Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (28 page)

She pressed her lips together. “Right.”

He sighed. “Okay, poor choice of words—”

“Drill her?” Holly suggested.

“The point is — I nearly got her to admit she’d swapped out the photo.”

Holly stared at her mobile in disbelief. “What do you mean? Did she actually
say
she swapped them?”

“No. But she was just on the verge of confessing something when you came in. And then, as they say, all hell broke loose.” She said nothing, processing this information.
Something just doesn’t add up
, Jamie had told her. Could he be right? Could Alex Barrington really be telling her the truth…?

Or was she the world’s most gullible idiot?

“Holly? Are you still there?” Alex asked anxiously.

“Yes,” she said at last, all the fight gone out of her. “I’m here.”

“Why don’t I come over tonight? We need to talk about this, face to face.”

“I’m not at the flatshare any longer. I’m going over there when my shift’s done to pack up the rest of my stuff.”

“Your shift?” he repeated, puzzled. “Oh. Have you found another job? Where are you staying?”

“Jamie needs a part-time waitress at Gordon Scots. So I’m working the lunch shift. He’s letting me stay in his flat above the restaurant for as long as I like.”

“And is Jamie staying in this flat as well?”

“On the sofa,” she volunteered. “He gave me his room. It’s a bit close quarters, but it’s working out well.”

“I see. Jolly good of him,” Alex said, an edge to his voice. “And all the free single malt you can drink, I suppose?”

He was jealous!
“Of course,” Holly said breezily. “Jamie’s very generous that way.”

“I’ll pick you up at six,” Alex snapped, and rang off.

Marcus Russo manoeuvred the Aston Martin into the stream of traffic, following the precisely modulated directions of his satellite navigation system. As he made his way through the traffic circle at Piccadilly and exited onto the A4, he smiled with grim satisfaction. At least the
BritTEEN
offices weren’t far; he’d be there, according to the sat nav, in thirteen minutes.

And once there, he’d get some bloody answers.

Sharon didn't look up when the low-slung black car pulled up next to her at the kerb, engine throbbing. She was too busy thumbing through the texts on her mobile to pay any mind.

A moment later the window glided down. “Hello. Fancy meeting you here.”

She looked up to see the driver studying her through a pair of aviator sunglasses, his blond hair glinting in the sunlight. He was alone.

Her heart lurched. “I remember you. You were looking for someone, a girl. Did you find her?”

“No, I didn’t. But you might be able to help put me in touch with someone who can.”

She eyed him warily. “Yeah? And who’s that?”

“Her name’s Holly. Holly James.”

“I don’t know any Holly James,” she said, after hesitating for a fraction of a second too long.

“You’re a crap liar,” he said, amused. As quickly as it came, his smile vanished. “She writes for that girls’ rag,
BritTEEN
. She wrote an article…and it ran with a photo of my sister. My sister ran away. So it’s imperative that I talk to Ms James.”

“What makes you think I know where she is?”

“Because I saw you talking to her the other day, when I was sitting in my car,” he replied.

Sharon felt her skin crawl. “You were
watching
me?”

“I wanted to see where you went, who you spoke to.” He jerked his head in the direction of the office building where Holly had worked. “She came out of that building over there.”

“Then why don’t you go inside and talk to her yourself?” Sharon countered. Crikey, but this bloke was scary, and too clever by half. She had to warn Holly he was looking for her.

“I did. The girl at Reception said she’s gone.” He took off his sunglasses and fixed a cold blue gaze on her. “Tell me where she went.”

Sharon took a step back. “I don’t know! I told you—”

“You’ve told me nothing but lies.” He leaned out of the window, his face hard. “I’ll give you a week. Find out where she is, and tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you nothing!” she snapped. “Leave me alone.” She turned to go.

“You’re right, you don’t have to tell me anything,” he agreed, and thrust his sunglasses back on. “But if you don’t have Holly’s address when I see you again—” a smile curved his lips “—and rest assured, I
will
see you again — you’ll find yourself on your back in an Asian brothel by this time next week. I can make it happen. Cheers.”

And with a menacing growl, the Maserati peeled away from the kerb and sped away down Shaftesbury Avenue.

Chapter 41

Marcus slotted his car into a spot in front of the gleaming ABC Publishing Group tower and shut off the engine. It only took a moment to pick up the magazine and flip to the masthead page. “Editor-in-Chief, Valery Beauchamp,” he read out loud. He got out of the car and slammed the door.

Ms Beauchamp was about to get a visit from him, appointment or no appointment.

Once inside the lobby, Marcus approached the security desk and asked where he might find
BritTEEN
magazine’s floor.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the security officer — Frank, according to his name badge — asked him politely.

Marcus took off his sunglasses. “I have an interview,” he responded, and extended his hand. “I’m Marcus Russo.”

“Blimey, I thought you was him! Me and the wife, we love
Chefzilla
! It’s our favourite telly programme.” He shook the chef’s hand vigorously. “I’ll just call Reception and let them know you’re coming up, Chef Russo.”

Amazing, really, Marcus reflected as he rode the lift up to the thirty-seventh floor, how easy it was. He knew excitement would be rippling through the offices of
BritTEEN
as word got round that the television chef was coming up. Never mind that he didn’t actually have an interview scheduled…

But he knew that if he’d told Frank he wanted to speak to the editor-in-chief, he’d never have got past the security desk.

Marcus stepped off the lift and pushed through the smoked-glass doors into
BritTEEN
’s reception area. An attractive trio of young women, trendily dressed, sat behind the curved reception island, two of them talking into telephone headsets.

The third looked up at him with a bright smile. “Good morning, Mr Russo! Who are you interviewing with? I’ll call to let them know you’re here.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Her name,” he said firmly, “is Holly James.”

The girl’s smile faltered. “Holly James? Oh! Erm, one moment, please.”

Marcus waited as the young woman made a couple of whispered, urgently worded phone calls to someone in the editorial offices.

After a moment she looked up apologetically. “I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr Russo, but Ms James is no longer with us. Kate Ashby — the new features subeditor — will conduct the interview instead. She’ll be out shortly.”

When Kate Ashby arrived a few minutes later, she was all a-flutter. “Chef Russo!” she gushed, extending a manicured hand. “What a pleasure to meet you. Sorry for the wait — we’ve had a recent personnel shake-up. Please, follow me.”

Marcus followed the redhead’s shapely bum through another set of glass doors and into the editorial offices.

“I must admit,” Kate said over her shoulder as she led him into a tiny office and shut the door, “I was a bit thrown by this. Holly didn’t mention scheduling you for an interview.” She opened the folder clutched to her chest and passed him a release form. “Now, if you’ll just fill this out…”

He smiled blandly and took the form. “I imagine she forgot. Where did Miss James go — to another magazine?”

“Well, I really shouldn’t say—” Kate took a seat behind the desk and retrieved a mini voice recorder from the middle drawer “—but she was sacked. She’d just published her first feature article, too, about teen homelessness. Shame, really.”

“Then why was she sacked?”

“Unfortunately a photo of the interview subject appeared with the article, with her face in plain view after she’d said she wanted no pictures. Holly was sacked on Friday.”

So
, Marcus mused as he filled out the release information,
finding
Holly James was definitely his next order of business.
He needed to run her to earth if he had any hope of finding Poppy.

“Miss James wrote her mobile number on the back of her card when we first met,” Marcus remarked, and handed the form back to Kate. “But I’ve misplaced it. Do you have it?”

Kate’s face clouded. “Sorry, but I can’t give out that information. You’d have to get it directly from her.”

“Well, I can’t do that,” he said reasonably, “if I don’t have her number, can I?”

But Kate, bless her stubborn, journalistic little heart, wouldn’t give over the number.

When the interview was finished Marcus stood up. He needed to find a plausible way to meet Valery Beauchamp; only she had the power to release personal information about Holly James.

A tall, slim woman with Prada sunglasses thrust atop her glossy black hair rapped once on the door and opened it.

“Kate,” she said sharply, “what’s going on here?”

Kate scrambled to her feet and stammered out an explanation. “Marcus Russo — last-minute interview — Holly didn’t tell me—”

“Mr Russo,” the woman said crisply, and held out her hand. “I’m Valery Beauchamp, Editor-in-Chief of
BritTEEN
magazine.”

Well, if this hasn’t worked out nicely
, Marcus mused as he took her proffered hand. “Marcus Russo. We just finished here.”

The editor’s glance flickered to Kate and back to him. “Come up to my office, Mr Russo. I’d like to chat with you for a moment, if I may.”

Marcus suppressed a snort as he followed her long-legged stride out of the door and across to a private lift. Did anyone dare to say no to this woman? Somehow he doubted it.

Her office was modern, functional, verging on industrial. Were it not for the colourful racks of designer clothing in one corner, and swatches of fabric and glossy models’ photos pinned to various fabric-covered bulletin boards, he might have been in a warehouse in post-war Berlin.

“All right, Mr Russo,” she said as she tossed her sunglasses and handbag aside and turned to face him, “let’s cut the crap. We both know you’re not here for an interview.” She crossed her arms and added acidly, “We’re a teen magazine. Our readers want to read about boy bands, not Michelin-starred chefs.”

Good, she came straight to the point. He liked a woman with bollocks; it was altogether too rare. “I need information about one of your employees.”

She strode around her desk and sat down. “Oh? And who might that be?”

“Holly James.”

She regarded him steadily. “Mr Russo,” she began, “you know as well as I do that I cannot divulge personal information about any of my staff…or their sources.”

“I already know her name, and I know she wrote the homeless teen article.” He rested his hip on the corner of her desk and leaned forward. “Just give me her mobile number. I need to talk to her. Urgently.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Listen to me, Ms Beauchamp,” Marcus growled, his face now inches from hers. “Zoe Jones is not that homeless girl’s real name. It’s Poppy. And the fact is,” he added grimly, “Poppy is my daughter. She’s seventeen, and she’s run away from home.” He saw Valery’s eyes widen.

“I see. Are you quite certain it’s her?” she said after a moment. She frowned and toyed with the strand of pearls at her neck. “After all, it’s a long-range photo—”

“I know my own daughter when I see her, mohawk or no mohawk.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Russo, truly I am. You must be frantic with worry. I have a daughter myself.” She paused. “But I can
not
give out Holly’s number. Despite the fact,” she added with a combative gleam as she anticipated his next argument, “that she’s no longer in my employ.”

Marcus stood up. “Then perhaps you’ll be more inclined to speak to the police, because that’s where I’m going next.”

He’d reached the door when Valery spoke. “Holly shares a flat with Kate Ashby. Or at least she did. Kate usually leaves at seven and has a drink at the pub across the street.” She picked up a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and thrust them on, effectively dismissing him. “Good day, Mr Russo.”

Marcus paused at the door. “Good day, Ms Beauchamp. And thanks for the info. Perhaps you and I might have a drink together after I find my daughter.”

“It’s not my habit to accept dates from married men.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll be in touch when the decree nisi comes through.”

When he left, Valery, normally as glacially composed as a frozen pond, couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts drifted to Marcus Russo’s penetrating eyes and his cocky, captivating grin.

She focused on the article Kate had submitted for review, and thrust Mr Russo firmly out of her thoughts.

It was late, and the girl in the spandex dress and heels was tired. She needed one more punter, one more quick fumble in the back seat of someone’s car, and she could call it a night.

Almost as if her thoughts summoned it, a sleek black Maserati pulled up to the kerb beside her, its motor purring. She waited as the tinted window glass lowered, then sauntered up to the car. “Hello, love. Nice evenin’, innit?”

“How much?” he asked, his eyes raking over her briefly.

She leaned down, resting her forearms against the door. “Depends. How much’ve you got?”

“Enough,” he murmured, amused by her cheek, and reached over to open the passenger door. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “Get in.”

She walked around the car and climbed inside next to him. “Ooh, nice,” she approved as she leaned back against the soft leather upholstery.
This punter was rich, and no mistake
. “Got any special requests, then?”

“Just one.” He withdrew a photograph from his pocket and held it out to her. “Have you seen this girl?”

She blinked, surprised, but leaned forward to peer at the picture. “No,” she said doubtfully, “she don’t look like any of the prossies I know.” She frowned. “But…wait a minute. I think I might’ve seen her. She’s a rough sleeper, hangs out on Shaftesbury Avenue. The hair’s different, though — black as boot polish. Bit scary-looking.”