She’s a fiancée of good fortune…

Strutting down Park Avenue in her new Manolos, Holly James looks like a woman who has it all. But beneath the Prada sunglasses, Holly has a mounting list of decidedly unfabulous problems. Right at the top? The fact that since her fiancé Jamie started spending all his time at his new restaurant (with his impossibly gorgeous sous-chef!), Holly has practically forgotten what he looks like…and started to feel a teensy bit paranoid.

…but has Holly found the right Mr Darcy?

So being kissed by film star Ciaran Duncan should have been a much-needed boost to Holly’s ego. But losing herself in the moment is impossible, since she’s still fuming after meeting English lawyer Hugh Darcy. He’s easily the most arrogant man in Manhattan and she’s engaged to be married…so why can’t Holly stop imagining kissing him? Suddenly, Holly finds herself torn torn between three eligible bachelors…and it’s proving more difficult than choosing between a Manolo Blanik and a Jimmy Choo – especially since men are non-refundable! What’s a New York fashionista to do?

Also by Katie Oliver:

The Dating Mr Darcy trilogy:

Prada and Prejudice

Love and Liability

Mansfield Lark

The Marrying Mr Darcy series:

And the Bride Wore Prada

Love, Lies and Louboutins

Manolos in Manhattan

Katie Oliver

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Katie Oliver 2015

Katie Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474030779

Version date: 2018-06-20

KATIE OLIVER

loves romantic comedies, characters who “meet cute”, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in northern Virginia with her husband and three parakeets, in a rambling old house with uneven floors and a dining room that leaks when it rains.

Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully, better) stories. She even finishes most of them.

So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com, and have a look.

Here’s to love and all its complications...

Acknowledgments

There are so many people involved in putting a book together.

I’d like to thank my agent, Nikki Terpilowski, for her faith in me and her perseverance in getting me published; my editors, Clio Cornish and Lucy Gilmour, for their astute editorial guidance and support; the Carina UK art department, for the stunning cover art for my various books; the supportive and informative team of writers at Carina UK; my eagle-eyed copy editor, Nicky; the bloggers who dedicate their own time to read, review, and promote my books; my friends and family for their understanding, suggestions, and patience; and finally, the readers who’ve made the Darcy books such a great success.

Thank you, all.

Dedication

To Mark, my real-life Mr Darcy. You made it all possible.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The taxi came to a stop halfway down Christopher Street. Holly James emerged from the back seat and tugged at the hem of her short back sheath. The fitted knit seemed to have a mind of its own and kept creeping up her thighs. She leaned back inside to pay the driver and gave him her last five dollars.

He nodded. “Thanks. Enjoy your evening, blondie.”

Blondie? Holly managed a curt nod and turned away. As the taxi drove off, she tucked her clutch under her arm and joined her friend Chaz on the sidewalk. She glanced past him through the gathering dusk to study the brownstone in front of her. Built before the turn of the last century, it was an art deco jewel dropped in the middle of Greenwich Village. Spotlights in the grass illuminated the elegant, four story-façade. The front steps led up to a set of leaded double doors; potted topiaries flanked the entrance.

“Dashwood and James,” she read aloud from the newly installed plaque above the door. “London/New York. Established 1859.”

Months of preparation had gone into planning tonight’s event. Judging from the limos jockeying for position in front of the building and the taxis lining the street, the private pre-launch of her father’s department store ‒ the first Dashwood and James in America ‒ was already a resounding success.

“How do I look?” Chaz asked her with a trace of anxiety. “This suit’s a Tom Ford. I got it at that sample sale last week, sixty percent off ‒ can you believe it?”

“You look fabulous,” Holly told him, and meant it. His suit was three-piece, a dark, almost purple-blue that made the most of his dark hair and olive skin. “You’ll have all the boys drooling.”

“Hope so.” He glanced with approval at her fitted black dress and leopard-print kitten heels. “You look pretty fabulous yourself. Too bad Jamie’s working tonight or you wouldn’t be stuck with me.”

“I’m not ‘stuck’ with you,” she corrected him as she linked her arm through his, “I adore you, and you know it.”

It was true. She and Chaz had clicked the minute they’d met last month at Dashwood and James, where both were employed for the summer...she, because the teen magazine she’d worked on in London had folded, Chaz because he was Rhys Gordon’s new personal assistant.

“Thanks.” He squeezed her arm briefly as they made their way up the walk to the brownstone and went up the steps. “What’s Jamie whipping up for everyone tonight? Pâté de foie gras? Raspberry and lime macaroons? God, those were seriously to die for…”

“Sorry, no. He’s doing an American menu, with Angus beef burger sliders and mini BLT wraps, zucchini frites, and chocolate whiskey cake.” Holly recited the list without thought; God knows, she’d heard Jamie discussing the menu often enough.

“Oh, lord,” Chaz groaned. “There goes my diet. Again.”

The doorman checked their invitations and smiled. “Welcome. Enjoy your evening.”

Holly paused in the open doorway, still holding Chaz’s arm, and surveyed the crowd with satisfaction.

Under the glittering Empire chandelier in the entrance hall ‒ purchased at Sotheby’s in London by her father and shipped at no small expense to New York ‒ crowds of elegantly attired men and women mingled. Laughter and conversation filled the air, along with the muted sound of a three-piece jazz ensemble playing on a raised dais in the corner. Waiters in black tie balanced drink trays on their fingertips and circulated through the crowd.

Chaz leaned forward to grab two drinks from a passing tray. He handed one to Holly and took a sip from the other. “Ugh. Chardonnay. I was hoping for champagne.”

“Oh, please. Dad wouldn’t splash out on champers for something as mundane as this. He spent more on the invitations than he spent on the entire evening. It’s all about priorities.” Holly took an experimental sip of the chardonnay and wrinkled her nose. “I could never be an alcoholic.” She set the glass aside.

“Well,” Chaz mused as his glance swept over the glittering crowd, “it doesn’t look mundane to me.” His eye moved past the men in suits and the fashionably clad guests to land on a tallish young man surrounded by a bevy of women. “Wait a minute. Who’s that?” he demanded as he set his drink down on a nearby table. “Isn’t it...? Oh my God, it is. It’s Ciaran Duncan!”

Holly followed his rapt gaze. “So it is,” she said, and glanced at the film star with disinterest. “I thought I told you he’d be here tonight.” She was far more interested in finding another drink tray, preferably one with mojitos. “He promised to come to the pre-launch tonight as a favor to Mum. He was a guest on Good Morning New York! a couple of years ago, when my parents separated and she was a presenter for about ten minutes.”

“Ooh, your lucky mom,” Chaz murmured as his eyes devoured the movie star.

“She said he was pretty full of himself. Still is, I imagine. Like most actors.”

“Holly,” Chaz said in a low voice as he turned to her and clutched her arm, “you know I adore Ciaran Duncan. He’s the most amazing actor since...since ever! Why didn’t you tell me that your mom knew him? Or that he’d be here tonight? Oh. My. God.” He began to hyperventilate. “I’m breathing the same air as Ciaran Duncan.”

“What’s the big deal? He’s just another floppy-haired English actor with a posh accent...and he probably has wonky teeth. Oh, and sorry, but he’s also hetero.”

“What’s the big deal?” Chaz echoed. “Are you serious? The big deal, my dear clueless Holly, is that Ciaran is...well, aside from the fact that he’s gorgeous, he’s...”

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Holly looked up to see the subject of their conversation standing before her, his right hand outstretched, an amused smile on his lips. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit of charcoal gray and a dark-red tie. She gave him her hand, temporarily mesmerized by the greenish brown of his eyes and the scent of his aftershave and the dazzling white of his perfect, even, decidedly not wonky teeth.

His clasp was firm and warm. “Ciaran Duncan,” he added.

As if she didn’t already know who he was. He was far better looking in person than he was on the screen, if that were possible. “Your teeth are perfect,” she blurted.

He raised his brow slightly. “Now there’s an odd compliment.”

“Sorry. It’s just...you know, the ‘English people have bad teeth’ cliché,” she managed to say. “I’m Holly James. I’m...” she stopped. Who was she? She’d forgotten. “I, um, I’m Alastair’s daughter.”

His smile, like his hand, was warm. “Yes, I know. Natalie Dashwood-Gordon pointed you out when you came in.”

“She did? You know Natalie?” Natalie was her father’s goddaughter and now, since her marriage to Rhys Gordon, she was Holly’s half-sister-in-law.

“Not very well. Your father only introduced us about ten minutes ago.” He glanced down at her hand, still clasped in his, and back at her face. Amusement lingered in his eyes.

Hastily, she released his hand so he wouldn’t think she was a complete idiot...which he probably already did.

She turned to Chaz. “This is my friend, Chaz Williams. He’s—”

“I’m your biggest fan, Mr Duncan,” Chaz gushed. “Oh my God, you have no idea! I’ve seen every one of your movies, every single one, even that one about the English veterinarian that bombed at the box office—”

“Yes, well, the less said about that, the better,” Ciaran said quickly, and took Chaz’s hand in a brief grip. “Very nice to meet you, Mr, er...Chaz.”

Chaz let out something between a whimper and a gasp and very nearly melted on the spot.

Ciaran turned back to Holly. “I wonder if I might trouble you for directions to the loo,” he murmured. “I’ve had a bit too much of that questionable chardonnay.”

She smiled in sympathy. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? My father’s notoriously cheap.”

His gaze lingered on her face. “There are other compensations.”

“Follow me, Mr Duncan.” Holly ignored the disquieting lurch of her heart – you’re engaged to Jamie, she reminded herself – and turned to go. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Please, call me Ciaran.”

“Why don’t you let me show him where the bathroom – I mean the loo – is?” Chaz whispered, and grabbed her arm. “Please!”

“Next time,” Holly promised. “Be right back.”

“Ooh, you’re a heartless bitch,” he hissed.

She grinned and threaded her way through the crowds with Ciaran behind her, everyone smiling and parting like the Red Sea for the two of them, until they reached a door at the end of the hallway. She turned the doorknob, but it was locked.

“Occupied,” she apologized, and led Ciaran towards the front staircase. “You can use one of the bathrooms upstairs,” she said over her shoulder. She unhooked the velvet rope that barred partygoers from the upper floors and waited as he followed her.

“Thanks. I don’t fancy embarrassing myself at your father’s party,” he confided as he followed her up the stairs. “I can see it now – ‘Film star Ciaran Duncan, smelling strongly of wee, appeared at Dashwood and James’s New York City launch to promote his new film, “The Incontinent Continental,”’ he said. “Not the sort of publicity I want, I can assure you.”

Halfway up the stairs, they moved aside to let another man pass on his way down. He was impeccably dressed in black tie. With his somber expression, he wouldn’t have looked out of place at a funeral.

He drew even with them and paused. “Ah. Miss James.”

She glanced over at him. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry – you obviously don’t remember me. Your father introduced us last week. Hugh Darcy, the family solicitor.”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” she said, and shook his hand briefly. “Mr Darcy, this is Ciaran Duncan. Ciaran, Mr Darcy.”

“We’ve met,” Darcy said, and ignored Ciaran’s outstretched hand. He turned back to Holly. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss James,” he said, although his expression indicated it was anything but. To Ciaran he said nothing, only cast him an unsmiling glance as he proceeded down the stairs and headed towards the drawing room.

“Well, that was rude,” Holly said, unaccountably annoyed by Hugh Darcy’s unfriendliness. “Who does he think he is, anyway?”

“Perhaps,” Ciaran suggested, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, “I’m not the only one here tonight with bathroom issues. Mr Darcy looked rather constipated, even for an Englishman, don’t you think?”

Holly couldn’t help it; she giggled. She clapped a hand over her mouth, just in time to see Mr Darcy pause and glance up at the sound of her laughter, his expression unreadable. She flushed and turned away. “You’re very bad, Mr Duncan,” she whispered.

“So I’ve been told,” he whispered back.

“Come on then, let’s find you a bathroom.”

The guest bath at the end of the upstairs hall was empty. “Here you go, all clear. I’ll see you later.” She turned to go.

He caught her wrist. “If it’s all the same to you, Miss James,” he said as he pulled her forward and slid his arms around her waist, “I’d prefer sooner rather than later,” and he drew her firmly against him, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her.

Holly was too shocked to do more than give in to the – admittedly – skilled persuasion of his lips. He was an excellent kisser. Oddly, he didn’t taste of chardonnay, but of minty toothpaste. Almost as if he’d planned this kiss...

With his lips distracting her, and with her thoughts spinning faster than one of those stationary bikes at SoulCycle, she couldn’t help but respond.

Suddenly Holly realized Ciaran was maneuvering her into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind them with his foot, even as he kept his mouth expertly attached to hers.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she drew back in mild alarm.

He looked at her in surprise. “Why, having a quickie, of course.” He smiled. “Isn’t that what the Yanks call it?”

Chapter Two

“What are you talking about?” Holly wrenched herself from his grasp and stared at him in astonishment.

“Well,” he explained, his brow lifted in amusement, “a quickie is when two people are instantly, madly attracted to one another, and so they decide on the spur of the moment to get together for a very nice, very quick—”

“I know what a quickie is,” she interrupted. “And I’m most definitely not having one with you.”

“You’re not?” Surprise mingled with confusion crossed his face. “But why? I’m Ciaran Duncan, after all.”

“Because I’m engaged, for starters.”

“Then why,” he asked reasonably, “did you kiss me just now?”

Good question. Why did she kiss him just now? “I was...swept up in the moment. You caught me off guard.”

“Ah.” He smiled.

God, he was smug. “Oh, you think because you’re a film star, I’ll have sex with you, right here, right now? Because you’re famous?” she sputtered.

“Well...yes,” he said mildly. “Most women do.”

“Sorry, but I’m not ‘most women.’ God ‒ you’re an egotistical, oversexed jerk. I don’t even know you! We haven’t been on a date, or had a coffee together, or...or anything.”

“We could consider this a sort of date, couldn’t we?” he suggested, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I’ll buy you a coffee afterwards, if you like. I might even spring for one of those overpriced cookies.”

She snatched her hand away. “No thanks. I don’t sleep with strangers. Or self-important twits.”

“Well, that’s easily remedied.” He pulled out a cell phone from his breast pocket, opened the calendar, and began scrolling through it. “Let’s see...are you free tomorrow night? I’m not headed back to London until next Sunday. We can have an early dinner.” He eyed her expectantly. “And if you’ll let me, I can prove to you that I’m not an egotistical, oversexed jerk. Or a self-important twit.”

“What part of ‘I’m engaged’ don’t you get?”

“You’re not in love with your fiancé, whoever he is. If you were, you wouldn’t be here now.”

She gasped. “What? How dare you. You don’t know anything about my fiancé. Or me.”

“Interesting. I didn’t know women still said ‘how dare you,’” he replied, unperturbed. “And you’re right, I don’t know you. But I’d like to.”

Holly stared at him, too furious – and okay, too flattered by his interest, no matter how unwanted – to speak.

“One date. One dinner. That’s all I ask.” He smiled roguishly. “Think of it this way ‒ it’ll be good publicity for the store,” he pointed out. “And if, after dinner, you decide you still don’t like me, I’ll be winging my way to the other side of the Atlantic the very next day, and you’ll never see me again. Unless, of course, you go to see my new movie, Charmed, coming to theaters everywhere on first August.”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. “You really do take the cake. Thanks, but the answer’s still no.”

Surprise flickered over his face, gone as quickly as it came, and his expression smoothed back into its customary amusement. “Well ‒ one can’t blame a chap for trying.”

He turned away to open the door.

“Maybe if I wasn’t engaged...” Holly blurted, and froze. Had this man – this actor – put her under some kind of a movie star spell, or something?

Thankfully, he didn’t hear her as he’d already stepped out into the hall. “I apologise if I misread the situation. Goodnight, Miss James.”

“Goodnight.”

As she followed him into the hall, she heard footsteps, and glanced up to see her father Alastair coming towards them. “Dad?” Oh, shit. She hoped he hadn’t seen her come out of the bathroom with Ciaran.

“Holly? What are you doing up here?” His glance flitted from his daughter to Ciaran and back to Holly again.

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Mr Duncan needed the loo, and the downstairs ones were all occupied.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Actually,” Ciaran said, “I was just telling Holly that she and I should do a bit of publicity while I’m in town. Drum up some attention for the store.”

Alastair eyed him doubtfully. “Publicity? What sort of publicity did you have in mind?”

“I thought Holly and I might spend a day doing typical New York things – take the Staten Island ferry to the Statue of Liberty, ride a carriage round Central Park, dine at the Russian Tea Room or Tavern on the Green...and visit Dashwood and James’s new store before it officially opens, while the paparazzi snap pictures and proceed to plaster them all over the New York newspapers.”

Holly, impressed despite herself, regarded him in admiration. He was good.

Alastair was silent. “Well...I don’t know. I suppose it would generate a lot of interest…”

Ciaran smiled, his eyes still on Holly. “You have no idea.”

“What about me?” Holly turned back to her father. “Has anyone bothered to ask me how I feel about this crazy idea?”

“Actually,” Alastair mused, “I think it’s rather a good idea.”

“You can’t be serious.” She stared at him. “You are serious. There’s just one problem, or have you forgotten? I’m engaged.”

He sighed. “Oh, yes. There is that.”

It was no secret that her father, although he liked Jamie Gordon, Rhys’s adopted brother, well enough, didn’t completely approve of their engagement. He avowed that Jamie, with his long hours and ambitions to become a Michelin-starred chef, would never make proper time for a wife or family.

Which, Holly knew, was patently ridiculous.

“I shall speak to Jamie myself,” Alastair said, “and explain that you and Ciaran are doing a publicity junket for the store on‒” he paused “‒what day are we talking about, Mr Duncan?”

“Let’s see.” He studied the calendar app on his phone once again. “I have tomorrow free.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

Outrage swept over Holly. Now she knew how all of those unmarried, Jane Austen-y women must have felt, standing helplessly by as their fathers discussed their future with another man and left them completely out of the loop.

Well, she thought with gathering anger, she wasn’t helpless and she wasn’t about to stand by as her future – even if it were only tomorrow – was decided for her. She opened her mouth to refuse, to tell them both unequivocally that there was no way in hell she was spending one minute, much less her entire Sunday, with Ciaran Duncan – not even in the name of publicity.

But she hesitated. She knew how important the store’s upcoming launch was to her father. Dashwood and James was still on somewhat shaky ground, financially speaking; the New York store, if it did well, would go a long way to shoring up the family’s depleted coffers.

And after all, she mused as she studied Ciaran doubtfully from beneath lowered lashes, it was only for one day.

She could endure anything for one day. Even Ciaran Duncan.

Chapter Three

“Fine,” Holly said. “I’ll do it. For the store,” she added pointedly before Ciaran could thank her. She turned to Alastair. “But you have to promise to tell Jamie that this was your idea, Dad, not mine.”

“I promise.” He added dryly, “Thank you for your very great sacrifice for the cause.”

Ciaran laughed. “I never thought anyone would have to be persuaded to spend time with me. I’m wounded.”

“And I’m off.” Alastair glanced down at the pashmina dangling from his hand. “Excuse me, but I promised to give this to Natalie – she’s complaining of a chill, although God knows I don’t know what she’s talking about ‒ and return to my guests downstairs. I suggest you both do the same.”

“I’ll be right there.” Holly turned away and moved to follow him.

“Wait.” Ciaran caught up with her. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Eleven, I suppose. I’m catatonic before noon.” She paused. “Do you know where I live?”

“Yes, I got your address from Ms. Welch earlier. She’s much more accommodating than you.” His eyes twinkled.

Twinkled!

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he added with a grimace, “I really do need the loo.”

She smiled. “Right. You know where it is. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss James. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eleven.”

“Not a minute sooner,” she warned.

“No sooner, I promise. I look forward to it.” He winked one of those sexy green-brown eyes at her and made his way back downstairs.

And so it was settled. Holly would spend tomorrow with Ciaran Duncan, internationally famous film actor, British heartthrob, and ex-boyfriend of Sienna, Keira, Olivia, and Jennifer...

...and a man with more hands than one of those multi-armed Hindu statues.

As she drifted back downstairs, tugging absently at the upwardly creeping hem of her dress, Holly alternated between elation and dismay. What had she just got herself into? Ciaran Duncan was out of her league. She frowned. Jamie wouldn’t want her spending a minute with the handsome film star, much less an entire day.

And how would she tell Chaz that she’d snared a date...with his dream man?

He’d never speak to her again.

“...perhaps you should set your sights on Alastair’s daughter. You could do worse, you know. She stands to inherit twenty-five percent of Dashwood and James one day.”

Holly came to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs. Thankfully, they couldn’t see her up here in the shadows, but she could see their legs in the entrance hall below. Coco Welch, the promotions manager her father had relocated to New York from the London flagship store, was talking to that self-important solicitor, Mr Darcy.

“No thank you.” Hugh Darcy spoke quietly but firmly. “I’ve no interest in getting married, at any rate. I’m here to assist Mr James, and to work...not to romance his daughter.”

“Just as well…she’s engaged already, to a chef,” Coco remarked. Her voice warmed. “Although I must say, Jamie Gordon is ‒ pardon the pun ‒ quite dishy.” She added, “Still, you could do far worse than marrying an heiress like Holly. You can’t deny that she’d make an excellent match.”

“I doubt that. I’ve encountered puddles with more depth than that girl.”

Holly’s mouth sagged open. Was he saying she was shallow? How dare he?

“She’s young,” Coco agreed, “and a bit superficial. But she is pretty,” she added grudgingly, “if you like tall, coltish girls with blonde hair and no sense of style, that is.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t. I prefer women with style. And I prefer brunettes.”

Humiliation, followed closely by anger, swept over Holly. So Hugh Darcy thought she was (1) shallow (2) unstylish and (3) unattractive? Who on earth did he think he was? Had he looked in a mirror lately? Oh, he was handsome enough, in a dark-and-broody, Heathcliff sort of way; but let’s face it ‒ he had all the personality of a law book.

She waited on the stairs until they left, then made her way quietly down the last few steps. As she hurried towards the baize door that led to the kitchen, blinking back tears of anger and wounded pride, she collided with Hugh Darcy, who’d just come back into the entrance hall to fetch his coat.

He reached out a hand to steady her, and the touch of his skin on her bare arm and the immovable wall of his chest against hers sent an unexpected frisson down Holly’s spine. He really was attractive, she realized belatedly. If only he wasn’t such a snobby, arrogant, opinionated knob...

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “That was careless of me. Are you all right, Miss James?”

“I’m fine.” She drew away and added coolly, “I should watch where I’m going.”

They stared at each other, and it seemed that in just thirty seconds, they’d exhausted all avenues of conversation.

He cleared his throat. “I meant to say...you look a bit upset. I hope you survived your encounter with Mr Duncan earlier. I trust he did nothing...untoward.”

“Untoward?” Crikey, he talked like he was straight out of Downton Abbey. “No, of course he didn’t. Ciaran was a perfect gentleman,” she lied.

“Good. I must say I’m surprised. But then, you’re not his usual sort of woman, after all.”

His words – and his condescension – sent a renewed flicker of anger through her.

“And what – or who – is his ‘usual sort of woman,’ Mr Darcy?”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I only meant that you’re a bit young for him, that’s all.”

“Really? Well,” Holly said, tilting her head back to meet his gaze, with a defiant gleam in her eye, “he doesn’t think so. In fact, he’s asked me to spend the day with him tomorrow – as publicity for the store. And I’ve said yes.”

“I see.”

Again they stared at one another, and again there seemed to be nothing more to say.

He looked as if he might venture another comment, but thought the better of it. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss James,” he said tightly.

“Thank you. I will.”

She moved to walk around him, to find Jamie and tell him about her plans with Ciaran, and was just about to push through the baize door to the kitchen when he spoke again.

“It’s not a good idea, you know. He’s not worth your time. He’s no good.”

Holly whirled around. “Excuse me? And how would you know that?”

He lifted one shoulder. “It’s common knowledge. He’s not known for sticking around...or keeping promises. He’s not a marrying sort of man.”

“Who says I want to get married?” Holly said, and let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m already engaged, thank you very much. It’s just a publicity thing, Mr Darcy, not a – a lifetime commitment. At any rate,” she couldn’t help adding, “I’m just a silly, shallow girl with no style and no more depth than a puddle. Isn’t that right?”

He looked at her with a mixture of surprise and dismay. “You heard me talking to Ms. Welch.”

“Yes, I did. But you needn’t worry. I’m not interested in you in the least, so you can rest easy. Besides, I have my day with Ciaran tomorrow to look forward to. Unlike you, he knows how to have fun, and flirt, and make a girl feel special.” She tilted her chin up. “You should try it sometime. Having fun, I mean.”

His dark eyes met hers, and in their depths she thought she glimpsed, very briefly, pain.

As quickly as it came, it was gone.

“Perhaps I should,” he agreed stiffly, and turned away to get his coat. He shrugged his arms into the sleeves – it was an excellent quality coat, Holly noted irrelevantly – and brushed past her with a curt nod, vanishing through the front doors, and out into the night.

Chapter Four

“Oh, thank you, Alastair,” Natalie said as her father-in-law returned to the drawing room and draped a pashmina around her bare shoulders. “These evening gowns don’t do much to keep a girl warm.”

“That’s what you have me for, darling.” Her husband Rhys rested a proprietary hand at the small of her back and leaned forward to brush his lips against her cheek.

“And I’m very glad of it,” she said, and squeezed his arm.

“Congratulations on your pregnancy,” Alastair’s wife Cherie offered. “I haven’t really had a chance to talk to you since you found out. How far along are you now?”

“Four months and a bit.” Natalie laid a hand atop the noticeable bulge of her stomach.

“How very exciting. I’m thrilled for you and Rhys, I can’t tell you. We must throw you an extravagant baby shower, and soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me‒” she touched Natalie’s arm “‒I see Mr Duncan. I need to speak to him before he leaves.”

“Of course.” Natalie eyed the film star, standing across the room deep in conversation with one of the store’s investors. “He’s charming, isn’t he? Alastair introduced us.”

“Charming, yes.” Cherie’s smile remained fixed in place as she turned to go. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. Good to see you again, Rhys.”

And she sailed off to speak to Ciaran Duncan.

Natalie shivered and drew the pashmina closer around her shoulders. “Doesn’t anyone else feel the chill in this room?”

“It’s perfectly comfortable in here.” Rhys glanced at the fire burning in the ornate fireplace. He took a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray and handed it to his wife. “You must admit, you’ve got very little coverage in that evening gown.” His gazed drifted down to her not inconsiderable pregnancy décolletage, and he smiled. “And I must admit,” he added in her ear, “I like it.”

She blushed. “Rhys, do stop. Oh, look – it’s my father’s portrait,” Natalie exclaimed. She went to stand before a painting hanging over the fireplace. “It used to hang in Grandfather’s office. It’s a William Tennant, you know.”

“A Tennant? No, I didn’t know. Interesting.” He came up and stood beside her. “The movers hung it in our apartment – I’m glad we can finally move in tomorrow, and leave that blasted hotel suite – but I had it brought here for the pre-launch. It lends a certain panache, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” she agreed doubtfully. “Was Grandfather tired of looking at it?”

“No. He’s redecorating his office and thought you might like to have it. He asked your mother first,” he added dryly, “but she declined.”

Natalie studied the three-quarter-length portrait. Her father wore a stylish suit and tie and lounged back in an armchair, his expression at once smug and amused.

“He was a handsome devil,” Rhys observed. “Knew it, too, judging from his expression.”

“Oh, yes, he did. He was a wonderful father but a crap husband. He cheated on Mum, and more than once. I don’t think he knew how to be faithful.” She frowned. “That painting must be worth a fortune now.”

“I’m sure it is. Since Tennant’s death, the prices on his works have skyrocketed. Shall I have it valued?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Natalie said vaguely, her interest already waning. “One of these days. Will you leave it here?”

“No, it’s far too valuable. I’ll have it returned to the apartment first thing tomorrow.” He frowned. “Now that I know it’s a Tennant, I don’t like to leave it unattended overnight.”

She turned her eyes up to his. “I have an idea. Why don’t we leave a bit early and take it with us? We could drop it off at the apartment on our way back to the hotel. What do you think?”

“I think,” Rhys agreed as he took her arm and drew her towards the door, “that’s an excellent idea.”

After the party, Holly accompanied Chaz to his third-floor walkup in Brooklyn. She sat next to him on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn, watching “The Voice” on TiVo. Before she’d left the party, Jamie told her that he’d be late getting home and to have fun with Chaz, and he’d see her later.

If, Holly brooded, she was still awake by the time he returned after clearing up after the pre-launch party.

She set the bowl aside with a sigh. It wasn’t Jamie who troubled her right now. Guilt gnawed at her, and had done since she’d accepted Ciaran’s invitation to spend the day with him.

“Chaz,” she said now, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh? What’s that?” His eyes were riveted on Christina Aguilera’s dress as he munched on popcorn. “Never mind, I know what it is – you’re in love with me, so much so that you’re willing to settle for a sham marriage to a gay man.”

“No. Although that’s not a bad idea,” she mused. “At least it’d get Mum off my back. I told her no one gets married before thirty anymore. I don’t know why she’s always pushing me about the wedding, anyway.”

“Christina should so stick to the vintage look,” Chaz murmured, and thrust another handful of popcorn in his mouth. “The Rita Hayworth thing really works for her.”

Holly frowned. “Chaz, are you even listening to me? I’m trying to talk to you here.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He leaned forward, grabbed the remote, and hit ‘pause.’ “Okay, I’m all yours. Well,” he added with a smirk, “as much as I can be.”

“Look, Chaz, I know you like Ciaran—”

“Like?” he interrupted. “‘Like’ is hardly the word for what I feel for Ciaran.”

“‒and so I hate to tell you this,” she forged on, “but I can’t not tell you.” Holly bit her lip. “He asked me to spend the day with him tomorrow.”

Chaz blinked. “He did?”

“Yes. And I told him I’d go. It’s for publicity, that’s all,” she rushed to add. “But I know you like him, and, well...you’re not mad at me for saying I’d go, are you?”

He was silent. “Of course not,” he said, and brushed stray popcorn kernels from his lap. “You’d be crazy not to go.”

“You don’t want me to go,” Holly said. “I’ll tell him no.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He flopped back against the sofa cushions. “It’s time I got over my crush on Ciaran and met someone. Someone real. After I lose fifteen pounds,” he added bitterly.

“You’re not fat.” They’d had this argument many times before.

“No, but I’m not Ryan Gosling, either. I’m Seth Rogen...before he lost weight.”

“Stop.” Holly tossed a throw pillow – bright orange and round – at him. “No pity parties allowed tonight.”

Chaz caught the pillow and turned it around and around, his expression shuttered. “I never told you this, but I used to be best friends with this kid, Ted. We did everything together – Scouts, science projects, hung out on the weekends. Halfway through seventh grade he found out I was gay. I don’t know how he found out, or who told him, but it was like I suddenly had a communicable disease. He never talked to me again.” He tossed the cushion aside. “He wouldn’t even sit next to me on the bus. If we passed each other in the halls, he crossed to the other side. I felt like a – like a ghost.”

“He was a jerk.”

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with remembered pain. “It really hurt, Holly. I was the same person. Nothing changed. But after Ted found out I liked guys, not girls...everything changed.”

“He was a knob,” she said, her words firm. “You’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for. You’re funny, and smart, and Rhys says you’re the best personal assistant he’s ever had—”

“Oh, please,” he groaned, “don’t start telling me how wonderful I am, and how I’ll make some guy really happy one day. Right now I just want to wallow in my unattached misery.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Alone.”

“Okay. Sure.” Holly drew back, stung by his refusal to let her comfort him. “I need to get back to the hotel anyway, before Jamie gets there first and calls the police and reports me missing. You know how he is.”

He didn’t respond, just stared dejectedly at the bowl of popcorn – no butter, no salt – on the coffee table.

“I mean it, Chaz,” she told him firmly as she picked up her clutch and headed to the door. “If you don’t want me to go out with Ciaran on this publicity thing tomorrow, I won’t.”

He sighed. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I want you to go out with him. How else will I find out what it’s like to spend an entire day with an internationally famous film star?”

Chapter Five

Natalie leaned her head back against the Jaguar’s headrest, pleasantly relaxed as Rhys drove them to their apartment with the painting of her father safely stowed in the back seat.

“I wish we could’ve stayed at the Plaza,” she said wistfully as they left Greenwich Village. “Like Eloise.”

Rhys turned the car onto Third Avenue. “You know we have to keep expenses down, Natalie. The stores aren’t fully recovered yet.”

“I know,” she grumbled. “Such a bother. I’m longing to splash out on a few more baby things and some chic maternity outfits...but I haven’t. I’ve been very restrained.”

“Right,” he agreed, his voice dry, “restrained, if you don’t count the roomful of stuffed animals from FAO, enough onesies and jim-jams and nappies to stock a baby store, or that ridiculous pram you insisted on buying—”

“It’s not ridiculous,” she protested. “It’s a Silver Cross Balmoral, meticulously handcrafted in Yorkshire.”

“Natalie ‒ it costs $3,000! For a bloody pram.”

“Well, yes, because it has a C-spring suspension for a smooth and unrivalled ride.”

“Which is all very well and good,” he retorted, “if one’s buying an Aston Martin ‒ not a pram.”

“And the lady at the store said I might exchange the navy-and-white model for a pink-and-white model if we have a girl,” Natalie went on. “So nice of her, don’t you think?”

“I think for $3,000, she ought to give you a different model pram for every day of the week and throw in a nanny and free nappies for good measure.”

“Oh, Rhys, honestly. Don’t you want our baby to have the best?”

He turned onto East 47th Street and glanced over at her. “Of course I do. I just don’t want you to bankrupt us in the process.” He reached out his free hand and laid it atop hers. “We’re nearly there.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind what?”

“Detouring to the apartment on our way home to deliver the painting.”

“Not at all. I wanted to stop and check that the security system’s on in our apartment anyway. I told the movers to activate it, but I want to be sure. I also thought,” he added as he slowed the car, “that we could have a look at our new home for the next few months before we officially move in tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to have a place of our own here in Manhattan. Although,” Natalie added, “I’ll really miss room service, and those lovely chocs they put on our pillows every night.”

“Sir Richard thought it made sense to keep a place near the store, where I can stay whenever I’m here on business. Now that Alastair’s bought that townhouse in Gramercy Park, I doubt he’ll ever use the apartment.”

He brought the Jaguar to a stop in front of an impressive building. The Dunleigh was located on the Upper West Side, just across from Central Park and a stone’s throw from the Dakota. As they got out of the car and Rhys gave instructions to the valet, Natalie glanced up at the imposing turn-of-the-century building.

Stone griffins and winged cherubs cavorted around the perimeter of the Mansard roof; a uniformed doorman stood guard at the canopied entrance. It looked like something out of Rosemary’s Baby.

“Well, what do you think so far?” Rhys inquired as he tucked the portrait carefully under his arm and escorted her inside.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s all a bit...scary looking, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “That wasn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Wait till you see the apartment.”

“Right,” she murmured, and gripped her husband’s arm as she took in the marble-floored lobby with its potted palms and elaborate Victorian staircase. “It’s lovely.” Lovely, she thought, if you were the Addams Family, or a guest at the Overlook Hotel.

The concierge behind the counter to the left smiled at them and nodded imperceptibly. “Good evening, Mr and Mrs Gordon.”

Rhys nodded. “Good evening. We’re just going up to check that the security system is armed.”

“Very good. Let us know if there’s anything you need.”

As she and Rhys made their way across the lobby to the lift, Natalie frowned. “That was a bit odd, don’t you think? How did he know who we were?”

“It’s his job to know who we are. I’ve been in and out of here enough that the staff all know me by name.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the tenth floor and proceeded down a long, thickly carpeted hallway.

“Here we are. Number 1010.” He inserted the key and swung the old-fashioned panel door open, then stood back to let her through. “Welcome to the Dunleigh, darling.”

Natalie brushed past him and stepped inside. She was beyond curious to see the apartment they’d be calling home for the next few months. As Rhys switched on a lamp on the table by the front door, she made her way down the hallway and let out a soft gasp as she rounded the corner into the living room.

Plush white carpeting cushioned her feet as she came to a stop, transfixed by the tenth-story view of Central Park.

Nothing – not her aching feet, or her tiredness, or the distant honking of horns on 72nd Street below, even at this hour - could mar the perfection of the night-time panorama before her.

“Oh, Rhys – it’s gorgeous,” she breathed as he joined her.

In the darkened room she glimpsed sofas upholstered in white, flanking a fireplace of dark-brown marble veined with black. Although the furnishings were modern, the high ceilings and paneled walls lent the apartment a distinctly old-world feel.

And the night-time view of Central Park was spectacular.

“I’m glad you like it,” Rhys said as he set the painting down near the sofa and tossed his keys aside. “The Dunleigh’s almost as hard to get into as the Dakota.” He frowned. “It’s a good job we stopped by. The alarm wasn’t armed. Bloody movers.”

Natalie barely heard him as she tipped her head back to admire the high, elaborately molded ceilings. “How many rooms are there?” she asked as she stood, rapt, before the window.

“Ten. There’s a master suite, two guest bedrooms, living and dining rooms, a study, the kitchen, and three bathrooms.”

“My word,” Natalie murmured. “Dashwood and James must be doing better than I thought.”

“We’re getting there. Once we launch the New York store,” he said, “we plan to expand further – Miami, Los Angeles…”

“Ooh, can I go with you?” Natalie implored as she slid her arms around his neck.

“Of course you can.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her. “But I won’t get a thing done with you around.”

“That’s the whole idea,” she said, and kissed him back. “I’ll have my wicked way with you in every major city in America before I’m done.”

He raised his brow. “Well, at least we needn’t worry about getting you pregnant – since I already have.”

She smirked. “Well done, you.”

“I’ve an idea,” he said, his lips moving from her mouth to the column of her neck. “Let’s christen our new home.”

“Right here?” she whispered, feigning shock. “In the dark, in front of all of Manhattan?”

Rhys was too busy leaving fiery kisses on her throat and along the slope of her bare shoulders to answer, and he pushed impatiently at the thin straps that held up her gown.

“Yes.” He undid her zipper. “Right here. Right this very minute.”

Natalie let out a soft gasp as his lips moved down to the swell of her breasts, sending shivers of pleasure through her, and she sank down onto the carpet in his arms.

“If you insist,” she whispered, and dragged his mouth back up to hers.

Sometime later, as they lay naked and spent from their wanton but delicious exertions, Natalie stirred and woke with a start. They’d both fallen asleep.

She yawned and reached out sleepily to shake Rhys’s shoulder to wake him and tell him they really ought to be going when she heard a sound in the darkness.

A floorboard creaked.

Natalie froze. What was that? Was someone else in the apartment? But that was impossible. Her hand tensed on Rhys’s arm, and she scarcely dared to breathe.

She waited, but the sound wasn’t repeated. Had she imagined it? After all, these old buildings creaked and settled and made all manner of odd noises. That’s what Rhys would say, at any rate.

She was just about to wake him to tell him she wanted to leave straightaway and never, ever come back, when she heard it again. Another floorboard creaked, this time a bit closer.

Natalie bit back a gasp. No. She definitely hadn’t imagined it.

Someone – or something – was in the apartment.

Chapter Six

But that was surely madness, wasn’t it? she thought uneasily. After all ‒ how could anyone possibly be in the apartment but them? The Dunleigh was secure; it was one of the reasons Grandfather had chosen the cooperative. And Rhys had told her the front desk in the lobby was manned round the clock.

Which meant that whoever – no, scratch that, whatever – was standing nearby might not be human.

As if aware of Natalie’s growing disquietude, the darkness beyond her solidified and materialized into a figure...

...a figure holding a gun.

Natalie dug her nails into Rhys’s arm and let out an earsplitting shriek.

He flew up, disoriented and wild-eyed. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“An intruder,” she gasped as she sat up and scrabbled desperately to find her discarded gown. “Call the police!”

Immediately Rhys got to his feet and grabbed his trousers.

“Shall I turn on a light?” Nat whispered, terrified.

“No. I haven’t a bloody stitch on and I’m standing in front of the bloody window!” he hissed. He yanked his trousers on and moved forward.

She stood and caught at his arm. “Rhys – wait. Where are you going? He has a gun!”

But he didn’t listen, only shook her arm off and made his way determinedly to the front hall. Since she wasn’t about to leave his side, Natalie darted after him, her heart thrumming madly, her evening gown clutched against her chest.

The lamp on the hall table was still on. They crept cautiously forward. “Is anyone here?” Rhys demanded. “Show yourself!”

But the only answer was silence.

Although they checked each and every room – and Natalie looked under every bed and in every closet, as well – there was no one in the apartment and no sign of forced entry.

“They must’ve got away,” Natalie said with equal parts frustration and relief, “while I was screaming and you were jumping round putting on your trousers.”

“Or perhaps,” Rhys said as he turned to fix an accusing glare on her, “you imagined the whole thing.”

She drew in a disbelieving breath. “I did not! I heard him, Rhys. I saw him. He had a gun. I didn’t imagine that.”

“Yes, well then, where is he?” He pointed to the alarm panel. “The security system’s still armed, just as it was when I activated it earlier.” He opened the door and inspected the lock. “Look for yourself. There’s no sign of tampering, no scratches or marks on the paint.”

“Perhaps he came in through one of the windows.”

“What? A cat burglar, like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief?” He closed the door. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She crossed her arms – with her evening gown bunched up underneath – against her chest. “I know what I saw. And I saw a man with a gun standing over us.”

“Perhaps you were dreaming. These old buildings settle and creak sometimes, you know.”

“I knew you’d say that.” She glared at him. “Aren’t you at least going to call the police?”

“And report what, exactly? A creaking floorboard? A ghost? Cary Grant?”

“Fine. Never mind.” Natalie turned away and stalked back to the living room. “Laugh at me if you want, but I’m telling you, someone was here. Take me back to the hotel right now. It may be a bit impersonal, and it’s not nearly so grand as this place, but at least it’s intruder-free.”

Holly eased the hotel room door open after returning from Chaz’s place and crept inside. She paused. The lamp on the hallway table was off, which meant that Jamie was probably already in bed and sleeping.

She slipped off her shoes and laid her clutch on the table, then made her way as quietly as possible to the tiny kitchenette. Holly yawned. A couple of cookies and some milk, and she’d be ready to tumble straight into bed for some well-deserved sleep—

“So how’s Chaz?”

Holly let out a gasp. Jamie sat on the sofa, his clogs discarded and his feet propped on the coffee table. “Jamie? What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” she demanded. “God, you scared me. I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“I just got home a little while ago. Thought I’d wait up to say hello, and goodnight.” His smile was lopsided and tired.

“You must be exhausted,” she said, and sat down beside him. She leaned forward to kiss him. “The party was a massive success, thanks in no small part to your menu. It was amazing.”

“Thanks. I do my best.” He drew her against him, kissing the top of her head. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. It’s crazy, isn’t it?” she observed as she nestled against him. “We were at the same function all night and didn’t speak to each other once.”

“Yes, it’s all very Upstairs, Downstairs, isn’t it? Your father doesn’t like the hired help mingling with the guests.”

Although she knew he was joking, Holly heard the edge in his voice. “I was working tonight, too,” she pointed out. “I’m a store employee, after all, so I was only there to jolly up the guests and flirt a bit with the investors.”

“You looked really sexy tonight.” His hand slid down her side and came to rest on her hip. “And you seemed to make quite the impression on Ciaran Duncan.”

She lifted her head. “Why do you say that?” And why was her heart suddenly beating a tiny bit faster?

He shrugged. “Every time I sent out a tray, one of the servers came back and told me they’d seen you both talking. Catherine said that Mr International Film Star scarcely took his eyes off you all evening.”

Catherine. Holly pressed her lips together. Jamie’s new sous chef was probably only too glad to put the most damaging spin possible on her fledgling relationship with Ciaran.

Although she hadn’t yet met her properly, she suspected that Catherine was attracted to her fiancé. And it bothered her.

Not that she worried that Jamie would stray; no, it was just that Catherine was so gorgeous she made Holly feel like a dog’s dinner. With her long black hair and a slim but curvy build, the sous chef was a stunner.

And, of course, she could cook like a dream.

“Well, Catherine’s wrong,” she said firmly, and drew back to meet his eyes. “We were talking about the publicity thing.”

“Oh, yes. Your father told me. Tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Ciaran’s sending a car to pick me up at eleven.”

Jamie studied her, his expression unreadable. “Should I be worried?”

“Don’t be silly,” she assured him, and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I only have eyes for you.”

“Prove it, then,” he murmured, a challenge in his eyes.

And she proceeded to do just that.

Chapter Seven

At eight-thirty the next morning, a knock on the door echoed through Apartment 1010.

“Hellooo? Mr Gordon? Anyone here?”

Natalie looked up from her seat on the sofa in mild alarm. It was Sunday morning, and she and Rhys were in the living room, having just arrived at the Dunleigh with their luggage a short time earlier. Rhys was hanging her father’s portrait over the fireplace.

“Who’s that?” she hissed. “And what’s he doing in our apartment?”

Before Rhys could answer, a dark-haired young man with a pair of sunglasses thrust atop his head strode into the living room, his hands holding bright-orange carrier bags. He wore jeans, a Ramones t-shirt, and a pale-pink blazer with the sleeves rolled up.

As he saw Rhys, he came to a stop. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were here. I thought I had time to sneak in and leave this stuff before you officially moved in.”

“Quite all right,” Rhys said, and turned away from the mantel. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh, I have lots of fab stuff,” he said. “I went to Zabar’s yesterday afternoon and got pesto, brie, a couple of pasta salads – so delish ‒ a bottle of Blanc de Blanc, and—” he broke off as he caught sight of Natalie. “Oh, sorry. You must be Mrs Gordon. I saw you last night but we haven’t been formally introduced.”

“Natalie, this is Charles Williams,” Rhys said by way of explanation, “my new personal assistant.”

She nodded and said politely, “It’s very nice to meet you, Charles.”

“Chaz, please.” He smiled in apology. “I’d offer my hand, Mrs Gordon, but they’re full at the moment. Gorgeous outfit, by the way,” he observed as he studied her yellow and black figured tunic and fitted beige skirt. “Marni, last season?”

She nodded, impressed. “You’re good. And please, call me Natalie.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Gordon – I mean, Natalie,” he corrected himself as Rhys took one of the bags from him. “The front desk sent me up – I hope that’s okay? Alastair put me on the list.”

“The list?” Rhys echoed.

He nodded. “The guest list. I’m on it, and Alastair, and Sir Richard...and you two, of course. Alastair gave me a key so I could deliver your groceries.”

“No, that’s fine.” Rhys glanced down at the bags. “Thank you for all of this, by the way. It’s unexpected, although very welcome. But you needn’t have gone to the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. I knew you wouldn’t have time to go grocery shopping, so I thought I’d stock the kitchen with a few essentials. I can’t stay,” he added as he headed towards the kitchen. “I’m helping Holly choose an outfit for her big date with – wait for it – Ciaran Duncan today.”

“Holly has a date with Ciaran Duncan?” Natalie echoed, surprised. “I saw them talking last night at the party, but...” her voice trailed off. “But Holly’s engaged.”

“It’s not really a date, it’s a publicity thing for the store,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s a ‘film-star-and-retail-heiress-do-New-York’ thing, to be exact.”

“I see,” Natalie said, although she didn’t, really. She couldn’t imagine Jamie agreeing to such a thing...or Holly’s father either, for that matter. He hadn’t seemed very impressed with the actor.

“It was Ciaran’s idea,” he explained as she rose and followed him into the kitchen. “But Alastair was totally on board, since the store needs all the publicity it can get...”

“...so Holly’s spending the day with Ciaran to help her father, and to help the store,” Natalie finished.

“Exactly.” He set the carrier bags on the counter. “Well, folks, I’m off. Enjoy your gourmet goodies and welcome to the Dunleigh.”

And before Natalie or Rhys could do more than thank him, Chaz waved, whipped out his mobile phone, and left.

“So these are our options for your date with Ciaran?” Chaz asked doubtfully as he eyed the three dresses on hangers that Holly held up a half-hour later.

“Yes. And it’s not a date.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like them?”

He cupped his elbow in one hand and rested his chin on the other. “Sorry, no. The black wrap dress is too plain; and that purple jersey – where’d you buy it, Forever 21? As for the bubble skirt–” he grimaced “–it looks like someone threw up Christian LA Croix.”

Holly tossed them down on her bed in irritation. “Well, what do you suggest, then, Mr Mizrahi?”

“Hey, you asked for my help,” he reminded her. “I could be at home watching The Princess Diaries, thank you very much.”

“No need to throw a hissy. Just take a look in the closet and pick something out. I’ll need accessories, too. And hurry. I have to start getting ready soon.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” he retorted, but threw the door to the hotel closet open and began rummaging through the contents, his face set in concentration. Choosing an outfit was a very serious business.

Five minutes later, he emerged. “I’ve found it,” he announced, triumphant. “I’ve found the perfect outfit for your date with Ciaran.”

“It’s not a date,” she told him again. Holly rose from her perch on the end of the bed, anxious to see what he’d chosen. He held out a beige sheath dress overlaid with lace, nude heels, and a leopard-print clutch.

“That?” she said uncertainly. “I don’t know. It’s so...beige. It looks like something Mum would wear.”

“It’s classic,” he informed her, “but sexy, in a ladylike way. Very Mad Men. You don’t want to look like a hootchie, do you?”

“No...”

“Then shut up and try it on.”

Dutifully she did as he asked, thrusting her feet into the heels and smoothing the silk dress over her hips as she stood before the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. And as she studied her reflection, she had to admit that, once again, Chaz was right.

The nude heels elongated her legs; the dress was fitted and flattering, emphasizing her small waist and slim build; and the leopard clutch provided the perfect pop of contrast.

“We’ll put your hair up in a chignon,” Chaz decided. “Like Tippi Hedrin. It’ll give you that sixties chic.”

“Put my hair up? I don’t know...”

“Sit,” he commanded, and motioned to her dressing table. “I’ll do your hair before I go. All you need,” he mused as he began to brush her hair, “is one of those big, black cartwheel hats, like the one Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“Sorry,” Holly said firmly, “I love this outfit, but I draw the line at cartwheel hats.” She looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled. “You’re right...it’s absolutely, perfectly…perfect.”

An hour later, bathed and perfumed and dressed in the beige sheath, Holly was almost ready. Jamie had left, off to get his new restaurant ready to open its doors; so Chaz had agreed to stay and let Ciaran in while she got ready.

“Keep him waiting,” he informed her. “It’s never good to appear too soon. Take your time.”

“Right,” she agreed, and lifted her brow. “Leaving you to chat – alone ‒ with the object of your affection in the meantime.”

“Whatever. Go get ready.”

Ten minutes after Ciaran arrived, Holly took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door. The sound of Chaz’s voice drifted down the hall from the tiny hotel sitting room.

“‒so pleased to meet you last night,” he gushed. “Like I said, I’ve seen all your movies, except that last one about the veterinarian. It didn’t do so well at the box office, did it?”

“No,” Ciaran said a trifle stiffly, “but it earned me a BAFTA nomination. Rather proud of that.”

“As well you should be.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to pry, but...do you and Holly live together?” the actor asked, puzzled.

Chaz let out a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “God, no! I just offered to stick around and let you in while she gets ready. Her fiancé’s normally here,” he added, pointedly, “but he’s working.”

Chaz glanced up as Holly appeared in the doorway. “Holly – there you are. Mr Duncan’s been waiting, and very patiently, I might add.”

Ciaran stood up, and his eyes swept over Holly from her ladylike heels to her upswept blonde hair. He blinked. “You look stunning, Miss James. And very grown-up.”

“Thank you,” Holly said. She could barely form a coherent sentence at the sight of Ciaran, so handsome in his impeccably tailored suit. “Shall we go?”

“By all means,” he agreed, and held out his arm. “First, we’re off to have lunch at The Russian Tea Room.”

“Excellent choice,” Chaz approved, “if a bit...touristy. But that’s the point, isn’t it?” he added hastily as Ciaran cast him a flinty look. “Have a blini for me. And enjoy yourselves!”

“Thank you,” Ciaran replied. “I solemnly promise to have her back before midnight, Mr Williams.”

Chaz shook a finger playfully. “See that you do.”

They emerged from the Midtown Hotel and onto the busy sidewalk five minutes later. “What’s this?” Holly asked as Ciaran drew her towards a black Lincoln Town Car waiting at the curb. A chauffer in a peaked cap and gloves slid out from behind the wheel and held the rear door open for Holly.

“Our limo,” he replied. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”

“And generating the most publicity possible at the same time,” Holly couldn’t help adding. She glanced at the gleaming black vehicle and back at Ciaran, who was already attracting a knot of onlookers. “This should definitely do it.”

Without another word, she slid onto the back seat and made room for Ciaran, and they were off.

Chapter Eight

“I thought we’d go for a carriage ride around Central Park. After we have lunch,” he added firmly. “I’m really hungry.”

She looked over at him and smiled. “I’m impressed. The Russian Tea Room...a chauffeured car...”

“And the pleasure of my company,” he finished as he grinned at her. “What more could a girl want?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Holly said as she settled back and the car glided into the stream of traffic headed towards West 57th Street. “A little humility, maybe?”

“Humility is vastly overrated, Miss James. Spend enough time with me, and you’ll soon agree.”

Well, Holly couldn’t help thinking, if this is a typical day out with a film star...I could certainly get used to it.

The Russian Tea Room was as rich and opulent as the inside of a Fabergé egg. They were escorted to a quiet table in the back, where Ciaran ordered appetizers of caviar and salmon gravlax; for their main course they had the most amazing Chicken Kiev. Dessert was a shared plate of cheese and cherry blinis topped with vanilla ice cream.

“That was incredible, Ciaran,” Holly said with a sigh as she pushed her plate away. “Thank you.”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” he assured her as he stood up and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

New Yorkers – being New Yorkers – noticed the famous British actor and his date, but pretended they didn’t. Holly saw the covert glances cast their way as they left, and the excited whispers behind hands. She suppressed a smile. Thank goodness she’d listened to Chaz and worn this outfit. As always, he was right – otherwise, she would’ve looked like an over-dressed teenager in the publicity photos their outing would generate.

“Where will we go after our carriage ride?” Ciaran inquired as he slid in next to her on the back seat. “We’ve all of Manhattan at our disposal.” He nodded imperceptibly at the driver, and the car glided forward.

“Well,” Holly said, studying the colorful blur of taxis as they flashed past the Town Car’s tinted windows, “we could take a walk through Times Square.”

“We could,” he agreed. “But I’d be mobbed. Perhaps instead,” he added as he leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers as he took her hand, “we could go back to my hotel room, and get to know each another better.”

Holly stared at him, her lips parted in outrage. “Mr Duncan!”

“Kidding,” he said, and laughed as he let go of her hand and relaxed back against the seat. “Your expression was priceless, Miss James. What would you have done,” he added as he glanced at her in amusement, “if I’d been serious? Would I have lived up – or should I say, down – to your already low expectations?”

She glared at him. “You would’ve ensured that I’d never watch another one of your silly rom-coms again. Especially not the one about the English veterinarian,” she added.

“Indeed?” He wore a hurt expression. “What about the one where I meet the store owner’s beautiful daughter, but I can’t get past her initial bad impression of me?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen that one.”

“It’s a good one, actually, one of my best. Except–” he leaned forward once again, and reached out to tilt her chin gently up to his “–I don’t know how it ends, yet.”

Then he was kissing her, and his lips were warm and persuasive, and all of her resolve...dissolved. A kiss was just a kiss...unless it was Ciaran Duncan doing the kissing. Just as she almost lost herself completely in Ciaran’s arms and the heated dazzle of his lips, reveling in the scent and taste and feel of him, she pulled away.

“We have to stop,” she said, her voice shaky. “I can’t do this, I’m engaged. And this isn’t a date.”

His expression was contrite. “You’re right, and I apologize. It’s just that you’ve bewitched me, Holly,” he said huskily. “But I promise I’ll be on my very best behavior for the rest of the day.”

And he lived up to his promise. The day passed in a whirl of shopping, walking, and laughter. Everywhere they went they were photographed – whether riding a carriage through Central Park, ducking into Prada and FAO Schwarz on Fifth Avenue, or sharing a late-afternoon slice and a pretzel from a street vendor. Ciaran good-naturedly signed his autograph on bits of paper, menus, street maps, and even inked his name on one insistent woman’s bra strap.

“The perils of being an actor,” he sighed as they returned, their feet aching, to the waiting Town Car and climbed in.

“You poor man.” Holly regarded him in bemusement. “Is it always like this? So crazy, I mean, with women throwing themselves at you and offering up their bra straps for autographs?”

“They’ve offered up more than their bra straps, believe me,” he replied. “And yes, it’s always like this. I usually wear sunglasses and a cap to avoid notice. But I threw myself onto the altar of rabid fandom for you. And your father,” he added.

“Very self-sacrificing of you, I’m sure.”

Ten minutes later, with dusk beginning to fall, the Town Car drew to a stop in front of 30 Rockefeller Center.

“Rock Center?” Holly said, surprised. “Why are we here? Isn’t this where they film a lot of television shows?”

“It is,” he confirmed. “And my new talk show will soon be one of them.”

“Your own talk show? That’s great, congratulations!” She kissed him in excitement. As she drew back, she noticed a lipstick smear on the corner of his mouth. She reached out to wipe it away with her finger. “Oops. Sorry about that.”

Ciaran caught her finger in his and raised it to his lips. “No apologies. I’ve had a wonderful time tonight, Holly,” he said, all teasing gone. “I’ll be back soon to start taping the show. I hope you’ll help me find a suitable apartment when I return.”

Holly looked at him, all too aware of his lips against her fingers and the green-brown enticement of his eyes. She was torn between the negative things Mr Darcy had said – he wasn’t to be trusted, he was no good – and her own overwhelming attraction to him. She knew he was a player, in every sense of the word; he was an actor, after all, one who pretended to feel things on-screen that he really didn’t...and he was paid very handsomely to do so.

And she was engaged.

“Of course I’ll help you find a place,” she found herself saying. “I’d love to.”

“Excellent. Now let’s go see my new dressing room. Then – as much as I hate the idea – I’ll return you to your fiancé.”

“Thank you, Ciaran,” she said. “For all of this. Today’s been...magical. Fantastic.”

He smiled. “Good. I hope the publicity helps the store.”

“How could it not? You’re world famous, after all,” Holly pointed out. “I’m just a nobody, along for the ride.” She glanced at the interior of the Town Car. “Literally.”

“Oh, bollocks. You’re smart, and funny, and beautiful, whereas I’m merely famous. Now,” he added as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, “let’s go inside, so I can show you off just a bit more.”

It was dark when Ciaran returned Holly to the Midtown Hotel. He walked with her across the lobby to the lift and pressed the button.

“I don’t want this day to end,” he admitted as she stepped inside the car.

“Me, either. It was really fun. Thanks.” Holly smiled. “I had an amazing time. “Goodnight, Ciaran,” she called out as the doors began to close.

“Goodnight, Miss James. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

With a smile and a wink, he turned away, and left.

Chapter Nine

On Monday morning, Christa Shaw took the key her manager had given her in London the day before and opened the front door. The townhouse, located in Gramercy Park, would be her new home for the next couple of weeks. A pair of topiary trees as round and green as lollipops flanked the entry.

Despite her jet lag, she was beyond curious to see the interior.

“Wow,” she breathed as she came inside and dropped her bags by the door.

A staircase rose to the left of the entrance hall, and a Victorian chandelier hung overhead like an elaborate, old-fashioned jewel. Dark-red flocked wallpaper adorned the walls.

She might’ve stepped back in time to the turn of the century – the nineteenth century. It looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel. She half expected to see Lily Bart come sweeping down the stairs to greet her.

“Come in and have a look at this, Dev,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t believe it.”

“Crikey,” he echoed as he brought in two more suitcases and set them slowly down. “This place looks like the inside of a candy box...or a bordello.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She picked up a white card from the elaborately carved half-moon table in the hall. “‘Gavin Williams and Associates, Interior Design.’” She put the card aside and added, “Well, we know who to blame for this Victorian nightmare, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Devon mused. “I kind of like it. I wonder how many bedrooms in this place?”

“Five. Or was it six? Max told me, but I don’t remember.” Max Morecombe was the manager Christa shared with Dominic Heath, British rock singer and one of her closest friends.

She smiled coyly. “Why do you ask, Mr Matthews? Did you want to christen the bedrooms?”

He slid his arms around her waist. “Not just the bedrooms, love. Every room.”

Christa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “That can be arranged,” she said huskily, and kissed him again.

Devon dragged his mouth from hers a few minutes later and turned to pick up the suitcases. “I might as well take this stuff upstairs. I don’t know about you, but after that flight from London, I’m knackered. I could do with a few hours of sleep.”

“Thanks for coming along. I’m glad the CID let you have a couple of weeks off.”

“I think they were all glad to be rid of me for a bit, to be honest. And I know you’re more than a little nervous about this concert.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve performed in plenty of other places, but...Madison Square Garden is the biggest venue I’ve ever played.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “You’ve played Glastonbury and the Royal Albert Hall, for crying out loud.”

“But this is huge,” Christa said. “And it’s my first U.S. concert. What if no one shows up?”

“The show’s sold out. It sold out within two hours.”

“What if I forget the song lyrics? Or bollocks up one of the dance routines? There’s a lot of choreography.”

“That’s what rehearsals are for,” Devon reminded her. “And you’ve got one first thing in the morning, don’t forget. Now, stop worrying. You’ve got this, babe.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips. “What you need is rest. You’re tired. Come on, let’s go upstairs and go to bed.”

“And get some sleep?”

“Yeah. That, too.”

“Listen to this,” Devon said the next morning as Christa joined him at the kitchen table for coffee and toast. He began to read out loud from the New York Daily News in his hand.

“’Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.’” He lowered the paper. “The thief made off with a small fortune in stolen jewels, and not for the first time, apparently – yet no one saw a thing. ‘There are no suspects and no leads.’” He snorted. “Pathetic.”

Christa sipped her coffee. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not on duty, then, Detective Sergeant Matthews,” she pointed out tartly as she stood up. “So why not take your D.S. hat off and just enjoy your holiday?”

“It’s habit,” Devon said, and shrugged. “A good D.S. is never really off duty.”

“This one is.” She bent down to brush her lips against his. “Christa’s orders.”

He grabbed her around the waist and deepened the kiss. “Umm, I like it when you get bossy,” he murmured when he dragged his mouth from hers. “Fancy a quick shag?”

“Love to, but I can’t.” She laughed and slapped his hands away. “Stop it, Dev. I’ve got to get ready for rehearsals.”

“Ten minutes, that’s all I need. Five.”

Christa sighed and pushed him reluctantly away. “I wish, but I really don’t have time. Today promises to be a long day.”

“And one, and two, and three, and STOP!” the choreographer roared. His voice echoed in the cavernous rehearsal studio on West Fifty-Seventh Street.

As the dancers around Christa held themselves immobile in their positions, she let out a quiet breath of frustration. She just couldn’t seem to get this particular move down. She steeled herself for the bollocking that was sure to follow.

“Christa,” Wilhelm barked, “what is the problem, hein? You keep going left when everyone else is going right.”

“Sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

“Well, my dear, you must try harder. We have a concert to choreograph and we have less than two weeks to do it! Let’s try it again, from the top, shall we? Jetzt!”

This time, through sheer force of will, Christa executed the move perfectly. As the pianist pounded out an accompaniment on the old upright and Wilhelm clapped his hands in time, she and the dancers finished the opening set choreography without a hitch. The rest of the rehearsal passed without incident.

But the seed of self-doubt, already planted in Christa, grew a little stronger.

How, she wondered as she showered and dressed in her street clothes, could she possibly do this? How could she remember all of those dance steps and memorize the lyrics to twenty songs in under two weeks, without screwing up in front of 18,000 people?

Christa didn’t know. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t rocketed to fame quite so quickly.

She wasn’t remotely ready for it. Any of it.

But it was too late now. The venue was booked, the rehearsal hall rented, the set list in place.

She was performing a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden...whether she was ready or not.

Chapter Ten

“Oh, Rhys – take me with you, please?”

Natalie stood behind her husband the next morning and slid her arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder as he stood before the mirror and tightened his tie into a Windsor knot.

“Not today, Natalie. I’ve got a million things to do and the store launch to deal with. Have you seen my silver cufflinks?” he asked as he turned away and began to look for them. “I’ve a meeting with Alastair and the staff in twenty minutes. You’re not bored already, are you?”

“Look in the enamel box on your dresser. And no, of course I’m not bored.”

Which wasn’t strictly true, exactly. But after lobbying Rhys to let her come along with him to Manhattan, she didn’t dare admit that after a month spent shopping, lunching, walking, and museum-going, she was...well, she was a tiny bit bored.

It wasn’t much fun to do things – anything – on your own. And Rhys worked such long hours each day, by the time he got home he was tired, so they hadn’t gone to see so much as a film together, much less a Broadway show, and their meals thus far had consisted of takeout sushi and pizza.

“They’re not here,” he called out irritably from the bedroom.

“That’s odd. The movers assured me they unpacked your suits and things and put them all away on Saturday.”

“Someone put them away, all right – in their pocket. These’ll have to do,” he said, and he put on the onyx cufflinks she’d bought him for his birthday.

“Darling,” Natalie added tentatively as she followed him down the hallway, “Why don’t I work at D & J for a couple of days a week, just for a bit? I could fetch your lunch, come up with a few marketing ideas. What do you think?”

“It’s not necessary. I told you, there’s an entire team in place and everything’s well in hand. And I have Chaz to fetch my lunch and keep track of my diary. He’s amazing – don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Don’t forget, I was the one who planned the relaunch for the London store. It’s how we met, after all.”

“Yes, and you nearly bollocksed it up when you forgot to ask Poppy to model in the catwalk show until the last minute.”

“How was I to know she’d be in Sri Lanka on a photo shoot?” she retorted.

“Natalie, her time is scheduled weeks, months in advance. You knew that, yet you left it too late.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said crossly. “It was a tiny mistake that anyone could’ve made.”

“A tiny mistake that nearly ruined the entire relaunch.”

“You’d best go,” Natalie retorted, “or you’ll be late for your meeting.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Don’t sulk, darling, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Why don’t you two have breakfast‒” he reached down and patted her just-starting-to-show belly “‒and then do a bit of shopping? Buy some more baby things. Or start doing up the guest bedroom as that nursery you’re always on about.”

Although Natalie wasn’t due until mid-September, they’d decided to turn one of the guest bedrooms into a nursery, even though she planned to have the baby in London. But, as she pointed out, they’d need a place for the baby to stay the next time they came to New York to visit, wouldn’t they?

Rhys had agreed. The only things in there at the moment were a pram, boxes of nappies and baby clothes, and a pile of the most darling stuffed animals that somehow kept growing taller by the day.

“I can’t,” she said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Then hire someone to come in and decorate,” Rhys said. “Now – I’ve really got to run. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye,” Nat said, her expression forlorn as Rhys grabbed his briefcase, kissed her cheek, and slammed out of the apartment like a well-dressed whirlwind. “I love you.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already gone.

She made her way down the hall to the kitchen and brewed a cup of decaf, carefully avoiding the intimidating espresso machine that resided beside the coffee maker. With its dials and levers and steam arm, the machine terrified her.

Well, what to do today? she wondered as she sat down at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand. She could sort through the new baby clothes...but she’d already sorted through them twice. She could clean the apartment – but it was spotless, thanks to the maid who came in twice a week to scrub and polish and tidy things up. Her gaze settled on the New York Daily News Rhys had left abandoned on the table.

She took a sip of her decaf and pulled the newspaper towards her.

CAT BURGLAR STRIKES AGAIN! The front-page headline screamed.

Curious, she began to read the article.

Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.

The jewels, including a Harry Winston diamond choker and matching earrings, were reported missing after Honoria Van Landingham and her husband Thomas returned from a charity ball held at the Ritz Carlton late last night. Police Chief Anthony Smith stated there was no sign of a break-in.

As in recent burglaries, the security system was armed. Mrs Van Landingham informed police that she activated the system before leaving her apartment, and notified authorities upon discovering the jewels, valued at $1.9 million, were missing from the apartment safe.

There are currently no suspects and no leads.

“Goodness,” Natalie murmured. A cat burglar? Images of a suave thief, dressed in black as he rappelled from a tenth-story window following a successful heist, flickered through her head.

It was all terribly mysterious and exciting. But not, of course, for poor Mrs Van Landingham, who’d had her jewels stolen.

Natalie had a sudden thought. Rhys’s silver cufflinks – which the movers assured her they’d put in the enamel box on his dresser – had gone missing. Was Rhys right – had one of the movers pocketed them?

Or had someone – the cat burglar, perhaps – stolen them?

Her eyes widened. After all, she’d seen someone in the apartment on Sunday night...someone with a gun.

She set her cup down on the table and hurried to the bedroom, and reached for the little enamel box on Rhys’s dresser.

It was empty; a quick search confirmed that her husband’s cufflinks were, indeed, gone. And although she searched the entire bedroom for evidence of a visit from the burglar, there was nothing.

Those bloody thieving movers, Natalie thought indignantly as she returned to the kitchen, and her coffee. We certainly won’t be using their services again.

Still, she knew she’d seen someone in the apartment the night before, looming over her in the darkness with a gun in hand.

Was it the cat burglar? Had he been there to rob their apartment?

What if she hadn’t screamed and wakened Rhys? Who knew what might have happened?

All these thoughts of burglaries and cat thieves made her a bit nervous. She went to the phone and dialed Rhys’s number.

“Good morning, Dashwood and James, Rhys Gordon’s office,” Chaz chirped. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, Chaz. I’d like to speak to my husband, please,” Natalie said.

“Good morning, Mrs Gordon. I’m sorry, but Mr Gordon just got here, and he’s already in a meeting. May I take a message?”

Ordinarily Natalie would thank him politely, leave a message, and ring off, but the newspaper article had left her more than a bit rattled.

“I need to speak with him straight away. It’s important.”

“Very well,” Chaz said doubtfully. “One moment, please.”

A few minutes later Rhys picked up the phone. “Natalie, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?” There was a trace of alarm in his voice.

“No, nothing like that. The baby’s fine. So am I.”

“Thank God. Why did you call, then? I’m in the middle of a meeting. Chaz said it was important.”

“It is important, very important. Oh, Rhys,” she wailed, “there’s been another cat burglary, and practically next door! I was reading about it in the papers just now. I think the burglar must’ve stolen your cufflinks on Sunday night, right after he robbed the Van Landinghams.”

To her surprise – and annoyance – he began to laugh.

“Rhys,” she said crossly, “it isn’t funny. I’m alone and pregnant in an apartment that’s been struck by the most notorious burglar in Manhattan, and all you can do is laugh?”

“Sorry, darling,” he told her. “But I hardly think the thief would break in to our apartment for a pair of cufflinks.” He paused. “I should’ve told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I found the cufflinks in my suit pocket on the way in to work this morning. So there’s no need to worry. And there was no burglar in our apartment on Sunday night. I checked, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m sorry, Nat,” he cut in impatiently, “but I have to go. Don’t worry – you’re perfectly safe. We’ll talk later, when I get home.”

And before she could respond, he rang off.

Chapter Eleven

Why, Holly wondered as she eyed the stacks of shoe boxes crowding Dashwood and James’s shoe department the next morning, had she agreed to work today?

Even though Monday was normally her day off, she’d promised her father she’d help prepare for the grand opening – which meant making sure all was in readiness for Karl von Karle’s personal appearance at the store’s launch.

According to Natalie, von Karle was the hottest shoe designer since Manolo Blahnik.

“There you are, Holly.” Alastair strode down the aisle, Coco just behind him. “Thank you for coming in to help today.”

“Good thing I did,” she observed as she eyed the teetering stack of von Karles waiting to be arranged on the display shelves. “With all the buzz his appearance is generating, you’d think that silly German shoe guy was a rock star.”

“That ‘silly German shoe guy’ is a gifted designer,” Coco informed her coolly. “Every woman wants a pair of von Karles.”

“I don’t,” Holly retorted. “I get vertigo just looking at those stiletto heels. They look ridiculous. Not to mention unsafe. And uncomfortable.”

“Fashion isn’t about comfort, Holly,” Coco said, “it’s about style.” Her glance swept dismissively over Holly’s belted, short-sleeved sweater and creased linen skirt. “Something you obviously don’t understand.”

“And you obviously don’t understand the concept of asking before you give out personal information.”

“What are you talking about?”

Before Holly could respond, her father, oblivious to the hostile current between the two young women, consulted a clipboard in his hand. “Holly, I need you to help Coco upstairs for a couple of hours, if you would.”

“Okay,” she said, even as her heart sank at the prospect. “Dad,” she added as Coco turned away to take a call, “I need to leave early this afternoon. I’m meeting Ciaran. He’s looking at apartments and asked me to go with him.”

“Ciaran?” Alastair echoed, and his brow rose. “But you just spent all day with him yesterday.”

“Yes, for publicity,” she reminded him. “His TV show starts filming soon, and he’s looking for a permanent place to live. He wants me to help him look before he returns to London. What’s wrong with that?”

“Doesn’t he have an estate agent?”

“I’m not showing him properties, Dad, I’m just going along to look at a couple of apartments. He wants my opinion.”

“Ciaran is a charming young man,” her father said, his jaw set in a hard line, “but he’s not someone I’d chose as a potential suitor for my daughter.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t get to choose, then, isn’t it?” she retorted. “And I’m already engaged – or have you forgotten? Besides, Ciaran’s just a friend.”

“He’s a film star, Holly, and he’s accustomed to women throwing themselves at him. And I’ve no doubt,” he added with a scowl, “that he takes full advantage of it.”

“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can, Holly, but—”

“Mr James, so sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in receiving,” Coco informed him. “I’ve just had a call from Mr Baxter. There’s a problem with one of the shipments.”

Alastair sighed. “There’s always a problem, isn’t there? Very well – I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Holly, his expression grim. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Holly,” Coco informed her as he left, “I need you to go up to the attic. The workmen have cleared everything out except for some odds and ends; probably junk, but I want you to go up and have a look, please. Here’s the key.”

“But I’m not dressed for rummaging around in the attic,” Holly objected.

“I only want you to look at what’s up there and report back to me. Here – take a pad and pencil with you. I’ll want a full inventory so Alastair and I can decide how to dispose of it all. Now go.”

Without another word, Holly took the key, and the pad and pen Coco held out, and turned to leave.

She took the lift up to the fourth floor and found the attic stairs. After unclipping the velvet rope, she climbed the steps to the attic door and unlocked it.

Holly pushed the door open and groped for the light switch. The place was crammed from one end to the other with boxes and junk and festooned with cobwebs and dust. She sneezed.

At least this attic was the kind you could stand up in, with a wooden floor and a small, diamond-shaped window at either end. It would make a nice office for her father eventually. She stepped through the door and wondered where to begin. A pair of dangling light bulbs illuminated an assortment of mismatched chairs, a dressmaker’s dummy, old lampshades, and boxes...

...dozens and dozens of boxes.

Grimly Holly set to work opening the nearest one. It contained a bottle with a model ship inside, stacks of old magazines, a jumble of jelly glasses and plates, most of them chipped or broken, and what looked like an old-fashioned bottle opener and several cocktail shakers.

It was the same story in the other boxes. She unearthed an old toaster, galoshes, stacks of dinner plates, a lamp harp, old newspapers, and a rusted plant stand – all junk. But Holly suspected some of this stuff might be of value; that Victrola, for instance, or the lamp – Tiffany, if she wasn’t mistaken – standing in the corner. She spotted a charming wicker settee; with a bit of cleanup and re-caning, it’d be perfect for the entryway. Her father really needed to take a look at this stuff. He knew a lot more about antiques than she did.

After noting the items on Coco’s inventory list – Victrola, Tiffany lamp, wicker settee – Holly straightened up to leave. She glanced down at her skirt in dismay. Cobwebs clung to her fingers as she brushed the dust and dirt from her knees, and she sneezed again. Damn Coco, anyway.

As she made her way around the jumble of boxes and junk and headed to the door, Holly felt a cool breeze drift past her face. She came to an abrupt stop. Was one of the windows open? Her glance strayed to the tiny windows at either end of the attic but they were both firmly shut, and looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years.

Holly shrugged, feeling just a little spooked, and turned to go. There must be an explanation for the breeze; she just didn’t have a clue what it might be.

Again, a slight stirring of the air rooted her once more to the spot. She smelled, very faintly, the scent of lavender and citrus, with just a hint of vanilla, and she swore she felt the brush of a silk glove against her hand. Panicked, Holly stumbled backwards as goose bumps rose on her arms. She had the oddest feeling that something – no, someone – was in the attic with her.

Chapter Twelve

Yet she wasn’t afraid. Whatever – whoever – it was meant no harm; she knew that, somehow. Suddenly she noticed the fire escape. How had she missed it? It was nothing more than a short ladder leading to a narrow iron door; it opened out onto the roof, and was hidden behind the pile of boxes she’d just finished investigating.

Feeling herself compelled forward, Holly retraced her steps and came to stand before the fire escape. She hesitated, then climbed the short ladder to the door and tried the handle, but it was rusted firmly shut.

Sirens wailed nearby, and Holly glanced down at her watch, surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime. She turned to climb back down the ladder, more than ready to get out of this creepy attic and go grab a ham and cheese sandwich. Halfway down she felt the sticky, persistent strands of a spider’s web against her face. Holly let out a gasp of disgust and frantically brushed the web away. Coco would so pay for this...

It was then that she saw it. Wrapped in a blanket, wedged under one of the eaves, the object was large and oblong. It looked almost like...a picture of some sort.

Curious, Holly leaned forward as far as she could, still clutching the ladder with one hand, and closed her fingers over one corner of the object. She tugged, it didn’t budge. She tugged again, harder, and this time, with a shower of dirt and a cloud of dust, it dislodged and slid forward.

She caught it with both hands, hoping to hell she didn’t fall off the ladder. It was heavier than she’d thought, and covered in a thick layer of dust. She sneezed, and sneezed again. Staggering slightly under the bulk of it, she backed the rest of the way down the ladder, relieved when she reached the floor. She slid the thing – whatever it was – down her legs to the ground, her heart racing with exertion.

What was it? How had it ended up here? And why was it shoved under the eaves?

Despite her growling stomach and her strong desire to leave, Holly’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned the mysterious object against a stack of boxes and reached out to pull the blanket off.

She let out a soft breath as the blanket fell away. It was a portrait...a painting of a young woman.

She wore a glittery black evening gown and leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of a piano, the other holding a champagne glass. Her dark hair was cut in a stylish bob; her smiling, cupid’s-bow lips were rouged, and her eyes – dark, like her hair – were kohled. An ornate art deco necklace of onyx and diamonds circled her throat. Her shoulders were bare.

She was a flapper, Holly realized with a thrill of excitement, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Again the scent of lavender and vanilla drifted on the air, and Holly thought she heard the faint sound of laughter, light and musical. She frowned. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her eyes searching the shadowy corners uneasily. “Hello?”

But as quickly as it came, the laughter and the scent of perfume adrift on the air vanished.

Holly turned back to the painting. What to do with it? She hated to leave it up here, but there was no way she could drag it down the stairs. And – she didn’t know why, exactly – but she definitely didn’t want Coco to know about this portrait.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “Dad?” she said breathlessly as soon as he picked up. “I found something in the attic. You should come up and take a look.”

“Holly, I’m terribly busy. Ask Coco to look at it, she’s in charge of the attic inventory and the disposal of all the bric-a-brac—”

“This isn’t ‘bric-a-brac,’ Dad,” she said firmly. “It’s an old portrait I found stuck under one of the eaves. It might...it might be valuable. Please come up and see it. It won’t take long, I promise.”

He let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Very well, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Holly thanked him and clicked “end call,” then slid the phone back in her pocket.

The breeze returned, carrying the scent of lavender and vanilla once again, and this time, it was stronger than ever. Holly froze.

“Who’s there?” she demanded again, louder this time. “Who are you? You can come out,” she added cautiously. “You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

She waited, half expecting to see a homeless person dart out and scurry across the floor to the stairs, or maybe a customer who’d crept upstairs to snoop around, or an antiques dealer who wanted to get a first look at the stuff up here.

But there was no one.

“I’m here,” Alastair said a moment later, as he appeared in the doorway and made his way across the attic to join her. “Where’s this painting you insisted I come and see?”

“It’s over here.”

He followed her to the portrait propped up against the boxes. He studied it without speaking, his brow knitted in a frown. “Where did you find this?”

“It was stuck under the eaves, over there,” she said, and pointed in the general direction of the fire escape. “Isn’t it something?”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “It is, indeed. She’s beautiful.” He glanced at Holly. “The question is – who is she? And why is her painting hidden away up here?”

“I don’t know,” Holly admitted, “but I’d love to find out. How much do you know about this brownstone, Dad?”

He shrugged. “Not much. I bought it through an estate broker in London. I didn’t set foot in the place until after Sir Richard signed the deed. It was built at the turn of the last century, and it was a speakeasy during the Roaring Twenties.”

“Wow.” Holly’s eyes widened. “This place was a real, honest-to-goodness speakeasy, with a secret password to get in, and gangsters, and bootleg hootch?”

“Yes. I can’t tell you much else, I’m afraid. It stood empty for a number of years after the Depression.”

“Why? What happened?”

He hesitated. “As I said, I don’t have the details, but I do know the police planned to raid the place and shut it down. But the night before the raid, three men burst in with sub-machine guns and massacred five people – all of them gangsters. It was retaliation for the murder of a rival gang’s lieutenant.”

Holly suppressed a shudder. “How awful. There wasn’t...there weren’t any women killed that night, were there?” she asked suddenly as she stared at the painting. That poor girl! Had she been here that night?

“No. All five were men, hardened criminals whose passing likely wasn’t mourned by anyone.”

“Oh. Still,” Holly murmured, “what a horrible way to die. Is that why the brownstone stayed empty for so long? Because of the murders?”

“I imagine so.” He studied the portrait again. “Perhaps we should have someone take a look at this.”

A cool breeze ruffled Holly’s hair. “No,” she said, her words firm. “Her painting belongs here.”

Her father looked at her. “Indeed? What makes you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling. We should leave it here. We don’t want to damage it, after all. Maybe we can get someone to come and examine it...someone who knows about art, and the Roaring Twenties.”

“I could have a look if you like.”

Holly spun around to see Hugh Darcy standing in the doorway. “Oh. Mr Darcy.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, and turned to her father. “I apologize for the interruption, but you’re needed downstairs, Mr James.”

“Bloody hell! Can’t this place manage for ten minutes without me?” he grumbled. “Come in, Hugh. We’d appreciate your input.” He bent forward and kissed Holly absently on the forehead. “I’ll see you later. Let me know what you find out.”

“I will.” She waited until he left. She was relieved that he hadn’t brought up the subject of her after-work arrangement with Ciaran, but wished he hadn’t left her alone with Mr Darcy. He always made her feel wrong-footed and defensive.

Darcy glanced at her. “I did my undergraduate studies in Art History at Oxford and I worked for several summers at Sotheby’s in the valuation room. Might I take a look?”

She waited for a cool breeze, which she was convinced indicated the flapper’s displeasure, but it never came. “Be my guest,” Holly replied. She stood back as he knelt down before the painting and studied it intently. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, she is.” He frowned. “Of course we’d need to test the pigment to be sure, but judging from the clothing, I’d say this was probably painted in either 1927 or 1928.” He straightened up. “Where did you find it?”

“Shoved under the eaves,” she answered. “I found it by accident when I ran into a spider web.”

“They can be rather unpleasant.”

“I hate spider webs,” Holly agreed, and added, “Most of us shallow girls do.”

His dark eyes met hers. “Miss James—”

She had no wish to hear an apology from him, much less any more criticism. “Never mind. So tell me, how do you test the pigment?”

“Well, the painting should be examined by an art conservator, who’ll take a non-required sampling of the paint. That’s a tiny, non-invasive sample that gives a reasonably good idea of the age of the pigment and, thus, the painting. The other option is X-ray radiography. It’s a more conclusive, but also rather more invasive, method.”

The breeze, absent until then, returned. It seemed that the flapper was not pleased.

“Did you feel that?” Hugh asked suddenly.

Holly stared at him, astonished. “You felt it, too?”

He looked at her oddly. “Yes, of course I did.” He glanced past her at the windows, both shut. “It must’ve come from the attic doorway,” he murmured. “Most odd.”

“Sorry if I was rude the night of the party,” Holly said, all too anxious to change the subject from breezes and odd things and the potential ghost of a flapper. “I was, wasn’t I?”

He shrugged. “You’d just accepted a date with Ciaran Duncan, after all. I imagine he dazzles all the young women.”

“It wasn’t a date, and I wasn’t ‘dazzled,’” Holly retorted. “Well, maybe a bit,” she admitted. “It isn’t every day a girl gets asked to dinner by a film star, after all.”

“No, I expect not.”

“Why don’t you like him, anyway?” she wondered. “Do you know him?”

“Know him?” He glanced at her. “No. But I know of him. He’s charming, persuasive, and very skilled at getting what he wants, with no concern for who he might hurt in the process.”

“Oh, he can’t be that bad,” Holly scoffed. “He’s funny, in a droll, self-deprecating way. And he has very nice teeth.”

“So did the Big Bad Wolf, as I recall.” There was a distinct edge to his voice.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Holly said, wishing to change the subject to anything but Ciaran, “but I wondered – are you seeing anyone? Back in London, I mean?”

His expression – already forbidding – tightened. “I fail to see how my personal life is any of your concern, Miss James.”

“Oh, never mind.” Holly turned away. “I don’t really care, anyway.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I wondered if there’s a real person under that perfectly tailored suit.” She glared at him. “I guess I have my answer.”

His tense expression relaxed. “No. I haven’t the time, apart from anything else. Your father keeps me very busy with legal matters.”

“Well then, why don’t you ask Coco out, Mr Darcy? She’s right here at the store, and she’s single. I’m sure she’d love to go out with you.”

A look of distaste crossed his face. “I can assure you, I’d rather eat rocks than go out with Ms. Welch.”

She stared at him. “Why? Coco’s quite attractive. She’s stylish. And brunette,” she couldn’t help adding.

“Yes, I suppose she’s attractive,” he agreed, ignoring the dig, “but there’s the small matter of a personality.” He paused. “She doesn’t have one.”

Holly blinked. Then she laughed. “Good point, Mr Darcy. At least we can agree on that.”

He glanced at her, and for the first time, his lips relaxed into a slight smile. “Shall we go back downstairs, Miss James? I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling rather hungry. I wouldn’t mind a pastrami on rye, or perhaps a Reuben, from that deli on the corner. Join me?”

“That,” Holly said with satisfaction, “sounds absolutely perfect, Mr Darcy.”

They went to Shatz’s deli and placed their orders at the counter. When their sandwiches were ready, they found a table by the window and sat down. As Hugh bit into his pastrami on rye with extra mustard, and she took a bite of her ham and Swiss on wheat, hold the mayo, Holly basked in the sun streaming in through the window, her sandwich...even Darcy’s somewhat formal company.

He was amusing; he was clever; and when he relaxed a bit, he was almost...fun.

“How long have you worked for my father?” Holly asked as she reached for a crisp.

“Eight years, nearly nine. I went to work for him straight out of Oxford. I never intended to stay so long,” he admitted as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, “but I like the work, and I admire Alastair. He’s a good man.”

“Is he?” When Hugh looked at her oddly, Holly hastened to add, “Of course he is. I just mean, I don’t know him in the same way you do.”

“Alastair is one of the few men I know who actually has principles,” Hugh said, “and strong convictions. And he stands by them. But he’s compassionate, as well. He and Sir Richard do a great deal of charitable work on behalf of the store.”

“Really?” Holly chewed her ham sandwich thoughtfully. “I didn’t know that.”

“It seems there’s a lot you don’t know, Miss James.” He raised his brow and took a large bite of his pastrami on rye.

“Is that right?” she retorted. “Well, I do know one thing you don’t,” she added.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

She grinned and reached out to touch her finger to a bit of mustard on the corner of his mouth. “That extra mustard you asked for? It’s not only on your sandwich.”

He sat still and allowed her to dab it away. “Can’t take me anywhere, I’m afraid.”

Holly met his eyes. Her smile faded as she realized her finger was practically in his mouth. It was a nice mouth, too...firm, and chiseled, like a Greek statue’s. She blinked and drew her finger hastily away, and blushed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “I’m glad you did.” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t like to go about conducting Dashwood and James’s legal affairs with a mustard smear on my mouth.”

As they finished their lunch and gathered up their waxed paper and crisp bags, Holly turned to him. “You needn’t worry, you know.”

“Worry?” He looked at her in surprise. “About what?”

“About Ciaran Duncan,” she replied. “You said he could be charming, and persuasive. And he can. He is. But you’re not bad yourself, when you make half an effort.” And with an insouciant smile, Holly picked up her tray and made her way to the door, leaving Mr Darcy to follow after her.

Chapter Thirteen

“So how was it?” Chaz demanded on the phone late Monday afternoon. “I want all the details. Where’d you and Ciaran go? What did you eat? Did he try anything? Ooh, please tell me he did.” He paused. “No, on second thought, don’t. I don’t want to know. Did he like your outfit?”

Holly, sprawled across her bed, said, “If you’d let me get a word in, I’ll tell you all about it.” And she did, except for the part where Ciaran kissed her in the limo and she kissed him back.

Some things were probably best kept to herself.

“So he took you to The Russian Tea Room, a carriage ride through Central Park, shopping on Fifth Avenue, and you had a drink at the Café Carlyle,” Chaz repeated, unimpressed. “Romantic, yes; but it’s a textbook ‘New York day out.’”

“Oh, quit being so snarky. That was the idea, if you recall. Not everyone thinks a burger at Rudy’s Bar and Grill followed by body shots at a drag club is the ideal evening out,” she retorted.

“It sounds pretty perfect to me.” He paused. “Speaking of ideal evenings out – I have news, too.”

“Really? Is it news of a romantic nature?” Holly asked.

“It could be,” he said mysteriously. “Guess who asked me out to dinner?”

“I don’t know, and I hate guessing games. Just tell me.”

“Karl von Karle, that’s who,” he trilled.

She stared at her phone. “You mean the same Karl von Karle who designs shoes and carries the tiny little dog everywhere he goes, like a furry accessory?”

“Maximilian,” Chaz told her, and nodded. “I went to your desk to see if you were free for lunch – you were nowhere to be found, by the way – and Karl was talking to Alastair, and he introduced us, and one thing led to another, and...well, he asked me out.”

“Well, um, congratulations. Wow.”

“You don’t sound very happy for me,” Chaz accused her.

“Of course I am.” Holly hesitated. “It’s just – well, he’s famous, Chaz. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And he’s a lot older than you. Besides, he’s been with that Belgian fashion designer forever—”

“They broke up. Jean-Paul was too possessive. And so what if he’s famous? You’re dating a famous guy.”

“We’re not dating. We’re friends.” She paused. “I’m happy for you, Chaz, truly.” She glanced down at her watch. “But I have to go.”

“Oh? Where?” he demanded. “I thought Ciaran was flying back to London today. Has he asked you out again? And where’s Jamie?”

“He has, he’s flying back on Sunday. Jamie’s working.” As usual, she thought. “Ciaran asked me to come with him and look at apartments.”

Chaz let out a soft whistle. “Wow...he’s a fast mover. He’s known you exactly one day and he already wants to look at apartments together?”

“It’s not like that,” she said, annoyed. “He starts filming soon, and he needs a place to live. He wants my input.”

“More like he wants to put it into you,” Chaz muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. What are you doing tomorrow? Isn’t Tuesday your day off?”

“No, I’m working full time until the launch ends. But I don’t mind – I’m hoping to learn more about the flapper.”

“Okay, I’ll bite – what flapper?”

“I don’t know who she is, yet. I found her portrait in the attic yesterday.” She had a sudden idea. “Why don’t you come over at lunch and help me? You can meet her, and help me find out who she is.”

“Meet her?” he echoed. “You make it sound like she’s still alive and living in the attic.”

Holly almost told him about sensing her presence; but for some reason, she didn’t. He probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway. And he’d think she was bat-shit crazy.

“Well, the painting’s so lifelike, it’s almost as though she’s real,” she explained, and added, “So, are you in? Feel like rummaging through a bunch of dusty boxes with me tomorrow?”

“Ooh, what fun,” Chaz deadpanned. He sighed. “Okay, why not? It’s not like I have anything better planned for lunch tomorrow anyway.”

“Gee, thanks for that,” Holly retorted. “Love you too. I’ll see you then.”

Although Holly and Chaz spent an entire hour in the attic the next day, sneezing and shoving boxes around, they found nothing of interest, only more junk, and plenty of cobwebs.

“I’m not surprised,” Chaz said as he leaned back on his heels. “I mean, why would this flapper’s journals and personal stuff be stashed up here, anyway? You said this place was a speakeasy back in the day.”

“It was. But why is her portrait here in the attic, then?” Holly wondered, frustrated. “Who shoved it under the eaves, and why?”

“Who knows? My advice? Find out her name first. Then you can figure out where she lived.”

“Right,” she agreed. “And how do I do that, exactly?”

Chaz stood and brushed the dust from his pants. “Well, I’m no Nancy Drew, but I’d start with the local library and check old newspapers. Or maybe the chamber of commerce?”

“You’re brilliant.” Holly kissed him impulsively on the cheek and followed him to the door. “That’s just what I’ll do. How’d you like to go over there with me later?”

“No, thanks,” he said firmly. “I can think of lots of things I’d rather do with my evening. And none of them involves the library or the chamber of commerce. Enjoy yourself, sweetie.”

Chapter Fourteen

When her shift at the store ended, Holly drove to the library, and after searching the history shelves, sat down with a stack of local Greenwich Village books. She pulled the first volume towards her and began to read. Halfway through the second book, she found what she was looking for.

The brownstone that housed Dashwood and James was built in 1878 and started out as a hotel. It featured a bohemian clientele, amongst them writers, artists, dancers, and musicians. It wasn’t until the 1920s, and the arrival of Prohibition, that a gangster named Clyde Caruso purchased the hotel and turned it into a speakeasy.

Holly leaned forward. Despite federal law banning the manufacture and sale of alcohol, bootleggers continued to make whiskey and moonshine, and people continued to buy it. Eventually organized crime stepped in. Unlike another notorious criminal of the day, Al Capone – who some viewed as a kind of wrong-side-of-the-law Robin Hood for his many charitable contributions – Caruso had no interest in charity. He wanted power.

After Capone ordered the infamous St. Valentine’s Day Massacre of six rival gangsters, he was convicted and sent to prison, and Caruso began building his own crime empire.

What she needed, Holly realized as she closed the book, were local newspapers from the time period in question. She stood and made her way to the reference desk.

“Excuse me,” she said to the woman behind the desk. “I need to look at some local Greenwich Village newspapers from 1927 and 1928, if possible.”

“That’ll be on microfiche,” the librarian replied. “One moment, please.”

Although she learned a lot about New York in the days of Prohibition and speakeasies and crime syndicates, Holly had no luck discovering the flapper’s identity.

Still, she consoled herself as she gathered up her handbag and thrust her notes inside, she’d found plenty of background information, and even a photograph of Clyde Caruso. She studied the photocopy now. He was handsome, in a dark, Gangsters of New York kind of way. But there was a definite coldness in his eyes. He wasn’t someone you’d ever want to cross.

Holly went back to her table to return her books to the shelves. As she began to stack the volumes in her hands, she sensed someone behind her.

“Hello, Miss James. I didn’t expect to see you here, hitting the books on a Tuesday evening.”

She looked up to see Hugh Darcy and eyed the law books stacked in his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m doing some legal research for Alastair. All very dull and incomprehensible stuff, I’m afraid.” He eyed her own stack of books. “What brings you to the library?”

Holly hesitated. Should she tell him about her quest to discover the flapper’s identity? Perhaps she should. After all, with his legal research expertise, he might be of use.

“I’m trying to learn a bit more about the painting in the attic. Not the provenance of the painting itself,” she hastened to add, “but the identity of the girl in the portrait.”

“Ah, yes, the flapper,” Hugh said thoughtfully. “Well, I’d start with old newspapers from the period – which, it seems, you’re already doing – and then I’d contact a genealogical society for help in tracing her identity.”

“That’s a very good idea,” she agreed. “After all, I can’t do anything until I know her name.” She paused. “I’ll let you know what I find out, if you like.”

“Please do. I’m curious to know.” He cleared his throat again and smiled hesitantly. “Well...goodbye, then, Miss James. Perhaps I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Mr Darcy.” On impulse she added, “You know, you can call me ‘Holly,’ if you like. I won’t be offended.”

“Thank you.” He shifted the books in his arms. “Goodbye...Holly.”

And as she turned away to shelve the books, it occurred to her that Mr Darcy hadn’t returned the favor to say she might call him ‘Hugh.’

She rolled her eyes. He might be attractive, and he might be clever and even marginally nice at times, but Hugh Darcy was still pedantic and self-important...

...exactly like that other Mr Darcy.

The next afternoon, Holly dashed across Bleecker Street – dodging a pedicab and a bike messenger on steroids in the process – and entered Jamie’s restaurant. The sound of hammering greeted her ears. Plywood sawhorses, toolboxes, and sheets of plastic were everywhere, and the floors were covered with drop cloths.

“Jamie?” she called out, her eyes sliding past the painters and drywall hangers. “Where are you?”

“Back here,” he answered. “In the kitchen.”

She made her way cautiously around a wheelbarrow filled with bits of plaster and ripped-up carpet and stepped over a tangle of cables to follow the sound of Jamie’s voice down a narrow hallway.

“Here you are,” she said as she spotted him, supervising the installation of a huge, double-door stainless steel refrigerator.

“Hey, Hols.” He came over and kissed her. “What’s up?”

“Well,” she said as she stood before him and looped her arms around his neck, “you promised me lunch, remember?”

“I did, didn’t I?” He paused, one arm still around her waist, to sign for delivery of a new sink. “Thanks, mate. You can put it over there for now.” He pointed to an empty corner.

“Never mind,” Holly said, and masked her disappointment. “You’re busy. We can do lunch another day.”

“No.” Jamie handed the clipboard over and turned back to her. “I promised we’d have lunch, and we will. Let me just get my phone. Be right back.” He kissed her again and disappeared.

As she waited, one hip resting against the brand-new grill, Holly tried to visualize the kitchen as the well-oiled, gleaming stainless steel machine it would eventually become. But she couldn’t. The dust, drop cloths, and holes in the drywall made it all but impossible.

Still, Jamie would make it happen. He always did. He was a talented chef, and his staff liked and respected him. She just hoped that Gordon Scots would do as well here in New York as it had in London.

“Excuse me.”

Holly glanced up from her mobile phone. Jamie’s sous chef, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, regarded her with an upraised brow. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and had a carton in her hands.

Holly straightened. “Oh, sorry – Catherine, isn’t it? Am I in the way?”

Although she didn’t reply, the fact that she hefted the box she held on top of the grill in the spot Holly had just vacated made it plain she was, indeed, in the way.

“Oh, hi, Cat. I see you’ve met my fiancée, Holly James,” he said. “Holly, this is Catherine Morgan. She’s my new sous chef.”

“We’ve met. Apparently,” Holly added, “I’m in the way.”

Catherine managed a tight smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude; but New York is full of crazies, and right now, anyone can walk in off the street.” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

So, Holly thought as they warily shook hands, she’s just met me and already she’s comparing me to a crazy street person.

Catherine turned back to Jamie. “I thought I’d run out and grab a bite to eat while I have a few minutes. Can I get you anything?” Her glance flickered to Holly. “Either of you?”

“Thanks, but we’re headed to lunch ourselves. I promised,” Jamie said, and grinned as he took Holly’s hand and swung it up to his lips.

“Okay. I’ll stay and take delivery of the stove and the broiler, then. They should be here any time.”

‘Oh, shit – I forgot!” Jamie exclaimed. He turned to Holly. “Sorry, Hols, but I should probably stick around for a bit longer—”

“Don’t be silly, Catherine assured him. “I can handle it. That’s what I’m here for, after all – to have your back.”

Or to stab you in it with a nice sharp knife, Holly thought irritably.

“Catherine’s right, Jamie,” she said, and took his arm. “She’s got it covered. Come on, let’s go – I’m starving.”

But he shook his head. “I need to stay, there’s too much going on today. I can’t leave Catherine to deal with it all. Maybe tomorrow?” He drew away and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Holly opened her mouth to protest, to tell Jamie he was being ridiculous and that Catherine was a Machiavelli in chef’s whites, but what was the use? She knew he wouldn’t listen.

“Sure,” she said, and turned to go. “Maybe tomorrow.”

But Jamie didn’t hear her. He’d already turned away to consult with Catherine about the dinner menu for opening night.

Chapter Fifteen

Natalie was sprawled on the sofa, watching the Today Show featuring Christa, the pop singer who’d nearly destroyed her best friend Gemma’s marriage, when her mobile phone rang.

She switched the TV off. “Hello?”

“Nat? Hi – Holly here. Are you free for lunch? Jamie just bailed on me. I have so much to tell you.”

“Not half as much as I have to tell you,” Natalie assured her. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Where shall we meet?”

“How about Nico’s, on Third Avenue?” Holly said. “One o’clock?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

As Natalie waited for the lift a short time later, she wondered what Rhys was doing. Perhaps they could do something together on Sunday. She’d scarcely seen him since they’d arrived in Manhattan.

With a discreet “ding,” the lift doors slid open, and she stepped in and nodded politely at the elderly gentleman standing inside.

“Good morning,” she said.

He inclined his head. “Good morning.” Although silvery-gray, his hair was thick and springy. He held a trilby in one hand and an ebony walking stick in the other.

As the lift began its descent, he tucked the hat under one arm and stretched out his hand. “Morris Holland.”

“Natalie Dashwood-Gordon.” She took his hand and noted the firmness of his grip.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon. I’ve already met your husband, Rhys.” He smiled, and there was a twinkling in his eye. “It’s quite a mouthful, that hyphenated name of yours, isn’t it?”

“Is it a bit pretentious?” She regarded him doubtfully. “Rhys thinks so. But I like my last name. Both of them,” she added, and smiled. “And please call me Natalie.”

“It’s not pretentious in the least,” he assured her. “I’m very glad that we shall be neighbors.”

“Do you live here, too?”

He smiled, amused. “Yes, my dear. I do.”

With another discreet “ding” the lift arrived at the first floor, and he waited as she got out. “It was a great pleasure meeting you, Natalie,” he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

She blushed, charmed by his old-world manner. “Thank you, Mr Holland. It was lovely chatting with you.”

He left, thrusting on his trilby and touching the brim as the desk clerk called out a deferential ‘Good morning, Mr Holland,’ and as he disappeared through the front doors, Natalie walked across the lobby to the reception desk.

“Excuse me,” she said, “could you call me a taxi, please?”

“Of course.” The clerk picked up the phone and made the call. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked as he rang off.

She rested her forearm atop the polished mahogany. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “There is one thing. Can you tell me who the elderly gentleman was? The one who just left?”

“That’s Morris Holland, the art collector. He’s the head of the Dunleigh’s co-op board. In fact,” he added with a conspiratorial wink, “he owns the building.”

Natalie blinked. “Oh. I’d no idea.”

No wonder he looked amused when I asked if he lived here, Natalie thought, embarrassed. He not only lives here – he owns the bloody building

She thanked the clerk and sat down in the lobby to wait for her taxi.

“So – tell me,” Natalie said as she and Holly followed the waiter to a table at Nico’s, “how are you and Jamie getting on? Another restaurant...you must be so proud.”

“I am. He’s worked hard for this. He never stops.” She hung her handbag over the back of a chair and sat down.

“He stopped long enough to ask you to marry him.”

Holly reached for a menu and pretended to study it. She remembered the night Jamie had proposed, at a charity ball at Mansfield Hall, under a starry sky on the terrace. She’d recently broken up with Alex Barrington, a member of Parliament and her first interview assignment for BritTEEN magazine, and Jamie had been there to put the pieces of her broken heart back together.

“The truth is,” she admitted as she looked up from the menu, “Jamie’s so busy with the restaurant that we hardly see each other. He spends more time with his sous chef than he does with me. And she’s gorgeous,” she added glumly. “I barely know Catherine and I’m jealous already.”

“Well, not to worry. Jamie would never fall for someone else. He loves you, Holly. Speaking of which – have you set a date?”

She shook her head. “We agreed to wait until the new restaurant’s established.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A couple of months.” She paused as the waiter arrived to take their orders.

“Well, you’re far more patient than I am,” Natalie said. “At least he put a ring on your finger. Speaking of which – let me see it.”

Obediently, Holly complied and held out her hand. A cushion-cut diamond sparkled on her ring finger.

“Ooh, it’s gorgeous. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, Nat. I just...” she sighed, and Ciaran’s face flashed across her mind. “I wish we could see more of each other while we’re here, that’s all.”

“Believe me, I understand. Rhys has been constantly busy with the launch, and most nights he doesn’t get home until late. Speaking of the launch, how’s it going?”

“It’s not bad, really, except for Coco Welch.”

“The promotions manager,” Natalie said, and made a face. “I don’t like her, either.”

“Yesterday she sent me up to the attic to inventory all the junk – in my brand-new skirt – and while I was up there, I found a portrait hidden in the eaves. A painting of a 1920s flapper.”

“Ooh, how intriguing,” Nat exclaimed, and paused as the waiter brought their drinks. After he left, she leaned forward. “Give me details, please – who is she?”

“That’s just it – I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, but there’s not much to go on. Mr Darcy’s having the painting evaluated tomorrow.”

“Mr Darcy? Isn’t he Alastair’s lawyer?”

Holly nodded. “He studied Art History at Oxford, and he knows someone who might be able to tell us a bit more about it.”

“You know, when we were in the drawing room at the pre-launch the other night,” Natalie confessed, “I couldn’t get warm, despite the fire...and I felt a breeze. Like someone walking past me – but there was no one there.”

Holly stared at her. “You felt it too?”

She nodded. “Rhys said I was imagining things. Just like he said I imagined our intruder,” she said, and frowned.

“Intruder? What intruder? What happened?”

And as Natalie filled her in on the events at the Dunleigh the night of the pre-launch party, Holly’s eyes grew wide. “You saw someone in your apartment?”

“I’m quite sure I did. Oh, I admit it was dark, and I couldn’t make out details – but I saw someone, Holly. And whoever it was had a gun.”

“And Rhys didn’t believe you?”

“Not really, no. He searched the apartment, and checked to see if someone had tried to break in, but there was nothing.”

“So he thinks you imagined it.”

“Yes. And maybe I did...but–” She leaned forward. “–there really is a cat burglar on the loose in Manhattan. So it might very well have been him.”

Chapter Sixteen

Holly’s mobile phone buzzed from the recesses of her handbag, and she reached behind her chair to grab it. “Speaking of Jamie,” she said in apology to Natalie as she glanced at the screen, “he’s calling. Hello?”

“Crikey, Hols, where’ve you been?” he asked testily. “I’ve called three times, and every time I get your voicemail.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy. I’m having lunch with Nat.” She paused. “Why, what’s up?”

“I wanted to say sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch. And to let you know I’ll try to get home a bit earlier tonight. Catherine wants to go over the food orders again before we leave to be sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”

“Of course she does.” A world of sarcasm undercut her words.

“Look, Hols – I know we’ve not seen each other much, and I’m sorry, but it’s a lot of work getting the restaurant ready to open. I’m all over the place at the moment. I thought you understood that.”

“I do,” she sighed, instantly regretting her criticism. “I know it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for Catherine,” he added. “She’s been a real lifesaver through all of this.”

Any vestiges of sympathy Holly felt for Jamie dried up on the spot and morphed into irritation. “Well, hurrah for her. So glad she’s there to save the day once again. Sorry, Jamie, but we have a bad connection. I have to go,” she said abruptly. “Talk to you later. Bye.” She rang off.

Their plates arrived, and she and Natalie tucked into their respective entrees. Nat made no mention of Holly’s brief but semi-heated conversation with Jamie. Of course she wouldn’t, Holly thought; she was far too polite.

She scowled as she took a roll from the basket and buttered it with savage motions. Catherine spent far more time with her fiancé than she did, and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair at all, in fact it was driving her absolutely bat-shit crazy—

“Something wrong, Hols?” Natalie inquired gently.

Holly looked up, startled out of her dark thoughts. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Well – you’re buttering your bread. And you never eat bread. Or butter.”

Holly forced her thoughts aside. It wasn’t fair to Nat to scowl and sulk through lunch because of Jamie’s ridiculous culinary infatuation with Catherine. “You’re right. Sorry, just thinking about that flapper and wondering who she is,” she said, and returned her bread to the basket.

Natalie nodded her understanding but said nothing more. She knows I’m lying, Holly thought.

They both knew she was lying.

“I’m done.”

Jamie took off his apron later that evening and sank wearily onto a barstool and glanced around him. Everything was nearly ready for the opening.

“It looks amazing,” Catherine said, reading his thoughts as she rested her hip against the bar. “You’ve done a great job, Jamie.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Not true. You worked your ass off for weeks to get here.”

“It’ll all be worth it when we open the doors. But now–” He stood up. “–I really should go. I might even manage to get home before midnight tonight. I promised Holly I’d try.”

Catherine went behind the bar and retrieved a bottle. “Oh, no,” she said firmly. “Not until you have at least one glass of champagne with me to celebrate. We’ve earned it.”

She popped the cork, laughing as a froth of fizz bubbled out, and filled two glasses. She handed him one. “To us. Cheers.”

“Okay. Why the hell not?” he said as he took the glass. “Cheers,” he echoed, and grinned as he sat back down. “Here’s to you, Catherine – the best damned sous chef in Manhattan.”

There was nothing that a bubble bath couldn’t cure, Natalie reflected that evening as she eased herself into the claw-footed antique tub and leaned her head back in bliss.

It was half-past seven, and Rhys wasn’t home yet. But she didn’t mind. It gave her extra time to linger in the frangipani-scented bath, spray herself with frangipani-scented perfume, and arrange herself seductively in bed to await her husband’s arrival.

Well, she thought ruefully as she rested a hand on the slight swell of her stomach, at least as seductive as one could look in the fourth (nearly fifth) month of pregnancy.

But as she sat propped against the pillows a short time later, reading a murder mystery about a man who escaped from a mental health facility and went on a killing spree in a quiet English village, Natalie wished she’d chosen something a bit more...anodyne to read.

She lifted her head from the book. What was that sound? Had she heard a floorboard creak?

She could still see that figure looming over her in the darkness the other night, and the thought sent a remembered chill down her spine.

But Rhys had searched the apartment quite thoroughly, she reminded herself. And he’d found nothing.

Because no one was here, Natalie reassured herself. And even if someone had been in the apartment, they’d left without taking anything or causing any harm.

Still, she decided uneasily as she got out of bed, it wouldn’t hurt to throw the deadbolt on the front door until Rhys got home and check the apartment again, just to be sure. She’d left a lamp on in the living room and on the hallway table, unwilling to face a dark, shadowy room while she was alone.

Her mobile phone rang, and she started. She glanced at the screen. Rhys. “Are you on your way home?” she asked shakily.

“Yes. I got us takeaway from Madame Wu’s.” He paused. “What’s wrong? You sound upset. Has something happened?”

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “I’m reading one of those English murder mysteries and scaring myself a bit, that’s all.”

“Darling, why do you do that?” he scolded her. “Never mind, I’m nearly there. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.”

“I can’t wait.” Feeling immediately better, Natalie returned to the bedroom and drew on a robe, and went in the kitchen to wait for Rhys.

As she polished off a second spring roll twenty minutes later, Nat licked her fingers. “This is really scrummy.”

Takeway containers and packets of plum sauce and Chinese mustard littered the kitchen table as she and Rhys dined on sticky chicken and dan dan noodles.

Rhys dipped a spoon in his sweet and sour soup. “We have Chaz to thank. He’s the one who told me about Madame Wu’s.”

“Of course.” Nat resisted rolling her eyes – only just – as she reached for a fortune cookie.

“He knows all of the best places to go. He even typed up a list for me.”

“How thoughtful.” She unwrapped her fortune cookie and read aloud, “‘You will meet a tall, dark stranger.’” She tossed it aside. “How original.”

“No, darling, sorry to say there’s no tall, dark stranger in your future,” Rhys said. “Unless,” he added with a gleam in his eye, “we count your intruder the other night.”

She regarded him indignantly. “I’m glad you find it so amusing, Rhys. I did see someone in the apartment. And anything might have happened if I hadn’t screamed.”

“Yes. I might’ve gotten a decent night’s sleep.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

Rhys sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps I can have additional security measures put in place. Chaz can look into it.”

Chaz again, Nat thought irritably. “Whatever would you do without him?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he said, completely missing her sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been so busy, and there’s still so much to do – I’d never have accomplished half of what I have if it weren’t for Chaz. He’s incredibly organized. I’m really very lucky to have him on board.”

Natalie dug out the last of her sticky chicken from the carton with her chopsticks and plopped it on her plate.

I used to dress fashionably, she thought morosely. I used to have Rhys’s eye, and his undivided attention. Now all he can talk about is his personal assistant, and I’m just a...an afterthought. A fat afterthought.

“Natalie,” Rhys said gently as he took the chopsticks from her hand and laid them aside, “what’s wrong? You look like your last credit card was just turned down.”

“Yes, well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted.

He blinked. “What?”

She stood and carried her plate to the sink and set it down with a clatter. “You hate to see me spend money. You’re always on at me about exercising restraint and thinking before I buy. It gets tiresome. I want to buy things for the baby, and I’ll need new clothes soon. I can barely fit in the old ones.”

“Then of course you should buy whatever you need. But you already have enough baby clothes to stock Piccolini—”

“Most of those were presents,” she said defensively. “And you have to admit, their ‘I Heart NY’ T-shirts and jim-jams are beyond adorable.”

“The problem is, Natalie, you think everything is ‘beyond adorable.’ And then you buy it.”

“It’s our first baby, Rhys! A baby requires a lot of...things. And I did offer to work with you,” she added, “to help out and earn a bit of extra money. I haven’t very much to do these days. But you s-said you don’t need my h-help.”

Then she erupted into tears.

Rhys stood and pulled her to her feet and into his arms. “My darling Nat,” he said into her hair, “you’re being ridiculous. I need you...and I always will. You’re my wife, my everything. And you’re having our child. So there’s no need for you to work at Dashwood and James, or anywhere. Unless you want to, of course.”

“It isn’t about having a job, Rhys. I just want to feel...needed. I feel like an afterthought where you’re concerned, like I have no place in your life.”

He took his finger and tilted her tear-blotched face up to his. “You have the first place in my life,” he told her, his words at once gruff and firm. “And you always will.”

She sniffled and blinked her tear-matted lashes. “Really?”

“Really.” He kissed her and draped his arm around her shoulders. “Now that’s settled, I’m knackered. Let’s go to bed.”

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