Read Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) Online
Authors: Katie Oliver
“I don’t think so.” He turned the wheel sharply, veering off to the left. “I’m turning here. See if you can make out what sort of car it is.”
Zoe did as he asked, getting on her knees and peering backwards as Will took the turn. Her hands gripped the headrest.
“Oh, my God, Will — it’s a black Maserati.” She turned to face him, her eyes huge with fear. “It’s him. It’s Erik!”
“Are you sure?” Will demanded.
“Well, I don’t know anyone else with a black Maserati,” she shot back, “do you?”
“No,” he muttered. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, his thoughts racing. “We need to get to a station house, and fast.”
“Maybe we can outrun him?” Zoe offered.
Will snorted. “Outrun a Maserati in a Fiat Panda? You must be joking.”
“Okay, sorry.” She pressed herself flat against the seat and tried not to hyperventilate. “Do you have anything we could use as a weapon?”
“Like what? A Luger? An AK-47? A grenade launcher? No,” Will said through gritted teeth, “I don’t have anything like that rattling around in my car, sorry.”
“I’m just trying to help,” Zoe said defensively.
“This isn’t an action film, Zoe, and I’m not Matt Damon,” he retorted. He eyed the rear-view mirror once again. The Maserati was still behind them, a little closer than before. He hit the steering wheel in frustration. “Shit — how did I get mixed up in this?”
“Because you were trying to help me,” Zoe said, her face stricken. “I’m really sorry, Will.”
He glanced over at her. “It’s not your fault.” He gripped the wheel and added grimly, “Well, if we’re going down, we’re not going down without a fight. Hang onto your knickers, Zoe — I’m gonna give this guy Erik a run for his money.”
Before she could reply, Will wrenched the steering wheel sideways, and, with a shriek of tyres and the stench of burnt rubber, the Fiat spun around to face the other direction.
The Maserati’s headlights bore down on them. Zoe watched with her heart in her throat, certain that Erik was about to run into them head-on…but Will gunned the car’s engine, and the Fiat jumped forward just in time, blowing past the Maserati on the wrong side of the road. They heard the squeal of tyres behind them as Erik slammed on the brakes, losing traction as he spun the wheel to stop the car from skewing sideways.
“That was brilliant!” she shouted as Will pushed the little car to its limits to try and lose Erik.
He didn’t answer, just focused on flooring the pedal and getting away from that damned Maserati. They had a tiny window of time while Erik regained control of his car. He peeled off onto a narrow side road and drove at top speed for a couple of miles, then pulled in behind a garage. He parked the Fiat in the midst of a row of cars waiting for service the next morning and killed the headlights.
“I brought the Panda in here for servicing last week,” he explained. “Had the clutch replaced. I had a hell of a time finding the place. Let’s hope Erik doesn’t find it at all.”
“I hope you’re right,” Zoe muttered as she clutched at her seat with both hands.
“It always does the trick in the movies. At any rate,” Will added grimly, “we’re out of options. Duck down.”
Zoe did as he said and waited in the darkness of the car. The only sound was the tick, tick, tick of the cooling engine, her own laboured breathing…
And the roar of an approaching Maserati, growing steadily closer.
It was nearly midnight when Jamie finally trudged upstairs after closing the restaurant. Holly looked up from the mug of tea she’d just emptied into the sink. “All finished?”
“Yeah — finished, until five o’clock in the morning, when it starts all over again.” Jamie made his way to the fridge and opened the door. “Fancy a beer?”
“Sure, why not? It might help me sleep.”
He opened a Stella and handed it to Holly. “Since when do you need help sleeping? That’s not usually a problem for you.”
“No,” she agreed, and took a long swallow of the beer. “I saw Zoe tonight, the homeless girl. She came to the restaurant with Will — he took the photo that got swapped — to tell me about a job opening at
Shout
. And she told me something else. Something that’s got me worried.”
He opened another bottle. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“There’s a man looking for Zoe,” she said, and bit her lip. “His name’s Erik. He saw her photo in
BritTEEN
, and now…now he’s looking for me, too.”
“What? Why?”
“Zoe thinks he’s a sex trafficker. He was seeing her mum; he came on to Zoe one night, and she fought him off. She ran away, and grabbed his mobile by mistake.” She wrapped her hands around the cold, sweating bottle of beer. “Zoe says it has pictures of runaway girls he’s picked up and forced into prostitution, pictures that could implicate him in trafficking. He wants that mobile back.”
“Jesus,” Jamie said softly. “So why’s he after
you
?”
“He saw my byline on the article. He must think I know where Zoe is, and that I’ll tell him where to find her.”
He pulled up a chair and straddled it backwards, his face creased with concern. “How does Zoe know that this bloke Erik’s really after her? Did she talk to him?”
“No. But Sharon, one of the rough sleepers, did. He
threatened
her, Jamie. Told her to tell him where I was, or he’d force her to go to work for him.”
Jamie stared at her. “Holly, please tell me she didn’t tell this sex-trafficking freak where you
live
?”
She met his gaze with large, frightened eyes. “She did. She told him I work here at Gordon Scots, Jamie. And I’m really, really scared.”
Although he kept his eyes focused on the road as he roared up the A400 towards Camden, Erik knew he’d lost them. There was no sign of the bloody red Fiat anywhere.
He pounded his fist savagely on the steering wheel.
He’d lost Poppy. The little bitch had eluded him once again.
But all wasn’t lost yet, he reminded himself, and a smile, cold and determined, unfurled on his lips. If he couldn’t run Poppy to ground, he’d move on to the next order of business…
Finding Holly James.
“There’s a man at the front desk asking for you,” Eleanor announced over the phone the next morning.
Now, if there were sweeter words known to man — or woman — Kate Ashby hadn’t heard them. Nevertheless, she was busy as hell, and she hadn’t made any appointments. “What’s his name?” she said with a trace of irritation. “What does he want?”
“Mr Ivens,” Eleanor replied. She glanced down at the business card he’d given her. “Sebastian Ivens. He wants to speak with you concerning a private matter.” She lowered her voice and continued, “And h-he’s really a-attractive.”
“Ooh, be right there,” Kate breathed, and rang off. If Eleanor was stammering, it meant he was really, really fit.
She strode down the hall, glad she’d worn her sexy split skirt and boots, and rounded the corner to the lobby.
Sure enough, a tall, fair-haired man stood waiting, briefcase in hand, at the front desk. And what a man he was…
His suit, Kate knew instinctively as her eyes swept over him, was Armani and his shoes were Italian leather, probably bespoke. His briefcase was Smythson, and expensive. She knew that, because she’d once considered buying one for a boyfriend — a plan she’d quickly shelved.
His body was long and lean, his face angular but arresting. And his eyes, when he removed those aviator sunglasses to glance over at her, were the most incredible, scary-sexy ice-blue…
He extended his hand. “Ms Ashby? Sebastian Ivens. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“A pleasure,” she murmured as his hand engulfed hers. “What can I do for you, Mr Ivens?”
“Actually, I’m here on a rather…personal matter. Is there somewhere we might speak in private?”
She hesitated. She really did have a lot of work to dive into, but he was
so
bloody attractive… “Of course, we can talk in here.” She led the way into a small, unused conference room just off the lobby and shut the door firmly behind them.
“I know you’re busy, Ms Ashby,” he said when they’d seated themselves at the conference table, “so I’ll cut to the chase.” He extracted a business card from a sleek silver holder and handed it to her. “I’m Editor-in-Chief of a start-up magazine for young women,
Cheers!
It’ll be heavy on celebrity gossip — after all, that’s what young women like — and fashion, of course.”
Kate frowned. “I know all the latest magazine gossip, Mr Ivens. But I’ve not heard mention of a new teen magazine.”
“Sebastian, please.” He leaned back and smiled. “That’s because it’s early days, Ms Ashby, and I’m keeping my plans for
Cheers!
hush-hush. I’m still lining up investors. But I’m looking to hire a crack staff, and soon. Are you interested?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m happy where I’m at.”
“I’ll pay well. And I’d hire you on, at the very least, as a deputy editor. With your talent, I expect you’ll move up the rungs into the senior staff level very quickly.”
Kate smiled, flattered. “Thank you, Mr— er, Sebastian. It’s certainly very tempting. I promise, I’ll think about it.”
“Excellent.” He moved to stand up, and paused. “Oh, and before I go — is there anyone else you’d like to bring along with you, if you were to accept my offer?”
Again, Kate hesitated. There was only one person she’d ever consider taking with her, if she could — Holly James.
Almost as if he’d read her mind, Sebastian unclasped his briefcase and withdrew a copy of
BritTEEN
. He opened it to Holly’s homeless article. “I was very impressed with this article. Do you think this young woman — Ms James? — might be interested in talking to me?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said truthfully. “Unfortunately, she doesn’t work here any longer.”
“Ah.” He paused, and returned the magazine to his briefcase. “I’m sorry to hear it. Gone to another magazine?”
“No. She was sacked because of a…mix-up. She’s waiting tables at the moment.”
“That’s a pity. I’m sure she’d rather be writing. Well, thank you for your time, Ms Ashby.” He shook her hand once more and turned towards the door, then paused once again. “I don’t suppose…” he began, and frowned. “No. Never mind.”
“What is it?” Kate asked, curious. Was he going to ask her out? Ooh, she
hoped
so…
He glanced down at his watch — a Patek Philippe — and remarked, “It’s half past eleven. Will you join me for lunch? We can discuss things further, and I’ll tell you a bit more about my plans for the magazine.”
As she met those blue, blue eyes Kate’s hesitation fled. “Let me just get my bag,” she murmured.
When Erik left the restaurant an hour and a half later — with Kate Ashby’s phone number tucked away in his breast pocket — he had something else, as well.
After their conversation, he realized that Holly James was a clever girl. She mightn’t take him at his word, as Kate had done. He’d have to lay the proper groundwork if his plan were to work.
He smiled. Thanks to Kate Ashby, he now had Ms James’s personal email address.
And he knew exactly what to do with it.
“This ees an outrage!”
Marcus Russo’s pastry chef, Louis, removed his toque and apron and flung them violently aside.
Marcus came to stand nose-to-nose with the furious Frenchman. “Get back to your station now, you overdramatic little frog, or you’re sacked.”
“Fuck. You. I quit.”
Queet
. Louis held his glare at the chef for a moment longer, flared his nostrils, and turned on his heel. “Make your own bread and pastry,
monsieur
.”
“And…cut!” the
Chefzilla
director called out from the sidelines. “That was great, Chef Louis! A bit over the top with the profanity, but we’ll bleep it out in post-production—”
“Do you think,” the Frenchman snapped, turning his rage on the director, “that I am
acting
?” He stormed up to Marcus. “I cannot take another moment of this overinflated
bâtard
and his giant ego! I quit — and that is no act!”
And with that, he grabbed up his toque and apron and stormed out of the kitchen.
“Why the long face?” Jamie asked Holly that afternoon.
She glanced up from stacking the last of the freshly laundered tablecloths onto the restaurant’s linen shelf. Lunch service at Gordon Scots had ended, thankfully; the rush was over and only one table was occupied. In an hour she could go.
“I’ve been calling Alex since Sunday,” Holly told him. “He’s never answered, and he doesn’t return my messages.”
“Ah, well, you know Alex — he’s probably busy,” Jamie said expansively, and sat down. He tilted his chair back on two legs. “I imagine it takes a lot of effort to maintain that floppy hair of his. And keeping up that whole self-deprecating, terribly-posh-but-sensitive Hugh Grant thing he’s got going on…must get exhausting. Maybe he needed a day off.”
“Why do you always take the piss with Alex?” Holly asked sharply. “Is it the public-school thing?”
“No,” Jamie retorted, “it’s the arsehole thing.”
“Alex is perfectly nice. His manners are impeccable.”
Jamie snorted. “Dog shit wrapped in fancy paper is still dog shit. He treats you like crap, Holly. I mean, look at his track record! The first time he took you out to dinner, he got trolleyed, and blamed me; then, after spending an entire weekend with you, he had a go at Kate the second he got back to London, and told you it was for ‘research’; now he can’t even be arsed to return your phone calls.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for that—”
“Stop making excuses for him, Holly!” He scowled and lowered his chair legs with a thump to the floor. “When will you see Alex for who he really is, instead of who you
want
him to be?”
And with that, Jamie thrust his chair back, grabbed his toque from the peg, and stalked out.
“Knob,” Holly muttered. She retrieved her mobile and made her way outside, behind the kitchen. She was beyond ready for a break. Sergei and one of the busboys leaned against the wall, smoking; she nodded and brushed past them into the alley, where she could read through her messages in peace.