Manolos in Manhattan (22 page)

“What a fucking nightmare! Firstly,” Rhys told Natalie as he came in and threw his keys aside, “there was an accident on 41
^st
street, and it took ages to get through to the mechanic’s shop. Then I had to wait for Coco to fill out the paperwork. Then the computer system went down. Of course she needed a ride back to her apartment afterwards, and by the time I dropped her off and left, traffic in Manhattan was snarled.”

Natalie said nothing.

He loosened his tie and flung it off. “It’s good to be back home. Sorry I’m late, darling. Where did you want to go?”

“Nowhere, now. It’s too late to do anything.”

“Nonsense. We still have the rest of the afternoon and evening. What would you like to do?”

She couldn’t stop staring at the vivid fuchsia lip print on his cheek.

It wasn’t her shade. And she hadn’t kissed him goodbye this morning, because she’d been asleep when he left.

Rhys frowned. “Natalie? Why are you staring at me like that? What would you like to do?” he said again.

“What would I like to do? I’d like to file for a
divorce
,” she flung back, and bursting into tears, she ran from the room.

Stunned, Rhys stood rooted to the spot. What the—?

He followed her down the hall a moment later and tried the bedroom door. It was locked. “Open the door,” he demanded.

Natalie ignored him.

“You’re being ridiculous!” he snapped. “There’s nothing going on between Coco and me, if that’s what you think.”

“Then why,” Natalie shot back in fury, “is her lipstick print on your
cheek
?”

“What?” He glared at the door. “What are you talking about?”

“Go and look in the mirror if you don’t believe me!”

Muttering under his breath about hormones and mood swings and unreasonable women, Rhys spun on his heel and stalked into the bathroom. He flipped the light switch on with an impatient gesture and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

There was a bright fuchsia lip print smack in the middle of his right cheek.

He blinked, perplexed...and then he remembered.

When he’d stopped the car in front of her building, Coco had thanked him and apologized profusely for taking up so much of his time, then leaned forward impulsively to kiss him on the cheek.

“I hope your wife knows how lucky she is,” she’d said, just before she threw the door open and strode away and into her building.

Now, Coco’s lipstick glowed on his cheek with all the subtlety of a neon sign. Bloody hell.

He let out his breath and returned to the bedroom door. “Natalie,” he said firmly, “open the door and let me explain. It’s not what you think.”

He heard silence, then a sniffle. “You can explain through the door.”

“Oh, for…” he scowled. “You’re being childish.”

“You said that already.”

“No, I didn’t,” he gritted out, “I said you’re being ridiculous. And you are. Coco kissed me on the cheek to thank me for helping her. That’s all.”

She flung the door open, incensed. “That’s
all
? Your promotions manager planted her pillowy fuchsia lips on you – a married man – and you don’t think that’s a bit out of line?”

“It was a kiss on the bloody cheek. It was
nothing
. Your mum kisses me on the cheek. It doesn’t mean we’re having an affair!”

“Well then you won’t object,” she said grimly as she brushed past him and marched to the airing cupboard, “if I have a nice long snog with the next fit delivery man or plumber who knocks on our door.”

Rhys watched in disbelief as she opened the cupboard door and pulled out a sheet and a blanket. “What are you doing?”

She thrust the linens into his arms. “Here’s your bedding. I’m sure you’ll sleep very well on the sofa tonight. Or perhaps you can call Coco and ask if you can spend the night at hers.”

Before he could formulate a proper response, Natalie turned on her heel, stalked back to the bedroom, and slammed the door.

It was dim and quiet when Natalie awoke a few hours later. She blinked, disoriented. Why was she lying here, fully dressed, at – she glanced at the alarm clock – seven o’clock? And why was she stretched out across the top of the bed, alone?

All at once, the whole horrible argument with Rhys came rushing back. He’d had Coco’s lipstick on his cheek.
He didn’t even try to hide it
, she thought indignantly as she sat up. So she’d thrown him out of their bedroom and told him to sleep on the sofa...which was all he deserved. He was lucky she hadn’t thrown him out altogether.

Still – he’d seemed more than a bit surprised when she pointed out the undeniable fuchsia evidence of his guilt. She frowned. If Rhys
had
snogged Coco, there would’ve been more than a lip print on his cheek, surely? He would’ve had lipstick on his collar, at the very least, and on his mouth.

And he most certainly would’ve wiped the evidence away before he got home.

Perhaps I overreacted
, Natalie thought with just the tiniest twinge of guilt.

Perhaps Rhys was telling the truth, and nothing happened but an innocent thank-you peck on the cheek.

Natalie got out of bed and went to the mirror to check her appearance. Ugh – messy hair, smudged mascara. Quickly she touched up her lipstick and swiped on a fresh coat of mascara.

There, she thought as she stood back and surveyed the results with satisfaction, much better.

She opened the bedroom door and went down the hall to the living room. Dusk had left the room in shadows. “Rhys?” she said tentatively. “Rhys, are you here?”

There was no answer.

She switched on a lamp near the doorway and glanced at the sofa. It was empty. The sheets and blanket she’d given Rhys lay, untouched, at one end.

Perhaps he was in the kitchen, she reasoned, having a drink or looking at his text messages. Or both.

But the kitchen was empty.

“Rhys?” Natalie called out, her heartbeat quickening as she went methodically from room to room looking for him. “Darling, are you here? I’m not angry any more. I know you didn’t snog Coco. I’m sorry I was such a silly cow.”

But Rhys, she realized a few minutes later, was gone.

And it’s all my fault
, she thought as her lower lip began to tremble.
I practically accused him of infidelity
.
I drove him away
.

As she returned to the sofa and sank down next to the sheets and blanket he’d tossed there, Natalie wondered if Rhys hadn’t decided to do as she’d told him, and gone to Coco Welch’s apartment.

What if, she thought despairingly, he was snuggled up in bed having wild monkey sex with that dark-haired slag right this very minute?

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Natalie was just about to erupt into a fresh outbreak of tears when she heard the key in the lock.

Hastily swiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she shot up from the sofa and hurried into the entrance hallway. “Rhys? Is that you?”

The door swung open, and her husband came in and tossed his keys down. “Yes, it’s me.” He held a cello-wrapped bouquet of freesias and roses in one hand and there was a cautious expression on his face.

“Are those – are those for me?” Natalie asked.

“No, they’re for Coco, but she turned them down.”

When he saw her expression change from hope into outrage, Rhys began to laugh. “Of course they’re for you, darling. And so…” He reached in his suit jacket pocket with his free hand and withdrew a couple of candy bars. “Are these.”

“Top Cat bars!” Since she’d fallen pregnant, she’d craved the chocolate candy bars.

“Am I forgiven?”

She flung herself into his arms. “Of course you are. I’m the one who’s sorry, accusing you of kissing Coco. I know you’d never do something like that.”

“And if I ever did,” he reminded her, “I hope I’d have sense enough to eradicate the evidence afterwards.”

“Don’t tease me, Rhys. It isn’t nice.” She kissed him. “But you’re right, you’re far too clever to be so obvious.” She frowned. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better, or worse.”

He laid the flowers down on the hall table and put his arms around her. “I’d never cheat on you, Nat,” he said, his eyes serious on hers. “I love you too much. Besides,” he added, “if I did, your mum would roast my balls for breakfast.”

“And serve them on the side, with kippers,” Natalie agreed, smiling as she kissed him again. “What a terrible waste of resources
that
would be.”

On Sunday afternoon, freshly showered and dressed after a leisurely lie-in, Holly switched on the TV and rummaged in the tiny hotel refrigerator to make herself a ham sandwich from the leftovers Jamie had brought back the night before. The afternoon newscast was on.

She squeezed mustard from a packet liberally on a slice of bread, glad that she had plenty of time before meeting Hugh at the library. She hadn’t eaten a thing since a late lunch with Ciaran after looking at apartments yesterday...

“…and in local news,” the shellacked blonde presenter was saying, “film star Ciaran Duncan has purchased an apartment at the exclusive Dunleigh in Central Park West for an estimated $6.5 million.”

Video of Ciaran and Holly, their arms linked as they approached the canopied entrance to the Dunleigh, flashed across the screen.

“Mr Duncan recently sold his properties in London, and it’s rumored that his move to New York may be permanent.” The news presenter smiled conspiratorially at the camera. “Could department store heiress Holly James possibly be the reason?”

The camera cut to a tight shot of Holly, looking up adoringly at Ciaran and laughing at something he’d just said.

Stunned, Holly froze with her sandwich halfway to her mouth. She lowered it back to the napkin.

She’d seen the stories in the New York tabloids ‒ gossip, speculation, the publicity-staged photos of her and Ciaran. But this...this was altogether different.

This was a news story, on
television
.

She heard a knock on the door.

“Mum?” Holly said, surprised as she swung the door open. “What are you doing here?”

Cherie’s eyes were red and there was a wodge of tissue pressed against her nose. “Oh, Holly,” she choked out, “it’s all such a bloody mess.” She stepped inside the hotel room at Holly’s urging and erupted into tears.

By the time Holly made them cups of tea and listened to her mother’s teary, hiccup-laced story, Cherie had regained her equilibrium.

She gave Holly a watery smile from her perch on the sofa. “So that’s my sad little story, darling.” She blew her nose. “I’m convinced your father is seeing that woman, Coco Welch.”

“No, he isn’t.” Holly could scarcely take it in. “You’re mistaken. Dad’s not interested in Coco in the least.”

“I’ve seen them together, Holly,” her mother said firmly, “having lunch at that little place around the corner from the store.”

“Shatz’s Deli?” Holly lifted her shoulder dismissively. “Everyone goes there for lunch, Mum. They were probably looking at profit-and-loss spreadsheets, or something.”

Cherie shook her head. “No. They had their heads together, talking. They looked quite cozy. And when he saw me come in, Alastair had guilt written all over his face.”

Holly stared at her mother in consternation. She must be mistaken. Her father belonged with her mother. He couldn’t
possibly
be interested in the she-beast.

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” she said again. “You just need to talk to dad.
Ask
him about it.”

“I’ll do that.” Cherie smiled. “You give very sensible advice.” She paused, and her smile faded. “Now it’s my turn. Darling, about Ciaran…”

Holly bit back a groan.

“Have you slept with him, Holly? Is there something going on between the two of you?”

“No,” she retorted, exasperated. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Perhaps,” her mother ventured, “it’s because the tabloids and the local entertainment news are saying that you two are an item.”

“We’re not! It’s for publicity for the store, that’s all. And what if we
were
involved?” Holly asked, irritated. “I’m not a kid, Mum, I’m twenty-three—”

“And he’s thirty-two,” Cherie retorted. “He’s far too old for you, Holly. Not to mention you’re engaged to Jamie! Ciaran’s a serial seducer, with a string of affairs behind him, and the list is longer than a – a career criminal’s rap sheet.”

“We’re friends, mum. Nothing more. So you needn’t worry.”

“I do worry. You don’t know this man, Holly,” her mother said quietly. “You don’t know him at all.”

Mystified by her mother’s unexpected reaction, Holly frowned. “What have you got against Ciaran? I don’t understand. He’s quite nice, for a film star. He’s handsome, and rich, and charming. And don’t forget ‒ this whole publicity thing was his ‒ and Dad’s – idea, not mine.”

“Holly,” Cherie said, choosing her words with care, “Ciaran may be a film star, but you’re my daughter. You’re a wonderful, beautiful girl with a lot to offer, and I
don’t
want to see you get hurt.”

“Mum—”

“Having said that,” she forged on, “I know you’re a grown woman, and more than capable of making your own decisions. But, darling, if you have the
slightest
doubt about this man…” She reached out and took Holly’s hands. “Then please don’t hesitate to give him the boot, publicity – and your father’s store ‒ be damned.”

Before she could reply, Holly’s phone rang. She slid it out of her jeans pocket, frowning at the unfamiliar number. “Excuse me,” she murmured and turned away from her mother to take the call. “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Holly? It’s Hugh. I’m here at the library,” he added with the merest trace of reproach, “waiting for you.”

The library! She’d completely forgotten. “I’m
so
sorry, Mr Darcy...I mean, Hugh. I completely forgot.”

“I figured that out, yes.”

“I really am sorry,” she said again, “but I’ve been talking to mum, and time got away from me.”

He paused. “It’s fine, really. I can carry on with the research on my own, if you’re busy.”

“No, of course I’ll be right there. I’m leaving now.”

“No need, Miss James,” Hugh said. “While I was waiting, I took the liberty of doing some research on my own.” He paused. “I’ve discovered something about our friend Daisy that I think you might find very interesting.”