Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (39 page)

Although the attention was unnerving, she was relieved that Erik’s detailed description — along with a photo the police had on file — had appeared in the papers alongside her story. It made her feel a tiny bit safer.

The fact that a plainclothes detective was stationed outside Gordon Scots for the time being didn’t hurt, either.

Since Erik still had her mobile, she’d received a flurry of calls at the restaurant in the story’s wake — her parents, her sister Hannah, Kate, Will, even Auntie Gwen, all of them shocked but relieved to learn she was all right.

But the one person Holly had most wanted to hear from hadn’t called.

And it hurt. It gutted her to think, after all of their time together, that he cared so very little about her…

“Has Alex called?” Jamie asked as he got up to make them more toast.

“No.” She pushed listlessly at her grilled tomatoes. “I told you, we’re not seeing each other any more.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and thrust four slices of wholemeal into the toaster slots. “It wouldn’t kill him to call and make sure you’re all right, would it?”

“Don’t start, Jamie. I don’t expect him to call. I don’t
want
him to call. And I don’t want you to keep going on about it.”

He said nothing more, only plunked a plate stacked with more toast on the table between them and sat down to eat his breakfast in silence.

Halfway through his eggs, Jamie’s mobile rang. He glanced at the unfamiliar number and scowled. “It’s probably for you again,” he grumbled. “I’ll be glad when you get your bloody phone back.” He pressed ‘Answer’ and snapped, “Hello? Holly James’s answering service, how may I direct your call?”

He listened for a moment, and his expression changed. “Yes, she’s here. Hold on, please.” Wordlessly he held out the phone to Holly. “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” she hissed. “It’s not — is it Alex?” she asked hopefully.

“No. It’s someone called Valery. Valery Beauchamp.”

“Oh, my God.” Holly snatched the phone away. “Hello?” she said, breathless. She listened, nodding now and then, murmuring an occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but otherwise saying little. Five minutes later, she rang off.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, dazed. “That was Valery, the editor-in-chief of
BritTEEN
. She’s offered me a job.”

“What — your old job back?” He snorted. “After the way she treated you, I hope you told her what she could do with her bloody job offer.”

“She didn’t offer me my old job back. She offered me Sasha’s job!”

He stared at her blankly. “Sasha? But wasn’t she your boss? The one you swore got you booted from the magazine?”

Holly nodded. “She turned in her notice. Today was Sasha’s last day at
BritTEEN
.” She frowned. “She despised me, Jamie. She mocked my ideas, sneered at me in meetings, did everything she could to make me look bad — but the strange thing is,” she added, her eyes wide with shock, “she’s just recommended me to Valery as her replacement!”

“You weren’t at Sasha’s leaving party,” Poppy accused as she climbed into Will’s waiting car after work. They’d agreed to meet around the corner in the event Erik was watching the building, and she’d ducked out the back entrance.

“That’s because I didn’t go.”

She gazed at him in surprise. “Why? I thought…you and Sasha…”

“I had a photo shoot with Dominic Heath this morning, and we didn’t wrap until three o’clock. The guy’s a nightmare.”

“Oh. Sorry. We took Sasha to that new sushi place. She loved it.”

“That’s great.” Will pulled out into the stream of traffic. “Too bad I missed it.”

“Yeah — the sashimi was amazing.” Poppy frowned. “What’s wrong? You seem distracted. And where’re we going?” she asked suddenly. “My flat’s that way.”

“I have an errand to run.” Will slanted a glance at her. “Actually,” he admitted, “I’m going to your dad’s new restaurant, and you’re going to tell him exactly what’s going on. Then I thought the three of us might have dinner together afterwards.”

Poppy stared at him, stunned. “Are you mental? I can’t tell Dad about Erik — he’ll send me straight back to Mum’s!”

“It’s too late.” His expression was set. “I got his number from Holly and called him this morning. He can’t wait to see you.”

“Bloody hell, Will — I can’t believe you
did
this!”

“He needs to know what’s going on, Poppy. He’s your
father
.”

“I won’t see him,” she said mulishly, and crossed her arms against her chest. “He never gave a shit about me before—”

“Why don’t you stop being so damned selfish for one minute?” Will snapped. “He’s worried about you. He’s had the police looking for you. He’s offering a fifty-thousand-pound reward for information leading to your safe return.”

She snorted. “Right, that’s his answer to everything. Throw money at it. Problem sorted.”

“At least you have someone who gives a shit what happens to you,” he said tightly. “That’s more than I ever had.” He slowed the car as they approached a crossing. “My stepfather sexually abused me from the time I was twelve until I was fourteen—did you know that? That’s why I ran away. I ended up turning tricks to survive, Poppy. I did things no boy should have to do. I would’ve given anything to have one person — one fucking person! — who gave a shit whether I lived or died.”

Poppy blinked. “I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t know.”

He turned the Fiat onto Kentish Town Road. “No, of course you didn’t. I told Sasha everything last night, along with the fact that I’m HIV positive, and she was completely gobsmacked.”

She reached out to touch his arm. “Oh, Will,” she said softly, “I’m sorry. That’s rough. But she’ll come around, eventually.”

He shrugged. “If she does, she does. If not… look, all I’m saying is, it won’t kill you to spend a few minutes with your dad, just to let him know you’re okay. He’s worried.”

“Why? He never cared before. He wasn’t home long enough.” She stared out of the window, reliving old hurts — the missed birthdays, the school Christmas plays he hadn’t attended. “He was always too busy running his empire to bother with me.”

“I’m not making excuses for him, Poppy, but…he’s got a lot of demands on his time. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you—”

“Was your dad — your real dad — gone more than he was home?” she snapped. “Did he travel fifty weeks out of the year?”

“No. He died when I was five.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry. But the only time I ever see my dad is when he’s on the telly. You can’t possibly know how that makes me feel.” To her embarrassment, her eyes swam with unshed tears. She blinked them angrily away.

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But I know how
he
feels. He’s wrecked. He wants to try again. He knows he made a mess of things and he wants to fix it. But he can’t, if you won’t give him a chance.”

“I won’t go,” she said, her mind made up. “I’ve nothing to say to him. And I won’t be sent back to Mum’s.”

“Fine. Wait in the car, then.” Will knew further argument was useless. He drove the rest of the way down Kentish Town Road in silence. He found a car park just down the street from Brasserie Russo and turned in, shutting off the engine, and decided to try one more time. “Look, I don’t like leaving you here alone. Come on, Poppy. Are you coming into the brasserie with me or not?”

“Not.” She was too angry to even look at him.

Will shook his head in disgust. “Suit yourself. I’m locking you in. I won’t be long.”

He left.

So Dad wanted to reconnect, did he? Poppy leaned back in her seat, her thoughts black. Other little girls’ dads came to school to have lunch with them sometimes, or to talk to the class about being a dentist or a mechanic or whatever. Her own dad was famous. He was a star! Everyone knew who Chef Russo was; everyone ate at his restaurants and laughed at his colourful swearing on the telly.

How ironic, then, that he’d never once come to one of her classes to talk about being a chef. That would’ve been so brilliant! But he was always far too busy.

He’d never once taken her to lunch, or to the library, or cheered her on at gymkhanas, or sat in the audience during her school plays. Mum had done all those things, not him.

Now he wanted to sweep it all aside and play at happy families?

Well, sod that. And sod him.

It was warm, so Poppy leaned forward and rolled the Fiat’s window glass down. Shit…she’d forgotten that once down, the glass wouldn’t always go back up. Oh, well. Hope it didn’t rain…

As she jiggled the handle and tried without much success to push the glass back up with her hand, a shadow fell over her, and she looked up, startled.

Like a vision from a nightmare, Erik stood at her window.

“Hello, Poppy.” He rested his arms on the roof as if he had all the time in the world. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Erik,” she whispered, and shrank back.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me. I want it back.”

She stared at him, at his hateful, smiling face, and fear paralyzed her. “Will’s coming right back. Go away, or I’ll scream my bloody lungs out—”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Unperturbed, he withdrew a photo of Sharon and held it up. “This your mate, Sharon? Nice hair. I like the pink streak.”

“Where’d you get that?” she demanded. “How did you find me?”

“Where I got it — or how I found you — doesn’t matter. Hand over my mobile,” he said calmly, “or one of my men will grab Sha before our conversation is over.”

“You’re a monster.” Her voice was a thread.

“By now, clever girl that you are, I’m sure you’ve worked out how I make my money.”

“You traffic in women. You sell them.”

He shrugged. “Why bother with something as pedestrian as drugs, with so many runaway girls coming to London every day? They’re easy pickings. I offer them tea and sympathy, a place to stay, a bed…and after I tire of them, I sell them off — not just once, but over and over again. That’s the best part. Unlike Roofies, or E, or coke, I can resell the merchandise. As long as it still looks good.” He smiled.

She was filled with revulsion. “Does Mum know what you do? Does she know how you make your money?”

“Of course she doesn’t. She thinks I’m a very successful venture capitalist.” He laughed. “Now, if you don’t want your mate to spend the rest of her life on her back, working for me,” he added as his amusement vanished, “give me my mobile, and I’ll be on my way.”

Repulsed — for how could a man look so perfectly normal, handsome even, and yet be the walking, talking embodiment of evil? — Poppy shrank away from him. She knew instinctively that he was lying to her. He wouldn’t let her go, no way. She knew too much. “It’s — it’s in my handbag.”

“Get it,” he demanded, glancing up and down the street, “now. And no tricky stuff, I have a gun.”

Poppy began to scrabble through her handbag, her fingers searching for his mobile phone. She found the key to Kate’s flat, her wallet, her
BritTEEN
security badge, a large safety pin, and a tube of factor 30 suncream — everything except Erik’s bloody mobile. Perspiration trickled down her neck and dampened her collar. She palmed the safety pin — it was the only weapon she had to hand — and continued to look in the side pouches and compartments.

Bloody hell…the phone was gone.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with panic. “It…it’s not here.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “Of course it’s there, keep looking. After all, how do you think I found you? You switched the sat nav back on. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Poppy stared at him, uncomprehending. She knew she’d done no such thing; why on earth would she do something so stupid? She hadn’t touched his phone in at least two days.

Erik added, “The GPS led me right to you. Isn’t technology a wonderful thing?”

Desperate — for she knew the phone wasn’t in her bag — Poppy thrust her hand back inside and pretended to search.

He leaned closer. “You’re stalling. Give me that phone,” he snapped, losing patience. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know! Will must’ve taken it—”

“You’d better hope he didn’t,” Erik bit off. “No more games, Poppy. I want that fucking phone!”

“Hey! You — what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Poppy looked up, startled.
Will
. He’d spotted Erik and was pelting down the street towards the car. Improbably, her father — dressed in his chef’s whites — ran just behind him.

She blinked. Was that a
cameraman
running alongside Will and her father, filming them?

Erik reached into the waistband of his trousers and withdrew a gun. “Get out,” he snarled. “Move!”

She hesitated, then flung the door hard into him and shouted, “Will — he’s got a gun!”

Erik recovered his balance and grabbed her wrist, dragging her from the Fiat before she could escape. Poppy gripped the opened safety pin in her fist and brought it down as hard and as deep into his hand as she could. With a yelp of pain, he let go of her; she turned and stumbled blindly forward, intent only on getting away.

“Poppy!” Marcus cried out raggedly. “Poppy, look out—”

The deafening sound of a gunshot exploded somewhere just behind her, and she screamed. The pavement came rushing up to meet her. She barely registered the pain of falling when everything went blessedly black and oblivion overtook her.

Chapter 59

Poppy opened her eyes. Had moments passed, or hours? She couldn’t be sure. Her father’s face — looking older than she remembered, and creased in concern — swam slowly into focus above her, and Will’s as well.

“Poppy,” Marcus said, and his voice cracked.

“Dad,” she mumbled. “Dad,” and suddenly he held her so tightly she thought her ribs might break. He smelled of garlic and sweat and Acqua di Gio, and she couldn’t seem to stop crying.

“Thank God you’re safe,” her father kept saying, over and over. “You put me through hell these last few weeks, Poppy.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she whispered, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand when he finally let her go. “What happened?” she asked, and leaned on her elbow to sit up. “Where’s Erik gone?”

“To prison,” Marcus said succinctly, “and for a very long time.” He jerked his head towards the response car pulled in at the entrance to the car park, its light bar flashing. Erik had already been cautioned — “Anything you do say may be given in evidence” — and thrust into the back of the waiting vehicle.