Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (4 page)

“They try. But with so many people on the streets, it isn’t nearly enough. People fall through the cracks.” She thought of the homeless girl, and her glance swept over the bookshelves full of richly bound leather law books and the plush Axminster carpet before coming to rest on Alex Barrington. “We have so much. And they have nothing. It kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“That’s all very well,” he agreed, his face still a thundercloud. “But asking me if I condone sex on a first date for the delectation of a bunch of immature teenage girls is ludicrous and…and ill-advised.”

Holly stiffened. She didn’t know what he’d said, exactly — all that lawyerly talk did her head in — but she was sure there was an insult contained in there somewhere.

“I’m sorry, Ms James, but this entire line of questioning is out of order.” He glared at her. “I refuse to condone underage sexual activity in the pages of a teen magazine, in between adverts for spot creams and flavoured lip gloss!”

“But the readers of
BritTEEN
want answers to these kinds of questions, you know. Our readers are young, smart, hip—”

“And have no need to know whether or not I approve of sex on a first date,” he snapped.

“Well,” Holly retorted, “I doubt that they’d care, anyway. I mean, let’s face it, you’re not exactly Justin Bieber.”

“And you’re not exactly a candidate for the Man Booker prize,” he shot back, “are you?”

Holly closed her steno pad and thrust it in her bag. “No need to be insulting, Mr Barrington,” she said primly.

“You started it—” he began, then let out a slow, aggravated breath. “Good God, I feel like I’m eight years old, having a row with my sister. This is ridiculous.”

“You could tell me the answer off the record, you know.”

“Out,” Alex said firmly, and came around his desk to grip her by the arm. “Off you go.”

“Wait a minute! My recorder—” Holly snatched it up, too flustered to turn it off, and stared at him in confusion. “What are you doing? You’re not throwing me out?”

“I most certainly am. Thank you very much, Ms James, but you need to go. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” And he pressed his lips together and pulled her unceremoniously towards the door.

Chapter 5

Outraged, Holly pulled back, and as she did her handbag slid off her shoulder and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

She groaned as all of her personal effects — tampons, Mentos, even the raspberry-flavoured condom she’d got as a consolation prize at her best friend’s hen night — spilled out on the thick pile carpet in full, inglorious display.

Holly bent down, hot-cheeked with mortification, and scrabbled to pick up the wayward items.

“Here, let me.” Alex knelt down next to her, and as he did the bit of red silk tucked in his pocket fell out.

Holly’s eyes widened as she saw the red thong lying on the carpet. “Oh, my God! That isn’t a handkerchief in your pocket — it’s a red thong!”

“Yes, it is.” His words were abrupt. He grabbed the thong and thrust it back into his breast pocket. “I had a wager with the boys in the office. Harmless bit of fun, that’s all.”

“I
so
don’t want to know,” she snapped.

“Ah — I believe this is yours.” His eyes met hers, gleaming with amusement as he handed over the foil-wrapped, raspberry-flavoured condom.

Holly opened her mouth to explain, but nothing came out.

“Never mind,” Alex told her. “I
so
don’t want to know.” He raised his brow. “I’d say we’re about even on the embarrassment scale, wouldn’t you?”

Holly managed — only just — to nod. Mortified, she shoved the condom back in her bag, murmured her thanks, and fled towards the door.

“Ms James, before you go…”

“Yes?” Holly turned around.

“Have you never thought of pursuing a job as a serious journalist? Your talents are obviously wasted on
BritTEEN
.”

As her surprise gave way to anger, Holly’s mouth opened and closed like a trout just landed out of the water. Before she could form a reply, he spoke again.

“Oh, and one more thing before I throw you out…”

“Yes?” she snapped.

“Off the record—” he paused “—that means I can say something, but you can’t publish it — I do approve of sex on a first date. Absolutely. But having said that,” he added grimly, “I’m referring to responsible adults, not teenagers with spots and raging hormones. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy, Ms James. I haven’t time for any more of this nonsense.”

Before Holly could object to this latest insult — nonsense,
really
? — he wished her a curt “good afternoon” and ushered her out, shutting the door firmly after her.

Alex returned to his desk to get ready for his next appointment. As he leaned forward to press the intercom button a pink marabou feather floated in the air where Holly James had stood and drifted, slowly, to the floor.

He went around his desk and bent down to pick it up. It was soft, like the downy back of a newly hatched chick.

“Silly girl,” he murmured, and shook his head.

Absently he thrust the feather in his pocket, then turned back to his desk and pressed the intercom button. “Send in the next appointment, Jill.”

“How can I help you, Mr Russo?” Alex asked the famous chef when they were both seated a few minutes later.

“How can you help me? You can make me more fucking money,” Marcus replied succinctly. “That’s how you can help me.”

Alex was taken aback, but managed a polite smile. “You’ve come to the right place. Making money for my clients is, after all, my job.”

Marcus grunted. “I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version of my finances, then, shall I? I’ve expanded too quickly and my company’s losing money. I’m behind in payments to my suppliers, and I owe the bank seven million pounds. And to top it off, my wife has upped sticks and left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The bottom line, Mr Barrington,” Russo finished, “is this: my new restaurant, Brasserie Russo, has to succeed, or else my company goes under. And I refuse to let that happen.”

Alex leaned back in his chair. “Well, Mr Russo, I’d recommend you file bankruptcy and restructure your debts. Then we’ll need to make your investments work harder for you.”

Marcus grunted. “And how do we do that?”

“I’ll work out an investment strategy best suited to your needs. Decide how risk-averse you are, and go from there. And I’d suggest you find ways to cut costs in your current business operations, if you haven’t already. Have you any property you can liquidate and divert into stocks?”

Marcus shook his head. “I owe a seven–million-pound overdraft to my bank; if I sold my house today, they’d take every fucking penny.” He eyed Alex. “I just signed a deal with ITV to do a reality show,
Chefzilla
. The cameras will follow me at work and at home.” He frowned. “Of course, if I’d known my wife would do a runner, I wouldn’t have agreed to do it. We start filming next week. It should be lucrative…and entertaining.”

Personally, Alex had his doubts, but he nodded politely.

“Invest my television fees, Mr Barrington,” Marcus went on. “Slap the cash into whatever stocks you think best.” He stood. “You come highly recommended. I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you.” Alex stood as well and shook Russo’s hand. The chef’s grip nearly broke his fingers. “I’ll draw up a portfolio and have it ready next week.”

But Marcus, heaping abuse on some poor unfortunate at the other end of his mobile phone, was already striding out of the door, leaving a trail of Acqua di Parma and four-letter words in his wake.

Chapter 6

Late that same evening, Holly typed the last line of her interview with Alex Barrington. It was hopeless. She’d done what she could to make the article entertaining; but how entertaining could Quick Service Restaurant stocks and barristers’ wigs really be?

Answer: Not very.

Sasha would hate it. She’d say it was dead boring, not what their teen readers wanted, that it wasn’t sexy or “girly” enough…and even though Sasha was the one who’d given Holly the damned assignment, she’d be absolutely right.

But at least she’d sourced some great photos of Alex Barrington. In one, he stood at the helm —bow? — of a sailboat, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze; in another, he leaned forward with an absorbed expression as he listened to the Home Secretary talk — about financial law, no doubt.

Holly pressed her lips together. She couldn’t believe Alex had a thong tucked in his breast pocket, like a…a trophy!

What kind of man made bets with his office mates about having
sex
with someone? The same kind, she supposed, who threw journalists out of his office.

Obviously, Alex Barrington was a self-important arse.
And
he was a disgusting perv, to boot.

“Here you go, bitch boss from hell,” Holly muttered as she typed in Sasha’s email address and pressed send. She’d given up Friday night with her friends to work, sitting in front of the lurid blue glow of her laptop — all because Sasha expected to see the interview in her inbox first thing Monday morning.

Twenty minutes and three quarters of a vodka-and-grapefruit juice later, her email inbox pinged. Sasha.

Holly sighed, topped up her drink with a bit more vodka — well, she’d had a horrible day; she deserved it — and opened the email.

Holly — This is crap. Forwarding to Valery for review and comment, Sasha
.

“Shit!” Holly put her glass down, scrambled to hit reply, and typed, “Let me make any changes needed first!” and hit send.

“Not necessary. Want her to see as is,” came the immediate reply.

“Back-stabbing bitch,” Holly muttered.

Her mobile rang. Holly grabbed it and frowned at the number. Caller Unknown. It must be Sasha, already phoning to gloat and inform her in no uncertain terms that she was sacked.

“Look, Sasha,” Holly snapped as she answered her phone, “I did the best I could with that interview with Henry, but teen girls don’t give a rat’s arse about QSRs and derivatives!”

There was a pause. A posh male voice said, “Perhaps they would do, if they understood that the dividends from those dull QSRs would keep them well stocked in spot cream, lip gloss, and useless teen magazines well into their dotage.”

Oh, no! That upper-crusty voice…those multi-syllabic words…it was Henry — correction, Alex — Barrington. Holly closed her eyes and groaned. Could her day — this endless, endless day — possibly get any worse?

“How did you get my number?” she demanded. Was he a
stalker
, too?

“It’s on your business card. Which I found under your chair after you left, along with a keychain.” His words were stiff. “Which I thought perhaps you might need.”

“No, of course I don’t need it,” Holly said crossly. “I have masses of business cards.”

There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “I was referring to the keychain, Ms James. Not the card.”

Oh, what a mess. It just kept getting worse and worse. Forget the grapefruit juice, she needed straight vodka…or, truthfully, perhaps the vodka
was
the problem…

“Look,” she said finally, “just put the keys in a Jiffy bag and mail them, okay? I’ve had a really bad day—” her voice wobbled ever so slightly, but she got it back under control “—and I don’t want to bother you any further.”

“It’s no bother.” He paused. “The reason I’m calling is twofold. One is to apologize.”

Holly took a steadying gulp of her vodka and…vodka. “Apologize? Whatever for? You were quite right, I wasn’t prepared, and, anyway, I write nothing but salacious dreck. That
was
what you called it, wasn’t it?”

He had the grace to sound uncomfortable. “I suppose I did. But you have to admit,
BritTEEN
isn’t exactly
The Guardian
—”

“But it isn’t meant to be!” Holly interrupted. “It’s entertainment. And what entertains teen girls are pop stars, and clothes, and the latest shades of lip gloss.” She took a gulp of her drink. “Maybe they’d be better served by articles on finance and — and educational stuff, but that isn’t the magazine’s focus. The focus is fashion. And make-up. And fun.”

“And whether I condone sex on the first date?”

Holly flushed. “I had to ask that,” she said defensively, “or I’d be sacked. Don’t worry, your answer won’t go in the article. It’s strictly off the record.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

“At any rate, I accept your apology.” She frowned. “What was your other reason for calling?”

“I wondered if you’re free for dinner next week.”

Holly held out her phone and stared at it in astonishment. Her first instinct was to say yes, of course she was free, and her second was to fling open the windows like Scrooge on Christmas Day and shout, “You, there, boy! Run and fetch me the biggest bottle of champagne you can find. Alex Barrington has just asked me out!”

“You’re asking me out on a…date?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes, a date,” he replied, and added, “wherein two people who like one another decide to go out together.”

She saw herself sitting across from Alex in some fancy restaurant, holding her champagne glass out as he topped it up with Perrier-Jouët, and she could almost taste the tart-sweet raspberries he fed to her across a candlelit table…

She bit her lip. If she said yes and Mick found out, he’d throw a four-colour, photo-op temper tantrum.

On the other hand, why
not
go out with Alex? It wasn’t as if she and Mick were engaged, or anything. With his electric-blue mohawk and multiple tattoos, Mick was as well known for playing bass in Dominic’s band as he was for chasing women.

Holly sighed. After the cock-up she’d made of her interview with Alex Barrington, not to mention that humiliating business with her bag, she couldn’t possibly go out with him. No matter how much she might want to.

Plus, what would they talk about? His girlfriend’s thong?

Her phone crackled in her ear. “Miss James? Are you there?”

“Oh — yes, sorry. I don’t think I can,” she managed to reply. “I — I think I’m kind of busy next week.” Was she
insane
? Was she really refusing a dinner date with a gorgeous, sexy man, a man who looked like Henry Cavill and Hugh Dancy all rolled into one?