The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy. Katie Oliver

      Nat gasped, horrified, and picked her up. “Nigella!”

      “Have you a towel?” he asked evenly as he eyed his dripping shoe.

      “Of course.” She led him inside the flat and returned a moment later with a rumpled, coffee-stained tea towel.

      He wiped his shoe and returned the towel. “Thanks. Now I really must go, before you – or your sister’s dog – destroy another article of my clothing.”

      “I’m terribly sorry,” she said again, her eyes luminous and wide as she met his gaze, “I really am—”

      “Forget it.” He turned away, his expression unreadable. “It’s been…memorable, Miss Dashwood. Goodnight.”

      Dazed, Natalie blinked at the empty doorway. Crikey, but she felt awful. First his shirt, then his shoe…yet he’d been quite decent about it all. She brightened. She’d ask grandfather to send a cheque to cover the damages. Except…she didn’t know Mr. Gordon’s proper name, much less his address.

      “Wait!” she cried again, and dashed into the hall to run after him. She paused unsteadily at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Gordon – wait! I don’t even know your first name!”

      But the roar of his motorbike engine, fading rapidly away into the night, told her that he was already gone.

       Chapter 3

      The blare of the alarm clock woke Natalie from a deep sleep on Monday morning. She opened her eyes – ugh, felt like they were glued shut – and rolled over to turn off the alarm. It was 8:15 a.m.

      Bloody hell.

      The Dashwood and James board meeting grandfather wanted her to attend started at nine. She had less than forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and make her way to Knightsbridge from Ladbroke Grove in London rush-hour traffic.

      Bloody, bloody hell…

      She picked up her phone and called a minicab. In twenty minutes flat she showered, dressed, flung some dog kibble into a dish for Nigella, and thrust her feet in a pair of Prada pumps.

      “Where to, love?” the driver asked as she rushed down the steps of the mansion flat and flung the door open. Despite his best efforts, they didn’t reach Sloane Street until nearly an hour later.

      “Thanks.” Natalie flung a twenty-pound note at him, slammed the door, and ran up the steps into Dashwood and James’ flagship store. She glanced at her wristwatch. Between traffic and roadwork delays, she was twenty-seven minutes late.

      “Good morning, Miss Natalie,” Henry the lift operator greeted her as he slid back the private car’s door. “Fourth floor?”

      “Yes, thanks, Henry. Is everyone here for the meeting?”

      “Oh, yes, everyone, including the new chap. The one,” Henry added darkly, “what’s supposed to save D&J’s bacon.”

      “What’s he like?” Natalie asked him curiously.

      He drew his bushy silver brows together. “He didn’t say much. Kept himself to himself, if you know what I mean.”

      On the fourth floor, which was given over to offices and conference rooms, Henry slid back the elaborate turn-of-the-century lift door for her and touched the tip of his cap. “Here we are, Miss Natalie. Best of luck to you.”

      “Thanks, Henry. I’ve a feeling I’ll need it.”

      As she approached the closed conference room door and eased it open, Natalie was desperate for an aspirin. Her head was pounding. But she hadn’t anything but a petrified cough drop.

      “Sorry I’m late,” she apologised as the door swung open. “I didn’t hear the alarm—”

      When she caught sight of the man standing at the head of the conference table, Natalie’s voice trailed away. Her eyes widened in mingled dismay and horror.

      Oh, blimey, no. It couldn’t be.

      He had darkish blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a Thomas Pink shirt, obviously a different one today, because this one was striped, without a wine stain. And he most definitely didn’t reek of second-hand Pinot Noir or dog wee.

      Natalie cringed inwardly. To think that only last night she’d twined her arms around his neck, pressed herself shamelessly against him, and begged him to have sex with her.

      “Natalie,” Sir Richard said, “allow me to introduce our new Operations Manager, Rhys Gordon.”

      Mortification swept over her as their eyes met. Rhys Gordon rescued companies from the brink of financial ruin and turned them back into the black. He was famously good at what he did. Photos and articles about him appeared regularly in the business pages of newspapers and magazines, and occasionally in the tabloids as well.

      Natalie bit back a groan. She’d thrown herself at Mr. Gordon, grandfather’s newly hired Operations Manager, like a cheap slapper.

       Just let me die now…

      Gordon’s expression gave nothing away. “You’re late.” He levelled a dark blue gaze on her. “The meeting started half an hour ago.”

      “Sorry.” She wasn’t, not really. She hated meetings and hated apologising, but needs must. Natalie glanced at him, noting distractedly that his eyes were a deep and penetrating blue, and shrugged. “I overslept. I had a—” she flushed “—a bit of a late night last night.”

      The men at the conference table – Ian Clarkson, Alexa’s husband, actually winked at her, the cheeky bastard – pushed back their chairs and rose as Natalie rounded the table and kissed her grandfather, Sir Richard Dashwood, on his papery cheek.

      “Next time, Miss Dashwood,” Rhys said sharply, “you’ll get here on time. Or you can bloody well stay home.”

      Natalie bristled. So, the media stories about Mr. Gordon were true. He had a reputation for being abrasive, arrogant, and impatient…and those were his good qualities. Nor did his expertise come cheap. But he was said to be worth every penny.

      If you didn’t stab him with the nearest letter-opener first, she reflected grimly.

      “My granddaughter usually gives these board meetings a wide berth, Mr. Gordon,” Sir Richard informed him. He gave Natalie a look of mild reproof. “You’re lucky she showed up at all.”

      “It’s no matter to me if she shows up or not,” Rhys responded. His gaze locked with Natalie’s. “But if she cares anything about saving the family business, I’d suggest she take a more active interest going forward.”

      “This store is my birthright, Mr. Gordon,” she retorted. “It’s been in the Dashwood family for 150 years. Whilst you,” she added tartly, “are merely an employee.”

      His eyes narrowed, but he turned away and said, “We’ve a lot of ground to cover, gentlemen. Sit down, Miss Dashwood, so we can get back to the matter at hand.”

      Alastair James gestured Natalie into a seat. “Rhys was just about to discuss his findings as a mystery shopper.”

      “Mystery shopper?” Natalie echoed. With a sense of impending doom, she sank down next to Alastair. “Do you mean to say Mr. Gordon pretended to be a store customer?”

      “That’s exactly what he means.” Rhys looked at her the way the devil must eye a new arrival to Hell. “I’ve visited all of the store’s departments recently to assess our customer relations. You’re just in time for my report.”

      Her heart sank into her Prada pumps. She remembered she’d been particularly rude to that bloke in the Barbour jacket on Saturday. She only hoped he hadn’t lodged a complaint. But even if he had, perhaps – she cast a sidewise glance at Rhys Gordon – perhaps the new Operations