Manolos in Manhattan (13 page)

“Ian Clarkson’s been
released
?” Rhys sagged back in his chair, stunned. “But he abducted Natalie! He stalked her for weeks. How could they possibly let him go? He’s a sociopath.”

“Not according to the latest round of tests and evaluations. He was formally released a week ago, and–” He sighed heavily. “He’s disappeared. Gone off the radar, and no one’s seen him – not Alexa, nor his former coworkers at Dashwood and James, nor anyone else. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes. Bloody hell, I can’t believe it.” Rhys plowed a hand through his hair and scowled.

“At least with the pair of you in New York, Natalie should be safe. She’s out of harm’s way.”

“Not necessarily.” His words were grim. Rhys knew only too well just how devious and clever Ian Clarkson could be. “But forewarned is forearmed. Thanks for letting me know, Alastair. I appreciate it.”

“Certainly.” He paused. “Will you tell Natalie?”

Rhys leaned forward and picked up the framed picture of his wife – his dear, spendthrift,
pregnant
wife – from the corner of his desk. He thought of how close he’d once come to losing her, thanks to Ian.

It wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t let it.

“No,” Rhys said finally, and set the picture aside. “I won’t tell her. I don’t want to frighten her unnecessarily. After all, Ian could be anywhere. It’s highly unlikely he’s here in Manhattan.”

“I agree,” his father said. “You don’t want to upset your wife, especially not in her present condition. Just be on guard. If Ian
does
show up in New York, you can tell her then, and deal with it together.”

Rhys rang off, his thoughts troubled. He reached for the delivery envelope that Chaz had laid on his desk. He stared at the dark-red “Priority” stamp. It had a New York postmark, but he didn’t recognize the return address.

He tore the envelope open and withdrew a sheet of paper. It wasn’t an overdue invoice, or a registered business letter, or a bill of lading. It wasn’t any of those things.

It was a single sheet of ordinary paper, the sort used every day in printers and copiers. And there were only two sentences, typed neatly and centered on the page. But those two sentences chilled Rhys to the core.

‘Welcome to New York,’ he read. ‘I hope you and Natalie enjoy your stay at the Dunleigh.’

It was signed by Ian Clarkson.

Chapter Twenty-One

At nine o’clock that morning, Natalie went into the kitchen and punched a number into the phone. “Hello,” she said politely a moment later, “is that Gavin Williams and Associates?”

“Yes, this is Gavin speaking,” an equally polite voice answered. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Natalie Dashwood-Gordon. A friend of mine, Phillip Pryce, recommended you – and very highly, I might add ‒ so I’m hoping we can meet to discuss the possibility of your decorating my nursery.”

“Of course,” he said warmly. “Any friend of Phillip’s, et cetera...let me check the schedule. As a matter of fact,” he said after a moment, “I don’t have anything on the books this morning. Would ten o’clock work?”

“Perfectly. Where are you located?”

As he gave her a Brooklyn Heights address, Natalie scribbled the directions down on a piece of paper, thanked him, then dialed Holly.

On the fifth ring, Holly answered. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” Natalie said. “It’s a beautiful day, I’m interviewing a possible decorator for the nursery in a couple of hours, and then I’m going shopping. Are you in?”

“Shopping? What are you shopping for
this
time?”

“I need some new maternity clothes. The ones I have are...dowdy.”

“I’d love to go,” Holly said regretfully, “truly. But I can’t. I’m babysitting Izzy. I promised Catherine I’d keep an eye on her until she can line up someone else.”

“Catherine?” Natalie echoed, surprised. “You mean Jamie’s new sous chef?
That
Catherine?”

“Yes. She’s working, so I took the day off to stay with her niece Isabel for the day.”

“Oh. Well...bring her along. I need to get in a bit of practice, anyway. I might have a little girl of my own, soon.”

“I don’t know,” Holly said, and glanced over at Izzy, who was sprawled on the sofa, munching toast and watching an episode of
SpongeBob SquarePants
. “Catherine might not want us to leave the apartment.”

“Oh, she won’t care. Besides, we’ll be back before she even gets home. Give me the address, and I’ll pick you and Isabel up.”

An hour later, after circling the block twice, Natalie parked the car on Cranberry Street. She turned off the engine and glanced at the rows of elegant brownstones and trees lining the pavement.

“I thought we were going
shopping
,” Izzy complained.

“Sorry, Isabel,” Nat apologized as she slid out of the car. “I won’t be long, and then we’ll go shopping. I promise.”

The girl shrugged. “Okay. Anything’s better than being at school.”

As Natalie made her way up to the front door of the brownstone across the street, Holly turned back to Izzy. “Why don’t you like school?” she asked.

“I do like school. I like
my
school. But when Mom went in the hospital, Aunt Catherine had to take me out and put me in another school, because mine’s too far away.”

“And you don’t know anybody yet,” Holly ventured.

“No.” A world of unhappiness was contained in the word.

“Well, you will. It just takes time. Besides,” she confided, “it’s much better to have a couple of close friends instead. Like me, and Natalie.”

Izzy tilted her head sideways. “Really?”

“Really. Now,” she said as she took out her phone, “let’s listen to some music while we wait.”

A woman behind a sleek glass desk looked up as Natalie entered the brownstone and smiled.

“Good morning. You must be Mrs Dashwood-Gordon.”

Natalie nodded. The receptionist – Suki, according to her name tag – wore a shantung silk sheath dress and heels and was every bit as sleek and polished as her desk. “Yes. I have a ten o’clock appointment—”

“With me,” said a well-dressed young man as he came in and extended his hand. “Gavin Williams, at your service. Phillip’s told me
all
about you.”

Natalie took his hand self-consciously. “Oh, dear. That can’t be good.”

“
Au contraire
, he had only the best things to say. Let’s see what I can do for you, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon.” His dark-blond hair was neatly combed to one side and his smile was wide and welcoming as he ushered her through into his office. His clothing was straight out of
GQ
magazine – stylish and on-trend.

He even, she noted, had a paisley-gray cashmere scarf draped around his neck. Chaz would approve.

“Natalie, please.” She took the chair he indicated and waited as he sat in the chair opposite hers. “As I said on the phone, I need a decorator for my nursery,” she explained. “Even though we’re having the baby in London, I want a nursery here in New York, as well.”

“I understand. Have you any favorite colors? Do you prefer wallpaper, or paint? But first,” he added as he reached for a pair of trendy, black-rimmed glasses and a notepad and pen, “are you expecting a boy or a girl?”

“Oh, we don’t know yet,” she informed him hastily, “and we don’t want to know until it’s time. That’s why I thought perhaps pale yellow for the baby’s room, with white trim.”

Gavin raised a brow. “Nice, but a tiny bit dull, don’t you think?”

“Well...”

“What about a deep gray for the walls,” he suggested thoughtfully, “with white trim and citrus-yellow accents? Gray’s a good neutral, and any color you pick as an accent – lime green, red, navy ‒ will really pop.”

“You know,” Nat said slowly, meeting his eyes with cautious enthusiasm, “I never would’ve chosen dark gray. I mean – dark
gray
? But it sounds lovely.”

“Good. I’ll do up a presentation board and drop it off by the end of next week. Leave your address and phone number with my receptionist. Do you have a picture of the nursery?”

“Oh, yes – right here.” She dug in her bag and withdrew the photo he’d requested on the phone that morning and handed it over.

“Stunning,” Gavin declared as he studied the room’s high ceilings and tall windows overlooking Central Park. “Is this the Dakota?”

“No, the Dunleigh,” she explained.

He looked up from the photograph in his hands. “Impressive. That co-op is harder to get into than the Metropolitan Club.”

“The apartment belongs to my grandfather. He bought it so my husband and I could stay there whenever Rhys is in New York on business – and he is, quite often,” she added, and rose. “Thank you for your suggestions, Gavin. I love them.”

“I’m looking forward to this project.” He studied the photograph thoughtfully. “Just wait, Natalie – I guarantee you’ll have the most talked-about nursery in all of Manhattan before I’m through.”

Christa and her entourage – consisting of her agent Max Morecombe, and her boyfriend, Devon Matthews – arrived at Rhys’s office promptly at 2 p.m.

“Welcome, Ms Shaw,” Chaz said warmly, and rose from his desk to clasp the singer’s slim hand. “I’ll show you to the conference room. Rhys is waiting for you.”

“We’re not late, I hope?” Christa inquired as she removed her oversized sunglasses and tucked them away in her handbag.

Her handbag was a Radley, Chaz noted with envy, and her eyes were the most amazing turquoise blue. He also couldn’t help noticing that Christa’s boyfriend had a
trés
hot physique.

“You’re not late,” he assured the singer. “Can I offer anyone coffee, or tea?”

They politely declined.

His heart beating with excitement – it wasn’t every day one got to meet a world-famous singer, after all – Chaz led them to the conference room.
And Rhys had asked him to sit in and take notes
, he thought. At last, he was doing something exciting. He almost
never
got to sit in on meetings.

As he moved to take a seat in one of the leather chairs arranged around the conference table, Rhys leaned over.

“I need you to stay out front and cover the phones, Chaz,” he said. “I’m expecting an important call and I want you to take a message. I’ve got this.”

Chaz’s heart sank down to his Steve Madden oxfords. “But I thought you wanted me to take notes.”

“Sorry. Change of plan.” His smile was polite but firm. “Oh – and bring me a coffee before you go, if you would?” He’d already turned back to his notes. “Black, no sugar. Thanks.”

“Of course.” Smiling, masking his disappointment, Chaz retrieved his notepad and pen and left to get Rhys a coffee.

So much for doing something
interesting
for a change, Chaz fumed as he jabbed the button on the Nespresso machine to brew Rhys’s cup. His new boss expected him to do nothing more challenging than answer the phone and make coffee, evidently.

He wanted Rhys to notice him. Really
notice
him. And while it was true Rhys was a great boss, tough, but fair – Chaz craved his approval, his attention.

He’d worn a new suit today, and taken extra care with his hair and grooming this morning, in hopes that Rhys would notice and give him more responsibility. But did he?

No. He most emphatically did
not
.

And it began to look as though he never would.

Chapter Twenty-Two

After lunch at the Shake Shack and an afternoon of shopping, Natalie, Holly, and Izzy found seats at a sidewalk café and ordered three ice cream sundaes with the works.

“I’ve had the
best
day,” Izzy announced as the sundaes arrived, and dipped her spoon into the hot fudge-and-whipped-cream-topped concoction. “I don’t want it to end.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Natalie said. “Why don’t we do this again? Make it a regular thing. What do you say, Holly?”

“Sounds brilliant. But we’ll have to see what Izzy’s Aunt Catherine says.”

Izzy’s face fell. “You can forget it, then. She won’t let me. She’s bossy. And I don’t like her cooking, it’s gross.”

“‘Gross?’” Natalie echoed, surprised. “But she’s a chef.”

Izzy nodded. “She’s good at what she does...if you like weird stuff, like snails, or‒” She made a face. “Miso soup.”

“Well, anyone can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Holly said with a shrug. “Tell her you want that next time. Or macaroni cheese. Or fish fingers.”

“Fish fingers?” Izzy stared at her. “That’s disgusting.”

“She means fish
sticks
,” Nat said. “You know, Isabel,” she confided, “I’m expecting a baby in a few more months.” She rested a hand on her stomach. “And I hope I have a little girl just like you.”

“I wish I could be with you and Holly all the time.” Izzy toyed with her ice cream, dragging her spoon through the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and melting scoops of vanilla. “You’re way more fun than my aunt.”

“I’m sure your auntie is, too, given half a chance.” Natalie leaned forward. “She’s doing her best, Izzy. She’s never had a little girl to take care of before, so I’m sure it’s just as hard for her as it is for you.”

Izzy regarded Natalie doubtfully. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Nat’s right,” Holly agreed. “Give your auntie a chance. She’s not so bad. She’s trying.”

As they gathered their things up to go home, Natalie’s mobile rang. “Hello? Oh, hi, Rhys,” she said airily as she glanced over at Holly. “What’s up?”

“Where’ve you been?” he groused. “I’ve left you three voice messages. You might at least have texted me back.”

“I’ve been busy. I took your advice and went shopping.”

“Oh. Good. Just don’t go mad with the credit cards,” he reminded her, “and try and use a little restraint when you’re in the shops.”

Natalie, rolling her eyes at Holly as she listened to Rhys’s “fiscal responsibility” lecture, noticed a man just across the street, loitering under the shadow of an awning. Her smile faded and her face went pale. He looked straight at her.

No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

“Nat, what’s wrong?” Holly asked, dropping the spoon in her dish in alarm. “You’ve gone pale.”

“Natalie?” Rhys said on the other end of her mobile. “Are you even listening to me?”