The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy. Katie Oliver

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      “I’m surprised you have time for a book club,” she said as she took down cups.

      “I work from home two days a week. It’s been a boon since the divorce; with Sarah in Bath, I get to spend the time with Duncan.”

      She poured the coffee. Hannah would leave soon, too, and the thought filled her with indescribable sadness. “Is Duncan ready for university?” she asked as she handed Neil his coffee.

      He looked at her as he took the cup, and saw the telltale brightness of her eyes. “Cherie,” he murmured, his face etched with concern as he set the cup aside and reached out to touch the tear that slid down her cheek, “don’t cry,” and then he was holding her, kissing her, and she was kissing him back…

      Cherie heard Hannah and Duncan coming downstairs, and pulled abruptly away. “That shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”

      His eyes met hers. “I’m not.”

      Hannah and Duncan entered the kitchen, and Neil told his son it was time to go, just as Alastair arrived home.

      “Thanks, Neil,” Cherie told him, struggling to keep her composure as she walked him to the door. “For everything.”

      “Yes, thanks for bringing my girls home,” Alastair added, and clapped Neil – a bit too hard? – on the shoulder. “Sorry I missed the festivities.”

      Neil avoided looking at Cherie. “It was my pleasure.”

      Alastair shut the door after them and turned to Cherie. “Darling,” he began, his expression contrite, “I’m so very sorry—”

      “Don’t apologise to me,” she said coldly. “Apologise to Hannah.”

      “I will, of course. I’ve made lunch reservations for the three of us at The Wisteria tomorrow. I finished everything up tonight so I’d have tomorrow cleared for my favourite girls.”

      The Wisteria, still a trendy West End dining spot, was crowded when Alastair and Cherie arrived for Hannah’s birthday lunch the next day. She glanced at the other diners, mostly tourists and WAGs and Eurotrash, and saw a black-leather-clad young man in one corner, deep in conversation with the German fashion designer, Klaus von Richter.

      “Look, mum, it’s Dominic Heath!” Hannah whispered excitedly.

      “Oh, yes.” She gazed at the pop star with narrowed eyes. Although she was sorry he’d dumped Natalie Dashwood so publicly, Cherie was glad they’d split up. Her goddaughter deserved much better than that dreadful, hedonistic rock singer with his spiky black hair and tattooed arms. She shuddered.

      As they were seated, Cherie felt a vague sense of disappointment. Of course, her negativity reflected her anger at Alastair more than any deficiency on the part of the restaurant. Still, her gaze was disapproving as she studied their surroundings. The gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper and rococo Victorian fittings, while perfectly suited to a bordello, looked tired and in need of refurbishment, Cherie decided.

      Rather like her marriage.

      “Why are we here?” Dominic demanded. “This place is naff.”

      “Shut up,” Klaus snapped. “You’re a spoilt rock star who normally dines on…what? Yellow M&Ms and Jack Daniels?”

      “Krug and sushi,” Dominic said indignantly. “Give me some credit.” He waved aside the menu the waiter held out and said, “Just a lager, mate. Thanks.” He glanced at Klaus. “What did you want to talk to me about, then?”

      “I’m pleased with your work so far,” Klaus said after he’d ordered a glass of Pinot. “Despite the wedding contretemps with Keeley—” he grimaced “—everything is going well. The commercial airs on television starting tomorrow.”

      “Yeah? Good, great,” Dominic said dispiritedly.

      “What’s wrong? You should be happy.”

      He shrugged. The truth was, he was surprised to find that he missed Natalie. Yet he’d screwed things up so badly, there was no way she’d take him back. Not even his brand new Maserati could make up for that…

      …but it went a fair way towards easing the pain.

      Klaus paused as their drinks arrived. After a moment and another sip of his Pinot Gris, he said, “I have a confession to make.”

      “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

      He eyed Dominic. “I know who you are.”

      “Of course you know who I am,” he retorted. “I’m Dominic fucking Heath, rock star.”

      Klaus shook his head and took another sip of wine. He leaned forward. “You misunderstand me. I mean that I know who you really are.” His lips unfurled into an unpleasant smile. “You’re Rupert Locksley, heir to the sixth Earl of Earnsley.”

      Dominic paled and nearly choked on his lager. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate. I was born on a council estate in Swindon. My old man’s a retired accountant—”

      “You were born in Exeter,” Klaus went on, as if Dominic hadn’t spoken, “to Lord and Lady Locksley. You attended Eton. You speak fluent French and passable Latin.”

      Dominic snorted. “You’ve got a good imagination, mate. The only French I know is pommes frites and Dom Perignon, and I went to the local comp until I did a runner at sixteen.”

      “You’re very convincing, but I know better,” Klaus said. “I pay my staff well to unearth these facts. Of course, no one need know about your aristocratic background but us. Our little secret.”

      Dominic eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”

      “I like to have insurance, Mr. Heath. Or should I say, Rupert?”

      “Don’t call me that,” Dominic snapped. “It’s not my name.”

      “Ah, but it is your name. I have proof. And since I know your secret, I suggest you do as I ask. Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure your fans find out. They’ll be outraged to learn you’re one of the very aristos they so despise. You might have trouble filling seats at your next concert.” He smiled unpleasantly. “So I suggest you humour me.”

      “Humour you how, exactly?” Dominic leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If it’s me you’re after, I don’t swing that way, mate. I like the girls, myself.”

      Klaus waved his hand dismissively. “I have no interest in you. I want…” he leaned forward “…Phillip Pryce. Find out all you can about his new collection for Dashwood and James.”

      “Phillip Pryce? Who’s he?”

      “He’s a fashion designer, you idiot!” Klaus hissed. He set his glass down with a crack, and Dominic flinched. “Talk to your ex-girlfriend, Natalie. Tell her you want to get back together, tell her you want to marry her – I don’t care. Do whatever it takes to get information about Phillip from her.”

      “I do СКАЧАТЬ