Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (14 page)

“He didn’t like it?”

“No. He wants a more immediate return on his investment, and he’s willing to take a big risk to get it. I advised against it. Then there’s Dominic.” He took another longish sip of the whisky. “This really is incredibly smooth.”

Holly speared a prawn. “But Dominic has loads of money! Between his concert tours and his ads for that men’s fragrance—”

“
Dissolute
.” Alex sighed. “Yes, he has enough money to keep himself in Bentleys and blow for years to come. But the fashion house that makes
Dissolute
just sacked its creator in the wake of some bad publicity. Dominic’s about to lose his contract — and a very lucrative one, I might add — as a result.”

“Oh. Well, that’s too bad. But he’s still got his music career — touring, albums, right?”

“You’d be surprised how much it costs to maintain a rock star’s lifestyle in today’s economy,” Alex said darkly. “There’s a fleet of cars — two Maseratis and a Lamborghini — not to mention his estates—”

“‘Estates’, as in more than one?” Holly echoed.

“Two, to be exact, one in Scotland for the express purpose of shooting grouse — he’s been there exactly once — and another in Ibiza. The expenses are a nightmare.”

“It must be nice to have so much money.”

Alex reached for his glass and realized with surprise that it was nearly empty. How had that happened? “Well, you didn’t exactly grow up on a council estate, did you?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’m on my own now. And it’s really expensive, living in London.” She glanced at him. “Not for you, I suppose, with your wardrobe full of bespoke suits…”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I use fifty-quid notes to light my after-dinner cigars. Cohibas, of course.”

“And I’m sure you dine at an exclusive club every night—”

“I do. And I bathe in champagne afterwards. But only Krug, mind — Veuve Clicquot breaks me out in a rash.”

Holly giggled.

“Are you having financial difficulties, Ms James?”

“Let’s just say that
BritTEEN
doesn’t pay much, and so I’ve got to find a part-time job. As in, yesterday.”

He frowned. “Perhaps I can help. Commercial law firms are often hiring for the night shift. I know a divorce lawyer who works downstairs. I’ll have a word, see if she’s hiring.”

“Would you? I don’t have any legal experience—”

“You wouldn’t need it to answer phones and file paperwork.”

“Thanks, Alex. That’s really nice of you.”

Their dinners arrived, along with another whisky for Alex, compliments of Jamie. “I oughtn’t to have any more,” he said with regret as he eyed the glass and moved to push it aside. “I’m driving, after all.”

“Oh, one more won’t hurt. I can drive us home. Besides, you’ve worked really hard, dealing with Marcus and Dominic. You deserve to unwind.”

Alex opened his mouth to refuse. “What the hell?” he agreed. “Why not? The last two weeks really
have
been crap. And I do feel more relaxed, thanks to the Glenfiddich, or Glenlivet, or Glen-whatever-it-is…”

“You ought to relax a bit now and then, you know. Unbutton that perfectly tailored bespoke suit jacket and let loose.”

He raised his brow. “Are you saying I’m stuffy, Ms James?”

“Sometimes,” she agreed.

“I suppose I
was
a bit of a prat during your interview,” he admitted. “Speaking of which, I understand I had dozens of Tweets from teen girls — and more than a few boys — wanting a leg-over with the ‘hot money bloke.’” He took a bite of his salmon and another sip of whisky. “I must say, teenagers are far bolder these days than they ever were in mine.”

“I’m sorry,” Holly said, and bit back a smile. “How are you coping?”

“Reasonably well, I suppose. It’s all been quite a boost to my sexual self-esteem, as you can imagine.”

“Oh?” Holly said in mock sympathy. “And do you have problems in that area? I’m
so
sorry.”

He met Holly’s eyes. “I can honestly say, Ms James, that while I have no problems whatsoever in that area, nor have I ever—” he leaned forward, his gaze intent “—I welcome any and all therapy you might be willing to provide.”

Holly blushed right down to her toes.

Their dinners were delicious. They were nearly finished — and Alex had finished his whisky as well — when an attractive older woman took the microphone on the tiny stage-cum-dance floor and announced, “It’s karaoke time at Gordon Scots!”

Raucous hoots and clapping erupted from the patrons at the bar. A moment later, an overweight man in an ill-fitting suit took the stage and began to croon “I Will Always Love You” to much catcalling and friendly insults from his coworkers.

“Have you ever done that?” Alex enquired as he leaned forward. “Sung karaoke, I mean?”

Holly nodded. “Once I got trolleyed and sang ‘Highway to Hell’ with my best mate. We got pelted with cocktail olives.”

But Alex wasn’t listening. He let out a loud whistle as a girl in a tight red dress shimmied onto the tiny stage and launched into a drunken rendition of ‘Addicted to Love’. He glanced over at Holly quizzically. “Looks like fun. Would you like to give it a go, James? Attempt a duet?”

She stared at him. “Erm…no. You can’t be serious.”

“Actually,” he announced, “I am. I think I’ll do my world-famous rendition of ‘SexyBack’.” He glanced around with a frown. “But I really need a fedora to do it properly.”

“Alex,” Holly said cautiously, “I think maybe you’ve had enough of that whisky.”

But he didn’t listen. He stood and shrugged his expensive suit jacket off and tossed it on the back of his chair, where it promptly slid to the floor.

As Alex threaded his way through the crowd to the stage, several women at the bar ogled him and shouted out encouragement and sexy comments when he walked past to confer with the DJ.

“Ooh, bring it over here, love!”

“I’ll hold your microphone!”

Holly watched in mingled amusement and disbelief as Alex grabbed the microphone and took the stage, putting his all into singing ‘Sexyback’.

And the funny thing was, he was pretty good.

She was enjoying the show, until Alex began to unbutton his shirt…and loosened his tie…and flung them both off. He brandished his tie above his head, then turned his back and twitched his arse at the audience. The women went crazy.

But it wasn’t until he leaned forward to pull a woman up onto the stage with him that it all went horribly wrong. Suddenly Alex went plummeting forward, crashing onto a table set with half-finished plates of apple tart and caramel flan.

Holly stood up, horrified.

Jamie appeared, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchen…and anger. “You need to get him out of here, Holly.”

“This is all your fault, Jamie!” she snapped as she went over and knelt down to help Alex sit up amidst the broken crockery and destroyed Scottish food.

“What? And how do you figure that?”

“If you hadn’t kept those whiskies coming—”

“I was just making him feel welcome, that’s all,” Jamie snapped. “You’re supposed to sip whisky, not…guzzle it!”

Her frown deepened, along with her suspicions. “You didn’t do this on purpose, did you? Did you
want
Alex to get drunk and make a fool of himself?”

“No,” Jamie scoffed. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Look, Holly,” he said evenly, “I have a kitchen to run. I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry if your boyfriend here can’t hold his whisky, but that’s his problem, not mine.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Well, whatever he is, it looks like he’s not driving you home tonight. Shall I call a taxi?”

“No, his car’s out front. I just need a hand getting him there. I’ll drive us back to mine. Make him some coffee or something.”

“Just put him in a taxi and send him home. After all, you don’t know him very well—”

“We played together in my sandbox when we were kids,” Holly informed him. “Alex used to throw cat poo at me.”

Jamie snorted. “He’s a class act all the way, isn’t he?” At Holly’s glare, he lifted his hands up in surrender. “Okay, sorry. Let’s get Alex out of here and into his car, then, shall we?”

Chapter 21

Getting Alex up the stairs to Holly’s flat by herself proved to be a very tricky undertaking. But somehow, with a lot of grunting and gasping and ‘damn-it-you’re-heavy’s,’ she finally managed to deposit him onto the sofa in her lounge, where he lolled back against the cushions like a dishevelled — but still very sexy — rag doll. She sat down and began to untie his shoelaces.

“Going to bed, are we?” Alex slurred, and raised a brow wolfishly. Unfortunately, the effect was more comical than sexy, and Holly sighed.

“
You’re
going to bed. I’ll just get you a pillow and blanket.”

But as she stood up Alex reached out to grab her wrist.

“Come back here, you sexy minx,” he growled, and pulled her down on top of him.

“Alex,” she protested, laughing, “you’re drunk, and you’ve got caramel flan all over your chest—”

“And what’s wrong,” he murmured, “with caramel flan?” He kissed her, a deep, whisky-flavoured kiss that set her head spinning.

“Oh, Alex,” Holly breathed as she came up for air, “I’m getting drunk just
kissing
you! The fumes…”

“Shh.” He pulled her mouth back down on his.

“You know,” she murmured after a few more deliriously sticky-but-blissful minutes, “you really are the most incredible kisser…”

Unfortunately, she realized just then, Alex-the-most-incredible-kisser had passed out cold beneath her.

The pounding in Alex Barrington’s head the next morning was loud and insistent, and getting worse by the moment. Blearily he opened his eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling.

Memories from the evening before came rushing back like foam overflowing a bottle of champagne. Dinner at Gordon Scots…sharing prawns at the table with Holly… He smiled. His smile faded as he remembered singing ‘SexyBack’ on the tiny stage…taking off his shirt…crashing onto a table…and being wrestled into the back of a car by Holly and Jamie.

He blinked. Jamie? No, that couldn’t be right; he and Geordie boy hadn’t exactly hit it off.

He frowned and winced. Frowning had never actually hurt before. If he hadn’t driven Holly home last night, then where in fuck’s name was his car?

The pounding, Alex gradually realized through the whisky vapours still fogging his brain, was coming not only from his head, but from the other side of the flat’s door. He sat up and immediately wished he hadn’t. The inside of his mouth tasted as if he’d licked an ashtray. Several times.

“Coming,” he bleated, and stood and staggered to the door.

Upon opening the door, Alex realized two things: one, the man standing before him in the hallway, immaculately dressed in a bespoke suit, was Alastair James, Holly’s father; and two, unlike Alastair, he wore only boxers and black trouser socks, he reeked of whisky, and his chest was sticky with caramel flan.

“Henry?”

There was an awkward pause. “I know what you must be thinking, Mr James,” Alex began.

Alastair’s nostrils flared. “I doubt that.”

“It’s not what it looks like—”

“On the contrary, I’m quite sure that it is.”

“No, honestly, I slept on the sofa. We only snogged a bit before I…er, passed out.” Alex bit back a groan. Why the
devil
had he said
that
?

“Kindly tell Holly that I brought these—” Alastair held out a pair of hot-pink trainers at arm’s length, as though Alex were an unexpected pile of crap he didn’t want to step in “—on my way in to work. She left them over the weekend, and I thought perhaps she might need them.”

“Great, thanks, very nice of you to drop them off. I’ll make sure she gets them,” Alex mumbled as he took the shoes. He blinked. “Good God.” He suddenly realized it was Tuesday, not Saturday, and he was meant to be at work himself. He had a ten o’clock appointment with Marcus Russo.

He glanced at Alastair’s wristwatch in rising alarm. “Excuse me, but what’s the time?”

“Nine-fifteen.”

“Shit! Sorry,” Alex said hastily. “I’m late for work myself. Fantastic to see you again, thanks for the lovely dinner party, but I really must run.” And so saying, he slammed the door in Alastair’s face, threw the trainers aside, and tore around the flat in a frantic search for his missing trousers.

As he knelt down to have a look under Holly’s sofa he heard a sound behind him. “Holly,” he called out irritably over his shoulder, “it’s about time you got up. I’m hung over, the entire cast of Riverdance is clogging in unison inside my head, and I’m late for work. Have you seen my trousers?”

“No,” said a throaty, unfamiliar voice, “I haven’t. You and Holly must’ve had quite an evening.”

Abruptly Alex lifted his head, banging it on the coffee table in the process, and staggered to his feet. A slim young woman, her hair an improbable shade of red, smiled at him from the kitchen doorway, a pot of yoghurt and a spoon in her hand. Alex grabbed his suit jacket from the cushions and brandished it like a shield before him.

“Who are you?” he managed to croak in alarm.

She licked the spoon and thrust it back into the cup. “Kate,” she answered, “Holly’s flatmate. You must be Henry.” She set the emptied yoghurt container aside and studied him quizzically. “Funny thing, though…you don’t look much like a Henry.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Alex muttered for the second time that day, and began flipping the sofa cushions over in a frantic search for his wayward clothes. “I had a bit too much to drink last night, and I must’ve passed out on the sofa. Now I’m late for work and I can’t find my bloody trousers.”

“Well,” Kate said, “let’s just have a good old look round, shall we? Never let it be said that I came between a man and his trousers.”

“Holly,” Sasha informed her that afternoon, “I need you to take these samples back to the PR reps straight away.”

So saying, she dumped an armload of Agnès b and Ben de Lisi sample clothing unceremoniously on Holly’s already crowded desk.

“But that’s Jane’s job!” Holly protested.

”She’s covering the Henry Holland show. So I need you to do it instead. Now.” Her mobile rang. She levelled Holly with her infamous icy glare and stalked away to answer it.