“Another year and she’ll be off to university.” Then what would she do? Cherie wondered, and fought back the sudden rise of despair. “I miss you,” she added softly. “I miss us.”

“As do I, darling.” He paused. “Look, if I push it, I might finish up by ten o’clock. Wait for me?”

“Of course. I’ll see you then.”

She rang off and wondered, not for the first time, if Alastair was having an affair. But as quickly as the idea occurred, she discarded it. He wasn’t that sort of man. Besides, if anyone was entitled to have an affair, Cherie reflected irritably, she was. Putting up with Alastair’s late hours, worrying about their daughters, what with Holly living on her own in London, and Hannah, off to uni next year—

Oh, stop, she scolded herself. You’ve a good husband and two lovely daughters who’ve never given you a moment’s trouble. You’ve nothing to worry about.

She took out the flour and sugar and decided to make a treacle tart for dessert.

Affairs were for other people, after all. Not for people like Alastair and her.

Miraculously, there were no reporters outside Sir Richard’s townhouse when Natalie arrived. Nevertheless, she parked around the corner and made her way cautiously to the front door.

She’d barely raised her hand to knock when the door swung open. “Come in, miss, your grandfather’s expecting you.”

“Thank you, Lyons.” She smiled at Sir Richard’s butler. “Is he in the drawing room?”

“He’s in his study, miss. Would you like a drink?”

She’d like more than a drink, she’d like an entire bottle, thank you, and no need for a glass. But, “No thanks,” she said, and walked quickly to the end of the hall. Sir Richard stood before the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Grandfather,” she said in a rush as she tossed her handbag aside, “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll never believe what that awful Rhys Gordon’s done now!”

He turned away from the window and fixed a rheumy eye on her. From his desk, he picked up a copy of the Daily Mail, held it up, and asked, “Has it anything to do with this?”

A photograph was prominently featured on the cover. It was a long shot, and grainy, but it unmistakably showed Natalie standing on the pavement in front of her flat, pressed against Rhys with her arms looped around his neck. It was headlined, ‘Exclusive Photos! D&J Heiress Gives Gordon the Business’.

She grabbed it from him, shocked. “What?!”

“I read the papers every morning, and occasionally, I read the tabloids. Although today, I wish I hadn’t. You can imagine my dismay to see my granddaughter prominently displayed on the cover of this—” his lip curled in distaste “—publication.”

Natalie hurled the tabloid aside. “This is all Rhys’s fault! He engineered all of this for publicity!”

“Well, then,” Sir Richard said, “it seems he’s succeeded.”

“Is that all you can say?” she demanded. “He’s using this fake affair nonsense to get Dashwood and James in the headlines! He’s using me as tabloid fodder! At the party, he pretended to help me, after I…when I…” She faltered, and bit her lip.

“After you got drunk and threw your drink at him?” he said, his expression forbidding. “An action meant, if these stories are true, for that twit of a boyfriend of yours.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” she murmured.

“Natalie, sit down,” he commanded. “It’s time we talked.”

Grandfather rarely issued commands, most especially not to her. This was serious, indeed. She sank without a word into one of the wing chairs facing his desk.

“First of all, I know it was you Rhys referred to in the board meeting this morning,” he informed her. “It was you who treated him so shabbily. I know, because I asked you to cover for Mrs. Tuttle in the lingerie department last Saturday.”

“I was hung over—” she began.

“It doesn’t matter, Natalie,” he cut in sharply. “There’s no excuse for treating a customer – any customer – so poorly. I won’t have it.”

“But he was insufferably rude—”

“He was testing you. He wanted to see how you’d handle the situation. You failed miserably, by the way.”

“It was sneaky, what he did!”

“I may not care for his tactics, but his instincts are spot on. Nor does he avoid unpleasantness. Unlike you, Natalie, who’s avoided unpleasantness – and work – for two years.”

“That’s not fair,” Natalie protested. “I worked. I did! Well, for a bit…but I wanted to be with Dominic instead.”

“Ah, yes. Dominic.” Distaste was plain upon his face.

“I thought…I was sure I was in love with him.”

“Yes. So you followed him on tour, putting your own life on hold, and let him treat you like – pardon my vulgarity – shit.” He held up a hand as she protested. “Ever since you met him, you’ve drifted along like an unmoored ship. I allowed it, because I thought eventually you’d settle down…to something, or someone. But you haven’t. And now, this.”

“I can explain—”

“Can you indeed? Can you explain how Rhys Gordon ‘engineered’ this photo of you, pressing yourself against him with your arms round his neck?”

Natalie blushed. “I was drunk, and furious at Dominic. But nothing happened. Rhys took me home, and left.”

“Then you’re very lucky. I’m not so far past it that I don’t remember what young men can be like, especially when it comes to taking advantage of a situation. How fortunate for you that Mr. Gordon behaved like a gentleman.”

Natalie hung her head.

“Your mother called me earlier. Reporters and photographers are camped out in front of her house, ringing her telephone—”

“I know. She left me four messages.”

“Did it never occur to you to call her back?”

“I couldn’t! I had a lunch meeting with Rhys and couldn’t check my messages until this afternoon.”

Sir Richard regarded her, his expression unreadable. “I hate to say it, Natalie, but things can’t continue on as they are. You must either find employment, or settle down with a more suitable young man. I won’t allow you to throw your life away in this irresponsible manner any longer.”

She looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“You must learn to make your own way. You’ve been provided with an excellent education and every privilege a young woman could want. Natalie, I love you dearly. But I will not tolerate – or finance – your bohemian lifestyle any longer.”

“But…how will I pay the rent on my flat without my quarterly allowance? Or put petrol in my car?”

“You’ll find a job, I expect, like the rest of the world.” He paused. “You might even find that you like being useful.”

Stiffly, Natalie stood and retrieved her handbag. It was unbearable to hear grandfather echoing Rhys’s own words. “I came here because I thought you’d understand. Instead, you’re telling me you’re cutting me off unless I find a job, or a husband. Have I got the gist of it?”

“I dislike having to say these things as much as you dislike hearing them. But they must be said.”

“I feel completely blindsided,” Natalie whispered, and her throat tightened. “Dominic’s dumped me, Caro’s getting married…everyone’s getting on with their lives, doing things, building careers. Moving on…and leaving me b-behind.”

Sir Richard drew her into his arms and stroked her hair as she wept. “None of that, now. You have a lot to offer, Natalie, and it’s only yourself that’s holding you back. I know your father’s suicide gutted you. It was a terrible thing. He was my only son, you know.” He patted her back as she hiccupped out a sob. “But life – and business, unfortunately – continues. We must soldier on.”

Natalie forced a watery smile and lifted her head. “You sound like the Queen.”

“Dashwood and James are in serious trouble. We owe money – taxes, a great deal of them – and I need help to straighten out the mess. Rhys is right to implement his changes. I don’t like them any more than you do.” He sighed, and he suddenly looked like what he was, a tired old man. “But he’s our only hope.”

Then we’re in serious trouble, she thought grimly, but didn’t say it. “He asked for my help today.”

“Did he? Good. I’ll speak to him about hiring you on and putting you in that small office next to his.” He picked up the telephone. “Now, I’m ending this tabloid nonsense. I won’t have you or your mother bothered by reporters.”

Natalie kissed his papery cheek. “Thanks, grandfather. I love you masses.”

“I love you too, you cheeky girl. Run along, now.”

She paused at the study door. “I’ll need new clothes if I’m to look like a proper businesswoman, won’t I?”

He regarded her sternly. “Natalie, I’ve already allowed you to get your ‘Peony’ handbag—”

“Poppy,” she corrected him. “It’s a ‘Poppy’ handbag.”

“—but I must reiterate that we cannot afford these sorts of expenditures any longer. I’m sure you can find something suitable to wear from within your own overstuffed closet.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well. I suppose I might unearth something, even if it’s last season… It’s just so dreary, practising all this economy. I’m not used to it.”

“I know it’s difficult. But if we do our part, and live more frugally, and if Rhys Gordon makes good on his promise to turn things around, things will improve.”

“I hope you’re right.” Scepticism coloured her voice. “But you have far more faith in Mr. Gordon than I do.” She smiled and waggled her fingers. “Goodnight, grandfather.”

“Goodnight, my dear. Don’t forget your mother’s birthday luncheon in the tearoom on Monday. Eleven o’clock sharp. And don’t be late!” he called out after her.

When she’d gone, Sir Richard took a pill out of his pillbox, his hand trembling slightly, and swallowed it with a grimace. Blood pressure pills…angina pills…pills to help him sleep and pills to keep him alert. It was a dreadful thing, to have to take so many damned pills.

But as he pressed the box closed, a smile curved his lips. He would sleep well tonight, with or without his pills.

Natalie would be sorted, at last. That was one worry he could cross off his list.

Chapter 8

“Keeley,” Dominic ventured as he tossed the last carrier bag from the day’s shopping on her sofa, “how about loaning me some cash? To tide me over until the tour starts.”

“How much?”

He flung himself on the sofa. “Oh, I dunno. A couple of hundred?”

“Two hundred quid?” She shrugged and reached for her handbag. “OK.”

Dominic let out a snort. “Two hundred quid? You must be joking.” He thrust a cigarette in his mouth. “No, I meant two hundred thousand. Although I suppose,” he mused thoughtfully as he reached in his pocket for a lighter, “I could just about manage on a hundred.”

“You’re the one who must be joking!” Keeley snapped. “And put that bloody cigarette out! I told you, no smoking in here.”

With a muttered apology, he took the cigarette out, unlit, and tossed it aside. He looked at her, one brow raised expectantly. “So, what do you say?”

“Dominic, we’ve been engaged for three weeks and you want me to hand over two hundred thousand pounds, just like that?”

“Well, Porsches and ’57 Strats are expensive,” he said defensively. “And it’s not like you can’t spare it.”

“That’s not the point, is it? I’m your fiancée, not your banker!”

“We’ll be married soon,” he pointed out. “So what’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is—” he waved his hand “—whatever.”

She snorted. “Bit of a bad deal, that, since all you have are debts. You go through money like a coke addict through blow. Look, Dominic, just be more frugal. Sell one of your Porsches, and you’ve got the cash you need. Problem sorted.”

Dominic scowled. Plainly there was to be no financial aid forthcoming from the Keeley front. Fucking hell.

Late that afternoon, Cherie James heard the front door open and slam shut. She looked up from the courgette she was slicing for dinner and called out, “Hannah? Come here, please.”

There was an aggrieved sigh from the front hallway. “I’ve got masses of homework, mum—”

“Mr. Compton called,” Cherie said when Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You were late to class this morning, and yesterday as well.”

“So? I’m acing his bloody assignments—”

“Why were you late, Hannah? You left with your father in plenty of time this morning.”

“I stopped to talk to someone before class, that’s all. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal. Mr. Compton said you’ve been hanging around with Chloe Robinson.”

“What of it?”

Cherie felt her patience begin to slip. “Hannah, Chloe’s been in and out of trouble since school began. Last year she was expelled! She’s not the ideal person to spend time with.”

“Oh, so now you’re choosing my friends for me?” Hannah demanded. “You don’t even know Chloe—”

“I know she cuts class. Your attitude since you’ve been seeing her speaks for itself.” Cherie pressed her lips together. “If you’re late to class again, you’ll be grounded until school ends.”

“That’s so unfair!” Hannah erupted. “You treat me like a child! All of you – dad, Mr. Compton – even Duncan!”

“You and Duncan aren’t fighting, are you?”

“No, mum, we’re not fighting. We broke up! He dumped me. Are you happy now?” Hannah turned and stormed away up the stairs, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Cherie sighed and picked up her knife, and cut the courgette into matchsticks. Life would be easier, she reflected grimly, if Alastair were home more often. He coped with Hannah’s dramas much better than she did. Hannah was so prickly these days…

The phone rang. Probably Alastair, calling to say he’d be late again. “Hello,” she said shortly.

“Cherie? Is it a bad time?” Duncan’s father asked.

“Neil! No, of course not. I was just…brooding.”

“I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“No, just feeling a bit sorry for myself.” She paused and added, “It’s too bad about the divorce, by the way. How are you and Sarah managing?”

“Taking it day by day,” he replied. “I’ve let a flat in Fulham. Duncan’s adjusted to the changes without too much drama. I see as much of him as I can.”

“It’s difficult, I imagine. Living with a teenager isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.” Cherie sighed. “I’ve just had a row with Hannah. She and Duncan have broken it off.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling, actually.”

“I see.” She laid her knife aside. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing serious, just something I thought you ought to know.” He hesitated. “Sunday night, while you and Alastair were celebrating your anniversary, Hannah had Duncan over.”

Cherie sighed. “I don’t like the sound of this already.”

“Nothing happened. You know Duncan’s keen on his music career, so when things began to go a bit too far, he told Hannah they should wait. She was upset, and asked him to leave.”

“I see.” And suddenly, she did see. Hannah had offered herself, probably for the first time ever, and been – however tactfully – rejected. She sighed. “I’m very glad Duncan didn’t take advantage. Most boys would have done.”

“Yes, it’s usually the other way round, isn’t it?”

“You’re lucky, you know. Girls are much harder than boys to deal with at this age. I’m sure Duncan’s never given you or Sarah a moment’s trouble.”

“Oh, he has his moments. But he’s always been focused on his music, from the time he was small. It’s kept him out of trouble for the most part.”

“Hannah can’t seem to stay out of trouble, lately.”

“She’s a teenager. You’ll get through it.”

The front door opened and Alastair called out, “I’m home! Where is everyone?”

Cherie cradled the phone against her ear and picked up her knife once again. “Thanks for calling, Neil. And thanks for the advice. I’m sure you’re right.” She rang off just as her husband entered the kitchen.

“Here you are.” He kissed her. “What advice was that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “Perhaps we should let Hannah work at the store this summer. What do you think?”

“I don’t see why not. Is she in trouble?”

“She’s been late to class, twice. Ever since she broke up with Duncan, she’s been impossible.”

“I didn’t realise they’d broken up.” Alastair lifted his brow. “Shame, he’s a nice young man. If you like, I’ll speak to Sir Richard tomorrow and arrange something.”

“Yes, please do. Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up, and tell Hannah to come down.”

As he disappeared upstairs, Cherie rinsed her hands and wondered why she hadn’t told Alastair about Hannah’s failed attempt to lose her virginity, or Neil’s phone call.

Surely there was no need to trouble her husband with a litany of Hannah’s misdeeds. He had enough on his plate with the company’s finances in turmoil; he didn’t need to fret over his daughter’s budding sexuality as well.

And there was no reason for her to feel guilty for having a chat with Duncan’s father, she told herself firmly.

No reason at all.

“Why didn’t you return my messages?” Natalie’s mother reproved her at dinner that evening.

“I couldn’t, I was at lunch with Rhys Gordon. He wanted to discuss the store and the problems we’re facing.”

Celia Dashwood’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not having sex with that man, are you?”

Natalie nearly choked on her water. “Mum, honestly! No, I’m not. We don’t even like each other.”

“It looks as though you like each other well enough, judging from those photos in the tabloids.”

Natalie nudged at a bit of chicken with her fork. “It’s only publicity. And those pictures…they were taken out of context. They were innocent.”

“Innocent?” her mother echoed, and raised her brow. “Is that what you call it? You were pressed against that man in full view of the world, twined round him like a garden hose!”

Natalie dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter. “Mum, please! I can’t bear any more. It’s mortifying.”

“Oh, very well. Tell me about Rhys Gordon,” her mother said, her face alight with curiosity as she took a sip of wine. “Is he as difficult as they say?”

Natalie felt a renewed wave of humiliation as she remembered his comments to the man on the phone. “He’s worse.” She could still hear Rhys’s words, could see him leaning back in his high-backed chair, could hear his throaty chuckle as he discussed her with his friend.

Probably quite a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…

“He’s ruthless and crude and sneaky,” she went on. “I despise him.”

“My word, you make him sound dreadful, like Machiavelli,” Lady Dashwood said mildly.

“Picture Machiavelli on a motorbike, and you’re there.”

“I’m sorry I missed the board meeting, I wanted to meet him.” She glanced out the window. “At least those reporters are gone.” She stood up. “I’ll go and fetch our pudding.”

Natalie stood. “I’ll get it.” She’d do anything to escape her mother’s questions about Rhys.

As she entered the pantry and grabbed a serving spoon from the drawer, her mobile rang. She frowned. She didn’t recognise the number. She hoped it wasn’t a reporter… “Hullo?”

“Natalie? It’s Rhys.”

She froze, spoon in hand. “What do you want?”

He paused. “I called to see if everything’s all right. You never came back. Gemma said you were upset.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her words chilly. “You needn’t worry.”

“Why did you leave so suddenly?”

“Something came up. Sorry, I have to go.” She pressed ‘end call’ and set it to vibrate.

Almost immediately it began to buzz like an angry bee. Rhys again! Stubborn, pushy, awful man… Furious, Natalie tossed the mobile on one of the pantry shelves.

…there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James…

“Natalie,” her mother called out, “are you bringing the trifle?”

“Yes, sorry.” She picked up the bowl and hurried back into the dining room.

As they settled down to dessert, Natalie fumed. Rhys must’ve got her mobile number from Gemma, the interfering cow. She scowled and pushed the trifle around on her plate, creating aimless chocolate swirls on the china.

“Darling,” her mother said in exasperation as she laid her fork aside, “what’s wrong? You barely touched your dinner; now you’re playing with your trifle! Don’t you like it?”

She smiled wanly. “I love it. I just…had a difficult day.” She pushed her plate away. “I think I’ll go home and turn in early—”

The throaty roar of a motorcycle engine pulling up outside interrupted her.

Before Natalie could do more than exchange a startled glance with her mother, the doorbell rang. Then someone pounded on the door.

“Who in heaven’s name is that, and at this hour?” Celia Dashwood harrumphed. “If it’s another reporter—”

“I’ll get it,” Natalie said, her words grim. She rose and tossed her napkin down. “It’s probably Machiavelli.”

“What—?”

Nat strode to the door and flung it open. Rhys Gordon, his hand raised to knock again, stood on the doorstep. Anger suffused his face.

“I’m not leaving this doorstep,” Rhys told her with grim determination, “until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Chapter 9

Natalie glared at him. “What do you mean?” She remained in the doorway but drew the door shut behind her. “And how’d you know I was here?”

“Gemma told me. Never mind that – what the hell’s going on?” Rhys snapped. “And don’t say ‘nothing’,” he warned, “because something’s obviously wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong! And Gemma’s an interfering cow.”

“Something happened after lunch today,” he said grimly. “And whatever it was, it got your knickers in a twist.”

“Ah, yes, my knickers…that’s a subject that really fascinates you, isn’t it?” Natalie flung back. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

He stared at her. “What?”

“I heard you myself,” she accused him, “when I came back to your office. You were talking about me on the phone.”

He frowned. “I talked to my brother for a few minutes. And we didn’t talk about you…or your knickers.” He cast his mind back over their chat – football scores, Jamie’s promotion to sous chef…and Alastair James’s party. “We didn’t talk about anything objectionable. And you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” he added pointedly.

“I could hardly help but overhear you, could I? You were speculating about how good I’d be in bed! You don’t consider that objectionable?”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I know what I heard,” Natalie insisted, her voice undercut with fury. “Don’t add lying to your sins. You were so kind after Dominic dumped me at the party, you even offered to take me home. But you had an ulterior motive. You were making the most of the publicity, and you used me to do it!”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“No? How was it, then?” she demanded. “And don’t tell me it doesn’t boost your male ego, seeing photos of us in the tabloids, adding another affair to your long, sordid list—”

“It’s preferable to seeing photos of you tossing wine on Dominic Heath.”

Her lip trembled. “You used me. You knew I was drunk, and you took advantage—”

“Used you? Really?” he asked, incredulous. “Because unless you were too inebriated to remember, you asked me to have sex with you, not once, but several times.”

She squeaked in outraged mortification.

“I could’ve given you what you wanted,” Rhys went on, fuelled by his rising anger. “I could’ve shagged you in your flat, or on the Triumph, or on the pavement, for that matter—”

Natalie paled. “You’re the crudest, most disgusting man—”

“But I didn’t! I fucking well didn’t, precisely because—” he stepped closer and lowered his voice “—I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I know Dominic humiliated you at Alastair’s party.” He scowled. “And I know you think I’m a heartless bastard with no redeeming qualities. Maybe I am. But I did not take advantage of you.”

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