The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy. Katie Oliver

I had a word with him.”

      She bristled. “She had no right to tell you that.”

      “I’m glad she did,” he said sharply. “You should have told me. You can still file a complaint, you know.”

      “I don’t want any trouble. He’s left me alone.”

      “All right, I’ll drop it – for now.” He glanced at her. “What are you doing on Sunday? Fancy spending the day with me?”

      “Doing what, exactly? Buying more furniture? You don’t have nearly enough, you know.”

      He lifted his brow. “What else does a man need but a sofa, a table, and a bed?”

      “Beer, I suppose, and a flat-screen TV?”

      “Too right,” he agreed with a grin. “So? What do you say?”

      “Well,” she said doubtfully, “I normally do laundry, but I suppose it could wait. What did you have in mind?”

      “We could both do with a break, we’ve worked really hard on the re-launch. I thought we’d do a bit of rural sightseeing. And that’s all I intend to say on the matter.”

      “Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going? How should I dress for this mysterious outing?”

      “Wear long sleeves and jeans, and proper shoes – no stripper heels, please. Save those for later.”

      Natalie blinked. “Rhys—!”

      He came closer. “Don’t look so shocked, Miss Dashwood. I know you want to finish what we started just as much as I do.”

      She blushed.

      He grinned and turned away to pick up his things. “I’ll pick you up at nine.”

      “Long sleeves and jeans—? But it’s nearly June!” she protested. “Can’t you tell me a bit more?”

      “You’ll see on Sunday.” He smiled briefly and turned to go. “Now get back to work.”

      “The Dissolute campaign has great buzz,” Simon Templeton, advertising director of the Templeton advertising agency, informed Klaus on Friday afternoon. “Everyone loves Dominic. Feedback’s been positive, despite the Wedding-gate fiasco.”

      “Sometimes, notoriety is good.”

      An assistant brought Klaus an espresso. So far, the only information Dominic had produced concerning Phillip Pryce’s line of clothing for Dashwood and James was a couple of sketches and a photo of a dress from last season’s Rochas collection.

      Von Richter scowled. Did Dominic Heath really believe him to be such a fool?

      Since the rock star had produced nothing useful on Phillip, he’d have to find another way to sabotage Dashwood and James.

      “Is the espresso not to your liking, Herr von Richter?” Simon Templeton inquired as displeasure flickered on the German designer’s face. “I can assure you, it’s made from the finest Sumatran fair trade beans.”

      “Fair trade,” Klaus said derisively. “That’s just an excuse to charge more money, nein?”

      “Well, no. It ensures fair wages and treatment of the workers—”

      Klaus snorted. “Workers should be glad to have any job and take what wages they get. It’s preferable to starving in the streets, no?”

      Simon kept his expression neutral. “Surely you don’t advocate the use of sweatshops, Herr von Richter?”

      “No, of course not. Bad for business, you know.”

      “The media would tear you apart,” Simon agreed. “There’s no tolerance for that sort of thing these days.”

      “No,” Klaus agreed thoughtfully. “No tolerance at all.”

      “Well, if there’s nothing else-?” Simon began.

      Klaus stood up abruptly. “No, there is nothing else. I’ll be in touch.” He turned away to retrieve his mobile and called down to his driver. “I have an interview with BritTEEN magazine at two. And stop at the newsagents on the way.”

      The minute the staff meeting ended, Holly James left the BritTEEN offices and dashed downstairs to the corner newsagents. Every day she bought a pack of Polos and a Diet Coke from Rajid, the owner’s son. Even on a completely crap day – today being no exception – he was always good for a laugh.

      She waved to Rajid and went to the newsstand. As she flipped through the latest issue of Vogue, Klaus von Richter strode in, grabbed a newspaper, and flung it on the counter.

      He wore the imperious air of an Important Person like an accessory.

      Holly joined the queue and fished out her mobile. No messages. Out of boredom – the queue was longish – she decided to video Klaus for her sister. Klaus tossed a package of Mentos atop the Telegraph and handed his Amex Black to Rajid.

      “May I see a photo ID, sir?” Rajid inquired politely.

      Klaus gave him a withering stare. “You are joking.”

      Rajid shook his head. “It is store policy, sir.”

      “I’m buying two pounds’ worth of items.”

      “I am sorry.” Rajid was sympathetic but implacable. “Store policy.”

      “Listen to me, you idiot,” Klaus snapped, “I’m Klaus von Richter, the creative director of Maison Laroche.”

      “A thousand apologies, sir,” Rajid said firmly, “but I must see your identification. That is the rule.”

      By now, the queue had grown to half a dozen people, all in a hurry to purchase their newspapers and cough drops and Galaxy bars. “I don’t care about rules, you stupid boy!” Klaus hissed, and leaned over to grab a fistful of Rajid’s shirt. “Rules do not apply to me. Run my card now, or there’ll be trouble.”

      “Release my son.” Rajid’s father, an older but far more implacable Sikh, joined his son. “Release him, or I promise I will have you charged with assault.”

      Klaus thrust Rajid away with a curse and a shocking string of racial epithets. “Keep your newspaper and your Mentos,” he spat. He swept everything off the counter to the floor, then stormed out of the newsagents…

      …unaware that Holly James had captured the entire ugly exchange on video.

       Chapter 32

      Promptly at nine on Sunday morning, Natalie heard the roar of an engine outside her flat.

      “What in the world—?” She ran to the window and peered down. A gleaming silver Triumph motorcycle waited at the curb, a man in a helmet and a black leather jacket sitting astride. He rested one booted foot on the street, revved the engine, and lifted the visor of his helmet.

      Dark blond hair, dark blue eyes…

      “Rhys,” Natalie murmured. She threw the sash up. “You can’t be serious! You brought your motorbike?” she called out.

      “Get your arse down here! Time’s wasting.”

      “I think I prefer the Jag,” Natalie said five minutes later as she regarded the Triumph doubtfully.

      “Just put the helmet on. You loved it last time.”

      “I was drunk last time.”

      Once she was helmeted and straddled behind him, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

      “Hang on,” he warned over the rumble of the engine. “I don’t drive like your granny.”

      With a roar, they