Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (26 page)

His hands shaking slightly, Alex set the coffees down. “Kate,” he said hoarsely, “what in God’s name are you doing?”

She giggled and sat up. “What do you think I’m doing, you silly man?” Her smile was coy. “Hadn’t you heard? The market’s gone up. I hope you have, too.”

He swallowed.
Right
, he told himself,
play along for a bit. Get her talking
.
Think about rugby and not your traitorous erection
.

“You know,” he told her as she grabbed his tie and pulled him down beside her, “I have to admit something.”

“Oh?” she breathed, and kissed the side of his mouth. “What’s that?”

“I’ve been attracted to you ever since that day I lost my trousers,” he lied. Well, not a complete lie, exactly; she
was
attractive. After all, what bloke wouldn’t find a half-dressed redhead, her naughty bits covered by the merest sliver of lacy black cloth, attractive?

“And I wondered,” he went on carefully, steeling himself against the trail of kisses she pressed along his jaw, “since you know Holly so well, how she could’ve screwed up so badly. That homeless article meant everything to her. I can’t believe she’d make such a careless mistake.”

A guilty expression flitted across Kate’s face. “No, she wouldn’t, normally. Holly’s very meticulous.”

Alex lifted his head. “‘Normally?’” he echoed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing,” Kate said hastily, and kissed the side of his mouth. “She screwed up, and now she’s out.”

“And did you help things along, you wicked little minx?” Alex murmured, and waited.
Admit it
, he willed her.

She let out a husky laugh. “Well, as a matter of fact, I
do
have a tiny confession to make—”

They both heard the front door open and close, followed by the slap of flip-flops. The flip-flops progressed down the hallway and came to a stop in the doorway.

“Kate?”

Alex looked up, his face awash with guilt, to meet Holly’s puzzled eyes. Stunned, she stared back at him. A Sainsbury’s bag was clutched against her chest — he glimpsed a leafy stalk of celery and a loaf of French bread — and her rucksack hung from one shoulder.

“Alex?” she said, her eyes wide. “What are
you
doing here? And why—” confusion, fury, and outrage suffused her face “—why are you on
top
of Kate?”

Chapter 38

“Holly!” Alex exclaimed as he rolled away from Kate and scrambled off the sofa. “You’re b-back!” he stammered. “I thought you were still in Oxfordshire.”

“Obviously.” Her voice shook. She took in his tie, yanked badly askew, and the lipstick smear on the corner of his mouth, as well as the distinctly guilty expression on his face. “I decided to come back early to make dinner, and surprise you.” She let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Surprise!”

“Holly, you have to believe me,” he began. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for this—”

“Of course there is! And you know what it is? You couldn’t wait to shag my flatmate the minute my back was turned.” She turned her attention to Kate. “Not enough just to take my job, was it? You had to take Alex, too.”

“He called me,” Kate said defensively, and hiccupped. “He said you two weren’t exclusive. Anyway, it’s not my fault if you can’t hang onto him…or your job.”

“Holly, please, we need to talk,” Alex said. “In private.”

“There’s nothing you can possibly say, you cheating
bastard
—” she hurled the bag of groceries violently to the floor, sending tomatoes, olives, and a jar of capers rolling across the rug “—that I want to hear!”

“Holly—”

“Why don’t you and Kate take what I bought and make yourselves a lovely supper?” Holly said, her voice trembling with fury. “No sense in wasting it all.” She spun on her heel and flip-flopped back down the hall to the door.

Alex grabbed up his suit jacket and ran after her. He caught her arm and turned her to face him. “Holly, please, wait! I’ll call you later. When you’ve calmed down.”

“I’m perfectly calm,” she snapped, and shook his hand off. “I could perfectly calmly cut your knackers off and sauté them in white wine, right this very minute.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said miserably. “I feel horrible about this.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and cast a hunted look over his shoulder. “I know it looks bad, but it isn’t what you think. I can explain,” he assured Holly in a low voice. “I just can’t do it…now.”

“No, of course you can’t!” Holly retorted. “Not until you’ve finished shagging Kate, that is. Well, don’t let me stop you.” She flung the door open, and, with tears spilling down her face, slammed out of the flat and away down the stairs.

Once inside her car, Holly turned the key and took off with a grinding of gears. She heard Alex call after her and come pelting down the stairs, but she had no desire to see him or speak to him, ever again.

She was done with
BritTEEN
. She was done with Kate. And she was most definitely done with Henry Alexander Barrington.

Some time later — ten minutes, or possibly half an hour — Holly found herself in Kentish Town. She parked just down the street from Gordon Scots restaurant and realized with a start that she had no recollection of the journey. Her face, still swollen and slick with tears, gazed back at her in the rear-view mirror. Holly winced. She’d seen cat sick that looked better than she did right now.

She sighed, and scrabbled in her handbag for lip gloss and blush in an attempt to repair the damage.
Face it
, she told herself grimly as she flicked blush on her cheeks,
Dad and Jamie both think Alex is a prat
.
I’ve just come a bit late to the party
.

Today Gordon Scots was closed; it was Jamie’s day off. He lived in the flat above the restaurant, and she knew he slept in on Sundays until at least noon. But as it was nearly five o’clock, he was probably up.

Holly got out of the car and made her way around to the back of the restaurant. As she climbed the wrought iron stairs that led up to Jamie’s flat and raised her hand to knock on the back door, she sniffed the air appreciatively. Something smelled delicious…

As the Stones blared away inside the flat, Holly banged once, twice on the door. Abruptly the music lowered and Jamie opened the door.

“Holly!” Surprise turned quickly into a grin as he opened the door wider. He wore jeans and a blue polo shirt that perfectly matched his eyes, and his feet were bare. His hands were covered in flour. “I’m just making up the pastry dough. Come on in.”

“Okay.” Suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, Holly stepped inside and found herself in a tiny galley kitchen. Every surface was covered with stuff — damp tea towels, a bag of pastry flour, rolling pins, sachets of yeast, and assorted measuring cups. She cast him an enquiring look.

“Chicken and leek pie,” he answered. “It’s Mum’s recipe. Go on, have a sit.” He indicated one of the two chairs wedged under a table by the window. “So what brings you round?” he asked as he took up the rolling pin and began to move it expertly over the dough on the flour-covered table.

Holly shrugged as she sat down. “Nothing, really; just needed someone to talk to, I suppose.”

He studied her face. “You’ve been crying. Are you all right? What’s happened?”

“What hasn’t?” She bit her lip. “I’ve been sacked from the magazine.”

Jamie looked up, stunned. “You got
sacked
? But your article was just published! It was brilliant, by the way,” he added as he put the rolling pin aside. “I bought a copy the day it came out. Went back and bought half a dozen more, actually.”

“Thanks. I was…am…really proud of it.” Briefly Holly related the photo fiasco. “And for toppers, I just walked in on Alex and Kate practically going at it on my sofa. So now I’ve lost my job to Kate…and Alex as well,” she added darkly. “Not that I want him anyway, the lying, cheating swine.”

Jamie reached for an oblong tin pan. “What did he say? When you caught him,” he added as he rolled the dough onto the pin and transferred it into the pan.

Holly turned a measuring cup around in her hands. “That it wasn’t what it looked like and that he’d explain later.”

“Why couldn’t he explain in front of Kate?”

“That’s what I asked him! He said he’d tell me everything later. As if there’ll be a ‘later’,” Holly added scornfully. “At any rate, I can’t share a flat with that boyfriend-stealing slag one minute longer. Do you know of anyone who’s looking for a flatmate?”

“Yeah, I might do.” He pressed the dough down into the corners of the pan. “Me.” He began to prick the dough randomly with a fork.

“You?” Holly echoed, and blinked.

“Sure. Why don’t you stay here? It makes sense. You can stay as long as you like…until you find a place of your own. I can sleep on the sofa; you can have my room. How are you fixed for a job?”

“I’m not,” she said glumly. “I have to start looking for something tomorrow.”

“Tell you what,” Jamie said as he wiped his hands on a tea towel and sat down. “I could do with another waitress on the afternoon shift. Free lunch every day, decent pay, and the tips are good.” He regarded her expectantly. “Are you interested?”

“Oh, Jamie, that’s sweet of you,” Holly said, touched. “But I haven’t waitressed since my first year at uni. And I wasn’t very good at it.”

“Oh, bollocks. You’d be doing me a favour. You’ll rake in the tips. And it’ll tide you over until you find something better…which I’ve no doubt you will.”

As she considered the idea she felt a cautious optimism. It’d be perfect — she’d have the mornings free to job hunt, and the evenings free to write, not to mention a flatmate with a steady job, one who wouldn’t leave crumbs in her butter dish or ladder her tights…or steal her boyfriend.

“What are you planning to do about Alex?” Jamie asked.

“Do? Nothing,” she said, indignant. “I never want to see him again.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Jamie said, “but perhaps you should at least hear him out.”

“What? Are you mad? He’ll just tell me Kate threw herself at him, or something equally lame.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But it doesn’t add up. After all, he came all the way from London to Oxfordshire — after working all day — when he found out you got sacked. And I’m guessing the two of you didn’t exactly spend the rest of the weekend watching Graham Norton and doing crosswords.”

Holly blushed.

“So why,” Jamie went on thoughtfully, “after a loved-up weekend with you, would Alex turn round and jump Kate’s bones the minute he got back?”

“Easy,” she said, her words bitter. “Because he could.”

“Maybe. But wouldn’t he at least have taken Kate back to his place?”

“Not if he thought I wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

“True.” He stood up. “I don’t even know why I’m defending him. I guess I don’t want to believe that he could do something that rubbish to you. You don’t deserve it.”

She met his eyes, startled by the intensity of his gaze. “Thanks,” she murmured, and smiled. “It’s nice to have a mate who has my back.”

“And it’s nice to have someone to talk to besides myself.” He grinned. “Now let’s get the filling in this pie so we can share our first dinner together as flatmates, shall we?”

On Monday morning Marcus parked the Aston Martin in front of a narrow, multi-storey building in Grosvenor Crescent. The law offices of Biddeford and Biddeford stood in the midst of a row of identical buildings, all of them fronted by a black rail fence.

He unfolded his long length from the car and regarded the building impassively.
Best get the divorce ball rolling, then
.

Marcus flicked the remote to lock the car and made his way up the steps to the entrance. He despised most men of the legal profession; they were well-spoken, over-educated moneygrubbers, the lot of them. Except for Alex Barrington, he amended as he swung open the dark blue door and let himself into the small but plush reception area. He liked Alex. Good bloke, in spite of his public-school education.

A young woman — attractive brunette, smart suit, nice legs — greeted him politely. “Mr Russo, good morning. Mr Biddeford will be with you shortly. Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?”

A few minutes later, cup of fair-trade espresso in hand and the brunette’s phone number in his pocket, Marcus settled himself in one of the tufted leather wing chairs. Damn, the coffee here tasted better than the swill he normally got at Costa…

His gaze roved indifferently over the plush carpet and staid Queen Anne furnishings and came to rest on a tea table scattered with magazines. Marcus set his cup aside and leaned forward to investigate. Finance, law, a parenting magazine — he could probably do with a subscription to that one; he’d made a bloody mess of parenting so far — and some sort of teen magazine. Shit. Not an
FHM
or a
Maxim
to be seen.

He picked up the magazine —
BritTEEN
— and began to flip disinterestedly through the pages. Lip gloss, boy bands, girly stuff that his daughter Poppy would no doubt fancy. He paused on a two-page spread, “Teen Homelessness in London”. He almost flipped past the page, but something about the girl in the accompanying photograph caught his attention.

Incredulous — could it really, possibly be? — Marcus held the magazine page up for a closer examination.

Of course her hair was dyed the colour of bootblack, not its usual brown, and chopped into some kind of ghastly mohawk; and her clothes were held together with safety pins and electrical tape — but he’d know her face anywhere.

Even with the nose stud and multiple earrings in her ear lobe, Marcus knew immediately that this girl was Poppy, his daughter.

Abruptly he stood up. With the magazine still in hand, he slammed out of the law office, his appointment — and his date to have a coffee with Mr Biddeford’s secretary afterwards — completely forgotten.

At a coffee shop halfway across town, the man set down his cup and picked up a magazine someone had left on the counter.
BritTEEN
. He flipped it open and flicked through it; it was full of adverts for lip gloss and interviews with boy bands.