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passed over his face, gone as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry if I was a bit hard on you in the restaurant.”
    “It’s all right.” She added, “It won’t be easy to turn Dashwood and James around, you know.”
    “Believe me, I know.” His words were grim. “The store’s finances are a bloody mess, and I’ve a lot of work ahead to get things sorted. But I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you. I apologise.”
    “Sorry I told you to fuck off.”
    Rhys smiled briefly. “Forget it. If you’ve time when we get back, Miss Dashwood, I’ll show you a couple of spreadsheets to demonstrate how bad things really are.”
    Natalie groaned. “I despise spreadsheets, truly. But I suppose I could fit it in. I haven’t any ships to christen at the moment.”
    As they rounded the corner onto Sloane Street, Natalie was conscious of his hand at her back. She realised that her headache was gone.
    “Shit.” Rhys slowed his pace. Several reporters waited outside the store. “Normally I’d deal with them, but I haven’t time today. Come on, we’ll slip in the back entrance.”
    But they’d been spotted. With a couple of shouts, the journos abandoned the front steps and pelted after them.
    Natalie, her hand gripped tightly in Rhys’s, ran with him around the corner and gasped, “This is crazy!”
    As they ducked into the store’s service lift, Rhys glanced back at her. “You’re not upset?”
    “Why would I be upset?”
    “Well, we’re being chased by the paparazzi…your famous ex-boyfriend is engaged to his ex-wife…and you and I are the featured story in every red-top in London.”
    Nat shrugged. “Oh, well – being papped goes with the territory when you date a celebrity. And Keeley and Dominic? They deserve each other. He never got over her, you know.” She smirked. “Or losing access to the masses of money she makes.”
    As they stepped off the service lift to the fourth floor, Natalie checked her mobile. There were four messages from her mum, one from her sister Caro, and one from…Ian Clarkson? How did he get her number? “I’ve got to check my messages,” she told Rhys with a frown. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
    “Don’t be long,” he cautioned. “My meeting’s in twenty minutes.”
    She nodded, already listening to her messages.
    Bleep. “It’s mum. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight? I’ve hardly seen you lately.”
    Bleep. “I don’t know what’s going on,” her mother began ominously, “but reporters are outside, armed with cameras and microphones. I can’t leave the house! Please call me.”
    Bleep. “Sarah Hadley called to say you and Rhys Gordon are all over the tabloids! You’re not sleeping with that man…? I don’t care what you’re doing, Natalie, call me at once!”
    Bleep. “I’m turning the hose on those reporters. This is insufferable! The answer machine is clogged with messages from every tabloid in London.” Natalie heard the hissing sound of spraying water, and a chorus of muffled shouts, then her mum cried triumphantly, “Take that, you lot!”
    Natalie groaned. Poor mum. There was no time to call and explain now; she’d call back after the meeting with Rhys. Bleep. “I’m on my way to fetch Nigella,” Caro chirped. “Thanks, Natty! Love you.”
    Finally, she scrolled to the last message. Ian Clarkson.
    Bleep. “Natalie, Ian here.” He paused. “Call me. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
    Ian was married, his wife Alexa expecting their first child, yet each time he saw Natalie, he asked her, in that suggestive, smarmy way of his, to lunch or drinks. She always turned him down. She had no doubt that his message was more of the same. Without hesitation, she deleted it.
    Ian was trouble she didn’t need. Or want.
    She hurried back to Rhys’s office. Just outside his door, she paused. He was talking to someone on the phone.
    “—the tabloids? No, there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m