Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (15 page)

Holly shoved the pile of clothing aside and gathered up the stacks of file folders she’d been attempting to sort into some kind of order. “Kate, will you be able to file this lot for me?”

“Can’t.” Kate, who’d come in late and had yet to catch up, barely looked up from the stack of lunch orders she’d been about to call in. “I’m busy.”

“What a coincidence! So am I,” Holly shot back. She plopped the files smack in the middle of Kate’s already overcrowded desk. “Think of Nike and just do it, okay?”

Kate threw her pen down. “Look, I’m not your bloody PA. Zara’s my boss—”

“But Zara’s not here,” Holly snapped. “She’s at the Henry Holland show. So I need you to do a bit of filing in the meantime. If you take issue, feel free to talk to Sasha.”

They had a glare-down. Holly won.

Her mobile rang. It was Frank, the security guard downstairs at Reception. “Hey, Frank, what’s up?”

“You have a visitor, love.”

Her heart did a little kick-step. Alex? Although she was still a trifle annoyed with him for getting so trashed at the restaurant last night, it wasn’t his fault. Jamie Gordon was completely to blame. Alex had been still passed out on the sofa when she’d left this morning, with one black-socked foot thrust out from the covers, and a slight smile on his face.

He’d looked adorable.

“Send him up, Frank.”

“I can’t,” he said. “She’s not on the list.”

Her
. So it wasn’t Alex.

“She says she knows you,” he added doubtfully. “She won’t give her name, though.”

“What does she look like?” Holly asked with dawning — and hopeful — suspicion. “Is she skinny, dark hair in a sort of mohawk, wearing lots of safety pins and a permanent scowl?”

“That’s ’er, exactly.”

“Don’t let her go anywhere,” Holly breathed. “Tackle her if she tries to leave. I’ll be right down.”

When she arrived downstairs five minutes later, the lobby was empty. “Frank, where is she?” Holly demanded breathlessly.

He looked up, phone receiver attached to his ear, and nodded at the revolving doors with an apologetic shrug.

Holly raced across the lobby. “Zoe! Zoe, wait!”

Zoe, who was just about to cross Shaftesbury Avenue, paused. She waited as Holly came awkwardly down the stairs — damn this stupid ankle! — and arrived, breathless, before her.

“Why didn’t you wait?” Holly demanded. “I came downstairs as soon as I could. Did you decide? Can I interview you?”

“Yeah, okay.” Her words were grudging. “You and Will can follow me, but only for a day or two. I have final say on what you write, and Will has to promise to pixie-pix—”

“Pixelate,” Holly supplied.

“—pixelate my photo.”

“Okay, yeah, sure,” Holly agreed, and tried to suppress her excitement at the news. “You’ll need to sign a release form. Can you come upstairs and sign it now?”

An expression of uncertainty flickered briefly across Zoe’s face, quickly replaced by her customary scowl. “All right.”

“How do you like Will?” Holly asked as they rode the lift to the thirty-seventh floor.

She shrugged. “Dunno. He’s all right.”

“He’s a really good photographer. He could be the next Steven Meisel.”

“Who?”

Holly sighed. “Never mind.”

The doors slid silently open. She led the way through the glass doors, past Reception and into the chaos of
BritTEEN’s
offices. Zoe, her expression guarded, followed close behind.

No one cast more than a cursory glance her way; after all, a girl sporting Doc Martens, safety pins, a scowl and sticky-up black hair was nothing unusual in the
BritTEEN
offices.

“Must be cool to work here,” Zoe said grudgingly. Her eyes followed a rail of crayon-coloured dresses being wheeled past by an intern.

Holly shrugged and led Zoe to her cubicle. “It has its moments.” She jerked open a couple of drawers until she found the release forms and handed one, along with a pen, to the girl. “It’s standard stuff, gives me permission to interview you.”

Zoe looked it over. “What do I put for a phone?” she asked. “And an address…seeing as I don’t have one?”

Holly took the form and scribbled in her own number and address. “We’ll use mine. I’m your contact person, anyway.”

Zoe filled in her particulars, and under “Restrictions” she wrote “BLUR MY PHOTO,” underlined it three times, and signed her name.

“Holly, did you take those samples back yet?” Sasha demanded as she strode by.

“Er…no. Just on my way, though.” Holly laid the form aside and grabbed the pile of sample clothes from her desktop. She thrust half of them into Zoe’s arms. “Help me take these back, and I’ll see about getting you a job here.”

Zoe looked at her with mingled suspicion and hope. “A job? Really?”

“It won’t pay much at first,” Holly warned, “but if you work very hard and prove you can do the job, it’ll help you get in the door, if this—” she swept her arm out to encompass the brightly lit
BritTEEN
offices “—is what you really want.”

“Yes,” Zoe said, her voice low but intense. “It’s exactly what I want.”

With a job — even one that didn’t pay much — she could get off the street and rent a room somewhere. She could get herself a proper haircut, maybe dye it red, or blonde.

She’d do whatever it took to keep Erik off her trail.

Chapter 22

Sasha glanced up as the two girls went out of the office. Her eyes narrowed. Those sample clothes had to be returned this afternoon, no excuses. She strode over to Holly’s cubicle to check, and saw to her satisfaction that the desk was bare; the clothes were gone. She paused as she saw a form lying in the middle of Holly’s desk. Curious, she picked it up.

It was a standard interview release form. Sasha frowned. The form gave Holly permission to interview Zoe Jones. Zoe must be the homeless teen. Under “Restrictions” the girl had written “BLUR MY PHOTO” and had underlined it three times.

“Kate,” Sasha called out idly as she studied the form, “what do you know about the girl who was just here with Holly?”

Kate dropped a folder into the file cabinet and shut the door. “Not much. Her name’s Zoe.” She sniffed dismissively. “Evidently no one’s told her that it’s not 1975 any more, or that the Sex Pistols have broken up.” She picked up another folder. “Holly said she’d see about getting her a job here.”

Sasha frowned. “What? She said that? She’s got a cheek.”

Kate nodded and yanked open another filing drawer. “And then she dumped all this bloody filing on me.”

“Sasha Davis?”

Sasha glanced up to see the new staff photographer, Will somebody-or-other, standing in front of her. He wore jeans and a plain black T-shirt. He could do with a shave, she noted critically. Although upon closer inspection, the stubble shadowing his jaw was rather sexy…

“Yes?”

“I’m doing the photos for Holly’s homeless article. Will Tennant.” He held out his hand.

Wordlessly she took it. His grip, like his gaze, was confident and direct. “I’m very busy, Mr Tennant.”

“So am I.” He regarded her levelly. “But we both need to eat, and it’s nearly lunchtime. I wondered if you’d like to join me and grab a sandwich somewhere.”

“I really can’t spare a minute. I’ve a lot to be doing—”

He raised his brow. “And it’ll be waiting here when you come back. We can talk about work while we eat, if it makes you feel any better.” He smiled. “But I’d rather talk about you.”

Sasha eyed him. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

“New York City, Red Hook, Brooklyn. So…are you in?”

God, but he was confident
.
How dared he just walk in here like he owned the place, like he owned
her
…

“All right,” Sasha said after a moment, “let’s go. But I absolutely have to be back in forty-five minutes.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time talking.”

And with that, he took her by the arm, and to lunch.

“Thank God, the lunch rush is over.”

So saying, Marcus Russo flung a tea towel across his shoulder and sat down across the table from Alex. “Did you order yet? Try the mussels—they’re fresh and very, very good. It’s on the house.”

Alex nodded and placed a folder on the table. “Thank you. I’ve brought along your updated investment portfolio, Mr Russo; all you need do is sign your approval—”

Marcus took up the folder. “Yeah, sure. You know,” he remarked as he flipped through the pages, “we check every mussel to be sure it’s alive. Some places don’t. Have you ever had a bad bivalve? I have, and it’s not an experience I’d care to repeat. I had loose bowels and nausea for a week.” He signed off his approval and held the folder out.

Alex took it and cleared his throat. “Perhaps I’ll have a salad instead.”

Marcus let out a gusty laugh. “Don’t worry, you won’t get food poisoning at Brasserie Russo.” His face darkened. “Of course, I can’t say the same for that place round the corner.”

“You mean Gordon Scots?” Alex asked, startled.

“I’ve heard things,” Russo said mysteriously. “That little twit — what’s his name, Jamie Gordon? — he’s too young to know how to run a restaurant properly.”

“I had dinner there last night. It was quite good, actually.”
With the exception of my massive whisky-induced hangover
, Alex amended silently.

“Forget I said anything.” Marcus waved his hand in dismissal. “I’m sure the food at Gordon Scots is fine. Just rumours, anyway.” He flagged down a waiter and ordered two portions of steamed mussels and frites.

Five minutes later their mussels arrived, accompanied by sliced lemons and garlic butter.

“My wife and I are separated.” Marcus loosened the meat from one of the blue-black shells, doused it with hot sauce, and popped it in his mouth. “The fact that I’m never home doesn’t help. I don’t blame her for leaving, really.” He frowned. “But she shouldn’t have taken Poppy. Our daughter,” he added.

Alex was spared a reply by the ringing of Marcus’s mobile.

“Speak of the devil, it’s Bethany.” Marcus put the phone to his ear. “Hello, what’s up?” He listened for a moment, then frowned. “What do you mean, when am I bringing Poppy round to visit? She’s with you.”

Alex laid his napkin aside. “Back to work,” he murmured, and pointed at his wristwatch. “Thanks for lunch.”

Marcus waved him impatiently back into his seat. “You thought she was with
me
? Bethany, you took Poppy with you when you left!” He paused to listen, and anger suffused his face. “Do you mean she left your house three bloody
weeks
ago and you didn’t bother to tell me? No, of course she’s not with me!”

Marcus was shouting. Good thing the restaurant was nearly empty this late in the afternoon, Alex reflected uncomfortably. He’d never seen the chef so angry — and that was saying a lot.

“I can’t waste time talking. I have to find her,” Marcus snapped. “And when I do, I’m suing you for custody. You’re an unfit bloody mother!”

He slammed the phone down on the table and glared at Alex. “Mr Barrington, I need the name of the best divorce solicitor you can recommend. And I need it now.”

Half the way through lunch with Will at Pret, Sasha’s mobile rang. She glanced down. “I have to take this. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

She pushed her chair back and threaded her way through the crowded restaurant. “Hello! Yes, I know you want to come home. I’d love that. But we’ve talked about this before, and it’s just not possible right now… I promise you, I’ll be there in a few more hours—” she paused, listening. “No, I can’t come just now, I… Oh, please, don’t say that!” Sasha’s voice caught. “Darling, only try and understand—”

As a flood of shouted invective filled her ear, Sasha held the mobile away with a weary expression. After a moment, a calmer voice came on and said apologetically, “She’s having a bit of an episode, Miss Davis.”

“Yes, I understand. It’s all right. Yes. I’ll come and see her tonight. Make sure she knows that.”

Sasha rang off and let out a shaky breath. If she rearranged this afternoon’s meeting with Matt until tomorrow morning, and if she stayed a bit late to finish the monthly budget projections spreadsheet, she should be able to leave by six-thirty, seven at the latest, before visiting hours were over—

“There you are,” Will said as she returned to the table and resumed her seat. “Is everything all right? You look upset.”

“Everything’s fine. But I need to get back to the office.” She began to gather up her half-eaten chicken salad ciabatta and untouched packet of crisps.
This
, she thought grimly,
is when Will begins to get annoyed with me
.
He won’t understand now, and he sure as hell won’t understand later. They never do
.

“No problem.” He stood and waited as she hoisted her handbag strap over her shoulder. “I need to get back, too.”

Sasha looked at him warily. “You don’t mind? I’ve just cut our lunch short—”

“If fifteen minutes is all you can spare, I’ll take it. You’re busy. I get that.” He raised his brow. “Honestly, though — having lunch with me — it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No,” she admitted, “it wasn’t.”

With an easy smile, he took her arm, and they walked together, back to work.

“Sasha,” Holly said bravely as she stood before her boss’s desk late that afternoon, “I’ve arranged the interview with Zoe.”

Sasha didn’t look up from her laptop screen. “Budget projection spreadsheets are
such
a bloody pain,” she muttered. “Good, Holly, fine.”

Holly cleared her throat. “The thing is — I’ll need tomorrow off, and Thursday as well. I’m shadowing Zoe. We’re sleeping on the streets tonight, and then in a night shelter tomorrow, so I can write about it all firsthand.”

“Is the release form signed?” Sasha asked, even though she knew full well that it was.

Holly nodded and handed the form over.

“Good. Get the draft on my desk by Monday morning,” Sasha added. “Valery’s very keen to read it.”

“No problem,” Holly said. “I’ll work on it this weekend.”

“Good job,” Sasha said. “Tie up any loose ends before you leave today. Kate can cover your duties in your absence. I’ll see you on Friday morning, then.”