The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy. Katie Oliver

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СКАЧАТЬ “Of course you can’t miss that…or Nina’s tasteful striptease act.” She sniffed. “At any rate, I’ve better things to do than make dinner for someone who’d rather eat peanuts and swill beer while he watches some tart wriggle out of her knickers.”

      Rhys stepped closer, and his dark blue gaze lingered on her upturned face. “If I were really the oversexed Neanderthal you seem to think I am,” he murmured, “I’d say I’d much rather see you wriggle out of your knickers. But I’m not…and it wouldn’t be proper. So I won’t say it.” He grinned and turned to go. “I’ll see you Sunday, Miss Dashwood. Wear your best knickers.”

      On Saturday morning, the promise of coffee lured Cherie James off the rainy street and into her favourite bookstore.

      She closed her umbrella and tucked it in her handbag, deciding to treat herself to a book first, then coffee. She needed a nice, soapy novel with lots of sex…something with a plot about a neglected wife and her workaholic husband…

      Cherie couldn’t bear the thought of spending another Saturday alone, with Alastair working, and Hannah at her gran’s.

      She was just reaching out for the latest Katie Fforde when she heard her name. “Neil!” she exclaimed, surprise mingled with pleasure as she turned around. “What are you doing here?”

      He smiled. “The same as you, I expect.”

      “Ah. Feeling sorry for yourself and looking for a good, trashy novel, then?”

      Neil laughed. “No. I’m with Duncan. He’s looking for a Chopin biography for a revision paper.”

      “You mean he came here willingly?” she said, and raised her brow. “I have to drag Hannah in, kicking and screaming. I, on the other hand, can’t resist a good book.”

      “Nothing wrong with that.” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thanks again for inviting me to join you for dinner. I enjoyed it.”

      “I did, too. The food was lovely.”

      “It was certainly a vast improvement on leftover roast and frozen Yorkshire pudding.”

      Cherie went to the magazine shelves, where she studied the tabloids on offer. “I imagine you’re glad to be back home, now that Sarah’s returned.”

      “Oh, she’s still in Bath. Her mum had complications after the surgery, so I’m staying on with Duncan a bit longer. Tonight we’re going out to dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”

      “That sounds lovely. But I’ve already taken out lamb chops.” She took her items to the till and turned back to Neil. “I’m headed upstairs for a coffee if you’d like to join me.”

      “I would. A cup of coffee sounds perfect.”

      “As long as you don’t mind if I peruse the tabloids while we have our coffees,” she warned him.

      “Not at all.” He smiled. “Reading the tabs is my second-favourite guilty pleasure.”

      She raised her brow. “Oh? And what’s the first?”

      “I’ll never tell.” He tucked her arm inside his, and together they went upstairs to the café.

      Alastair James glanced at his wristwatch as he entered the bookstore. He had just enough time to buy a gardening book for Celia Dashwood’s birthday – a few days late, unfortunately – and get a coffee and croissant to go before he returned to work.

      He bought the most expensive gardening book on offer and headed upstairs. What a pity that Dashwood and James had such vile coffee in the employee lounge; sad that one had to go to Starbucks or Costa just to get a decent cup—

      He saw the two of them as soon as he entered the café. They shared a table, each with a coffee and Cherie with a croissant. They laughed about something; then Cherie reached out and touched Neil Hadley’s arm.

      Alastair felt a knife-twist of jealousy.

      “Excuse me, please,” a woman behind him said politely.

      With a start, Alastair murmured an apology and moved aside.

      He turned away before they saw him, his heart heavy and his appetite gone, and returned to his office, and the pile of work waiting on his desk.

      That evening, Cherie settled herself in bed next to Alastair and opened her new book. The dishes were put away and the kitchen restored to order, and Alastair had even managed to come home on time for dinner.

      Poor man, Cherie reflected as she glanced at him, propped against the pillows with his glasses perched on his nose as he read the Guardian. He’s tired. He works six days a week, after all—

      As if he sensed her gaze, Alastair looked up. “I went to the bookstore this afternoon to get a book for Celia Dashwood’s birthday.” He put the paper aside. “I saw you there.”

      Cherie slanted him a quick look. “Oh? You should have said. I ran into Duncan’s father while I was there. We had a nice chat…and a cup of coffee.”

      “I’m surprised you didn’t think to mention it to me.”

      She stiffened. “Why on earth would I? I don’t tell you when I run into Emily Morley at Waitrose—”

      “Emily Morley isn’t an attractive divorced man, is she?” he asked tightly.

      “Oh, Alastair, you can’t be serious!”

      “When I couldn’t take you to dinner a few weeks ago, you said you’d ask Sarah.” He took his glasses off and laid them aside. “You went with Neil instead. I know, because Hannah told me that he came to pick you up.”

      “Only because Sarah was gone, and Neil was at a loose end. You bailed on me! You can’t think there’s anything going on between the two of us—?”

      “I wonder that you didn’t mention it to me before, that’s all,” Alastair said. “Should I be concerned?”

      Cherie shut her book with a crack. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation! Neil and I are friends, nothing more. If you don’t believe me—” she reached over and snapped off the bedside lamp “—there’s really nothing more to say, is there?”

      She rolled over without waiting for an answer, and lay awake for some time before she fell into a troubled sleep.

      Early Sunday afternoon, Rhys picked Natalie up in his XJ9 and headed for Knightsbridge.

      “This is much nicer than the motorbike,” Nat observed as she settled back in the Jaguar’s soft leather seat. “What sort of furnishings do you like, anyway? Modern? Traditional?”

      “Modern, but nothing too bizarre. And no chintz.”

      “And what’s your budget?”

      He shrugged. “I don’t have one. The sky’s the limit…but I draw the line at £7,000 sofas or £50 cheese graters.”

      “OK, СКАЧАТЬ