Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (35 page)

Holly opened her email. Someone named Sebastian Ivens had just sent her a message.

She clicked it open. Mr Ivens was starting up a new teen magazine,
Cheers!
He’d seen her homeless article in
BritTEEN
, been very impressed, and had spoken about her to Kate Ashby. He very much wanted to talk to her about a possible position at
Cheers!

Holly lowered the phone, bemused. Until very recently, she’d had no job leads; now, thanks to Zoe, and Mr Ivens, she had two. Things were definitely looking up.

Perhaps she’d give Mr Ivens a call.

She leaned back against the wall and scrolled through the rest of her messages, when her mobile buzzed. She’d just got a text…

From Alex. She snorted.
About bloody time
.

Holly saw that his text was actually a couple of photographs. Puzzled, she clicked on the first photo.

Dominic Heath, shirtless and sporting a top hat and a wide grin, lounged on a banquette in what looked like a nightclub, one arm looped around a lap dancer’s shoulders. He looked drunk, unrepentant, and exceedingly happy.

Holly sniffed. No surprise there. Dom’s recent assertions to the media that he’d put his laddish past firmly behind him for Gemma Astley, the latest love of his life, were evidently utter bollocks, then. Poor girl.

But why on earth had Alex texted photos of Dominic’s debaucheries to
her
?

Her frown deepened as she clicked on the second photo, and she let out a sharp, disbelieving breath.

Alex, in all his floppy-haired, bespoke-suited glory, was sitting next to Dominic, with a girl perched on his knee. He looked startled, and more than a bit alarmed.

As well he should, Holly seethed. Because the “girl” on Alex’s knee, with her short kilt, smooth but muscular legs, and protuberant Adam’s apple, was a very glam, but also a very definite…transvestite.

Chapter 51

“If I were you,” Jamie confided, unable to suppress a grin when Holly rushed into the kitchen to show him the photo of Alex a moment later, “I think I’d be a bit pissed off. After all, it looks like Alex threw you over this weekend…and for a
really
ugly girl.”

Holly glared at him in outrage. “I’m glad you think this is so damned funny!”

He shrugged. “It
is
funny. You’d think a posh bloke like Alex could do a bit better than that—”

“You’re an arsehole, Jamie Gordon,” Holly seethed, “and an insensitive wanker, to boot.”

She untied her apron, flung it at him with another venomous glare, and stormed upstairs.

Jamie scowled. What was up with Hols lately? He’d only been taking the piss, as he always did; he certainly hadn’t meant to upset her. Could it be that she actually
cared
about that toffee-nosed prat, Alex?

He was just about to turn and follow her upstairs to apologize, but found his way blocked by an angry Frenchman in chef’s whites.

“You are Monsieur Gordon,
non
?” he demanded.

“No,” Jamie said, nonplussed. “I mean yes. Yes, I am.”

He extended his hand. “
Bonjour
.
I am Chef Louis. Pastry chef for Marcus Russo,” he added importantly. “I have just quit.”
Qweet
. “My services are available and I am offering them to you first.” He thrust out his hand.

Perplexed, Jamie shook it. “Well…thanks. I’d love to hire you, but my business has fallen off. I can’t afford a pastry chef right now.”

Louis frowned. “But who bakes the pastries?”

“I do.” And it was exhausting. Since he’d let his own pastry chef go, Jamie spent his Sundays off baking tarts and cookies, cakes and ganache enough for the upcoming week.

“Then you need me,” Louis pronounced. “As to your beezness falling off — I can tell you why. Two words — Chef Russo. He has nothing good to say about you or your restaurant.”

“But we’ve never even met! What the hell is his problem?”

Louis gave a Gallic shrug. “He is jealous,
non
? You’re a threat, a challenge to his supreme ego.” The chef smiled. “But I know something…something that would make his customers very, very angry, if they only knew.”

“What’s that?” Jamie asked. “After all, Marcus Russo’s reputation — at least as far as cooking goes — is impeccable.”

“Impeccable, bah! Most of the food for Brasserie Russo is made elsewhere, by his supplier.” Seeing Jamie’s look of surprise, he added, “
Oui
— other chefs make the
coq au vin
, the
boeuf bourguignon
, the
confit de canard
— and, because the kitchen in the brasserie is so small, there is no room to prepare everything on the menu. Everything goes into a refrigerated van and is delivered to the brasserie, where it goes into a walk-in…to be reheated later.”

Jamie pulled up a stool and sat down, stunned. “But…that contradicts everything Chef Russo says he stands for — fresh meals, freshly prepared…everything made to order.”

“O
ui
, he is full of shit,” Louis agreed. “He charges three times what the meals cost in his brasserie, too. He is — how you say? — ripping his customers off.”

“I’ve never once used a ready-meal in Gordon Scots,” Jamie said slowly. “Everything’s made to order. I admit I make the tart shells and cake layers on Sunday and freeze ’em for a day or two — but that’s only because I don’t have a pastry chef.”

“Which is why,” Louis reiterated, drawing himself up importantly, “you need me. I do not brag; I am the best. If you hire me, your customers will fall in love with my desserts. Your business will go up. And now that you know Chef Russo’s secret, perhaps you can retaliate, eh?” He winked.

Jamie nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s past time I fought fire with fire. I think the public — and his customers — deserve to know the truth about Marcus Russo and his ‘fresh meals, freshly prepared’. What a load of bollocks! Thank you, Chef Louis.”

“I, too, am weary of seeing him run you and your restaurant into the ground,” he declared. “You and I will turn things back around for Gordon Scots,
non
?”

“Yes.” Jamie stood up and gripped the pastry chef’s hand firmly in his. “Yes, we will. When can you start?”

Louis reached out for an apron and tied it around his waist. “I will begin now. It’s too late to make the bread for dinner service, but by lunch tomorrow—” he kissed his fingertips “—your customers will have the finest bread and pastries they ever tasted. Now, show me to my station and I’ll get started.”

As Jamie led the chef to the marble-topped baking area a commotion out front caught his attention. “Excuse me,” he said, and went to see what was going on. To his surprise, Marcus Russo came striding through the front of the restaurant, a cameraman and sound technician trailing in his wake.

“Where is he?” Marcus snarled. “Where’s Louis?”

“Just a minute,” Jamie said firmly, and blocked Russo’s way. “No filming in here, mate. This is
my
restaurant, not one of your bloody reality shows.”

“Get out of my way, Gordon,” Marcus ground out. “Go back to singing in whatever boy band you came from and quit playing at being a chef.”

Jamie raised his brow. “I heard you were a hostile bastard, but that doesn’t begin to do you justice. You really are a grade-A prick, aren’t you?”

Chef Louis stepped between them and crossed his arms against his chest. “I told you, Chef Russo, I quit. I work for Jamie Gordon now.”

“The hell you do. Get your arse back to the brasserie now, or I really will sack you.”

“What’s going on?” Holly asked.

Jamie turned around. She stood in the kitchen doorway; her expression when she looked at him was stony. “It’s nothing, Holly,” he told her brusquely. “Your table’s ready for their bill.”

She turned away without a word and left to take care of her customers.

Marcus caught at Jamie’s sleeve. “Wait — did you just say that girl’s name is Holly?” he demanded.

Jamie nodded. “Holly James. She works here.”

Marcus shoved rudely past him and made his way to the table where Holly was just tearing off a bill from her pad. “You’re Holly James?”

She looked at him warily. “Yes.”

“I’ve been trying to track you down for two bloody weeks! You’ve seen my daughter, Poppy. You’ve spoken to her. Tell me — where the hell is she?”

Chapter 52

Holly shook her head, confused. “Poppy? I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone named Poppy—”

He reached out and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Don’t try and blow smoke up my arse, Miss James. You know who she is, and you know where she is. You interviewed her—”

Suddenly Jamie grabbed Marcus and spun him around. “Keep your hands off her, you poxy bastard—”

“No — Jamie, don’t!” Holly exclaimed as he drew back his fist to punch the chef. She put her hand on his arm and turned back to Russo. “Look, I’m sorry — but the article I wrote was an interview with a homeless girl. And her name’s Zoe, not Poppy.”

“She might have told you her name was Zoe,” Russo ground out, “but it’s Poppy. Poppy Russo.” He reached for his wallet and took out a photo and thrust it at her.

Holly’s eyes widened as she studied the girl’s picture. Although her hair was long and brown, not short and black, and although there wasn’t a stud or piercing to be seen, the girl in the photo was unmistakably Zoe.

“Is this your daughter?” When Marcus nodded, she frowned. “That’s why you wanted my phone number from Kate Ashby when she interviewed you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. When I saw your article, I recognized Poppy in the photo. She ran away from home a month ago, and she’s been missing ever since. I need to find her. You’ve got to tell me where she is, Miss James,” he implored her. “Please.”

She hesitated. Compassion for Marcus Russo and his obvious concern for his daughter warred with her loyalty to Zoe. If she’d run away, she must have had a good reason. Perhaps her father had abused her; he certainly had a nasty enough temper. “She’s safe,” Holly said finally. “And she’s off the streets. That’s all I can tell you.”

Marcus’s face darkened. “You mean that’s all you
will
tell me. Damn it, Miss James, tell me where she is this minute, or I swear to you—”

“I can’t tell you where she is,” Holly told him firmly, “not until I talk to her first. If she wants to see you, I’ll let you know, Mr Russo. That’s the best I can do.”

He glared at her as if he wanted to say more. But, “You’re certain she’s safe?” was all he said.

Holly nodded. “Yes. She has a job now. She’s fine.”

He let out a ragged breath. “Fair enough. At least I know she’s okay, and not living on the streets.” He reached in his back pocket and withdrew a card from his wallet. He grabbed a pen and scrawled a number on the card. “Here’s my private number. Call me the minute you talk to her.”

“I will,” Holly promised, and pocketed the card.

“Thanks.” He seemed about to say something more, thought better of it, and left, taking his film crew with him.

Jamie turned back to Holly as the chef strode out. “Are you okay? He got a bit belligerent with you—”

“I’m fine,” Holly said shortly. “Excuse me, but my shift is over.” She turned away, still furious with Jamie. And with Alex, as well…

She put the last customer’s credit slip in the till, slammed the drawer, flung off her apron and headed for the door.

Alex returned to London — alone — on Dominic’s private jet late Monday afternoon. The rock singer was still in Inverness, frantically enmeshed in damage control following the events at that nightclub in Inverness the previous evening.

Mick, Dominic’s bass player, had downed nearly an entire bottle of Jack Daniels when he decided to grab Alex’s mobile and snap a couple of photos with the camera phone.

Then he’d texted a photo of Dominic, with his arm around a lap dancer and a drunken smile on his face, to Gemma, Dominic’s girlfriend.

Before Alex could stop him, Mick texted another photo, this one of Alex with ‘Heather’ — at least, that was what that alarming chap in the plaid miniskirt had called himself as he’d lowered himself onto Alex’s knee — to Holly.

Alex instructed the driver to drop him off at the office, intent on catching up and launching immediate damage control of his own. The photos of himself and the Scottish cross-dresser were embarrassing, to say the least. He felt a headache coming on. Too much whisky and too much Dominic had had a decidedly detrimental effect on his better judgment.

Thank God, at least the tabloids hadn’t got hold of the photos, Alex thought grimly. If they had, any hopes he harboured of being elected to the Commons would be over.

His boss, Simon Markham, thrust his head round Alex’s door twenty minutes later. “Ah, Alex, you’re back. Good. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Alex said, and looked up from his laptop. “I’m glad to be back. It was a very…stressful trip.”

“Yes, but quite beneficial to the firm. Dominic retained us only this morning to represent him in an inheritance lawsuit his father’s filing against him. It should bring a hefty sum into the firm’s coffers.”

“Oh.” Alex was startled, but pleased. “He did mention it. But I’d no idea he’d follow through so quickly.”

“Yes, well, I’ll let you get caught up. Good to have you back,” Simon said with a smile, and left the office.

“Thanks, Simon.” Alex’s phone rang, and he reached out to answer it. “Alex Barrington here.”

There was silence, then a snuffling sound, like someone trying not to cry. “Mr Barrington?”

Alex leaned forward. “Yes? I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I can barely hear you.”

“My name is Sasha Davis, and I… I need your help.”

He frowned. “Sasha Davis? Aren’t you — weren’t you — Holly’s boss?”

“Yes, I was. I’m not any more.” She paused and went on in a rush, “I’ve got myself in a real mess, Mr Barrington. I owe a payday lender money, and they’ve raided my bank account, and the interest is skyrocketing by the week, and I don’t know what to do or where to turn next—”

“Slow down, Ms Davis,” Alex said calmly. “You’re not the first person to be taken in by these loan sharks. First, tell me how much you owe, and then we’ll work out a strategy to get you out of debt as quickly and painlessly as possible.”