Prada And Prejudice. Katie Oliver

      The men rose. One by one they filed out and murmured their goodbyes to Natalie. She smiled, despite the renewed throbbing in her head, and waited until no one was left.

      No one, that was, except Rhys Gordon.

      Fury swept over her anew, and she stood up and launched into him. “Henry will be devastated if he loses his job, Mr. Gordon. Everyone adores him. He’s a fixture here at Dashwood and James, and so is that bloody lift!”

      “I see. Are you quite finished?” he asked evenly.

      Natalie blinked. “Well…yes, I suppose I am.” She frowned. “Is that all you have to say?”

      “No.” He tossed the folder he held onto the table. “Henry often takes customers to the wrong floor; he can barely see. We’ve had complaints, and they’ll only increase if something isn’t done. If he retires, he’ll receive a generous pension. If he stays, we’ll find him a job in the office. I’ll let Henry decide.” He folded his arms against his chest. “Does that meet with your approval, madam?”

      “I suppose,” she said, grudgingly. Her eyes narrowed. “You knew who I was when you bought that nightgown from me on Saturday, didn’t you? And you knew last night.”

      He didn’t look up as he began thrusting papers into another folder. “Yes, on both counts.” He glanced up. “I saw the wine in your hand and the murderous look in your eye when Dominic made his announcement. So I did the only thing I could, and put myself in front of you.”

      “You stepped in front of Dominic on purpose? Why, in sod’s name? I ruined your suit!”

      “Because, my dear, clueless girl, there was a photographer from the Mirror behind you, and one from Hello! on the side, waiting to snap publicity shots of Dominic and Keeley. How would it have looked if you’d doused them both with Pinot?”

      Natalie flushed. “Not good,” she said in a small voice.

      “I don’t want Dashwood and James immersed in a lawsuit. Bad press is the last thing we need right now.”

      Natalie sank into one of the high-backed chairs. Her head pounded like the drums at Salamanca. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognise you at the party,” she murmured. “I should’ve done.”

      “You might have, if you weren’t so trolleyed…or if you ever read the business section of a newspaper.”

      Natalie bit her lip. “Do you suppose we could just…forget about last night?”

      “If that’s what you want.” He gathered up his things, his face unreadable.

      Natalie studied him through her lashes. The tabloids said he was a womaniser who could turn on the charm whenever he chose. Not that she’d seen any evidence of that so far…

      “Tell me – are things at Dashwood and James really so bad?”

      “Honestly? They’re worse. There’s a long, uphill climb ahead if we have any hope of re-establishing profitability.”

      Her eyes widened. “That sounds serious, indeed.”

      “It is. Sir Richard wouldn’t have brought me on, otherwise.”

      “Do you really think,” she asked, scepticism plain on her face, “that you can drag Dashwood and James, kicking and screaming, into the 21^st century?”

      As his gaze met Natalie’s, Rhys couldn’t help but notice her wide grey eyes, liberally fringed with thick dark lashes.

      “I do. And I will.” He forced his attention back on the remaining papers scattered on the table before him. “It won’t happen overnight, of course, and it won’t be easy. But it can be done.”

      “And you’re just the man to do it, are you?”

      “I am.” He regarded her with one brow lifted. “Whether you believe that or not is strictly up to you.”

      “I don’t believe things are as bad as you say.”

      “Profits are down by sixty-one percent, Miss Dashwood. I can show you the figures. And as I stated in the meeting, the average dwell time in the stores is less than twenty minutes.”

      “How much should it be?” she asked, curious.

      Rhys slid a folder into his briefcase. “Ideally, forty-five minutes to an hour. That’s why Sir Richard needs me.”

      “Quite sure of yourself, are you?” The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable.

      “I know what needs to be done.” Rhys snapped his briefcase shut. “And I’ll do it…with the board’s approval, of course.”

      There was a knock on the conference room door, and Gemma, Rhys’s newly assigned personal assistant, strode in. “Mr. Gordon, I have the tabloids you wanted.” She flicked a glance at Natalie. “Miss Dashwood.”

      “Gemma.” Wearing a black sheath dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, Gemma Astley was attractive, well-groomed, and terrifyingly efficient.

      As Gemma handed Rhys a neatly fanned-out assortment of tabloids, Natalie felt a sudden flicker of unease. She remembered the white glare of flashbulbs last night when Dominic had announced his engagement to Keeley.

      Her unease increased. Surely they hadn’t got any photos of her last night? As Gemma left, Natalie came around the table beside Rhys and peered over his shoulder…

      …and wished for the second time that day that she could die. Or disappear into the floor – whichever came first.

      She and Rhys were splashed on the front pages of the red-tops – the Daily Mirror, the Sun, and the Star among them. Natalie’s photographs, thank God, looked OK. No melting mascara, no wildly smeared lipstick.

      The headlines, however, were another story.

      She let out a sharp breath as Rhys flicked through the Sun. ‘Rhys Gordon’s Latest Takeover’ read one headline, above a photo of Rhys with his face close to hers. Another image, this one featuring Natalie tossing her wine at Rhys’s shirt, was captioned, ‘Ex Marks the Spot!’

      But worst was the photo of Rhys, his hand resting low on Natalie’s back as they left the party, headlined, ‘Gordon and Dashwood – Spreadsheets, or Bed Sheets?’

      Natalie squealed in outrage, then grabbed the Daily Mail from Rhys and began to read aloud. “Rhys Gordon, hired to rescue the troubled Dashwood and James department stores, attended a Holland Park soirée Friday evening, along with Sir Richard Dashwood’s granddaughter, Natalie.

      “Dominic Heath, Ms. Dashwood’s pop star ex-boyfriend, announced his engagement to Keeley, ex-wife and former lead singer for The Tarts. Unfortunately, ‘Ex’ did not mark the spot for Natalie…

      “Gordon stepped between the pair and got a chest full of Pinot Noir for his trouble. Sorry, Ms. Dashwood, but Gordon prefers his wine, like his women, of a more mature vintage…”

      She flung the paper down. “This is a bloody nightmare! Everyone’ll think we’re having an affair!”

      Rhys shrugged, unperturbed. “The publicity will generate interest, not just in us, but in Dashwood and James. And that’s what we want.”

      “It’s not what I want! And there is no us! This is awful!”

      “Lesson number one,” Rhys said. “There’s good publicity, and bad. You want to get as much of the first as you can and as little of the second as possible.”

      “But I don’t want Dominic – and all of London – thinking we’re an item!”

      “Why? Are you worried that Dominic will believe it’s true? He dumped you, if you recall, in a very public way.”

      She