, bristling with microphones and cameras, and shouted rapid-fire questions at the car as mum drove past, questions ten-year-old Natalie hadn’t understood.

But at least mum had shielded her and her sister Caro from the worst of it…

Natalie realised that Mr. Gordon had spoken. She looked up at him with a guilty start. “I’m sorry, what?”