Love And Liability

Chapter 3

“Hey, Alex!”

“You owe us a pint, mate!”

“How was she, Alex? What was it like to shag that sexy new MP? You did shag her, didn’t you? Come on — give us details!”

As he strode past his coworkers’ desks, briefcase in hand, Alex had a smirk on his face. “Sorry, but a gentleman never tells. And the bet was a pint if I failed to seduce Ms Shawcross within two days. I did it in a day and a half. So it’s you lot who owes me a pint.”

“When we made the wager, you said you’d prove the deed was done,” Tom, another solicitor, reminded him. “How do we know you’re not lying through those perfect white teeth of yours?”

Just outside his office, Alex paused and reached into his breast pocket. He withdrew a red silk thong and dangled it out on one finger. “Does this suffice as proof positive, gentlemen?”

As catcalls and dirty laughter erupted behind him, Alex went inside his office and shut the door. He thrust the thong back in his pocket. As he caught sight of the paperwork covering his desk his smile faded.

He had a mountain of casework to tackle, including the pair of high-profile clients his boss, Simon, had dumped on him late yesterday.

There was a discreet knock on the door. Jill, his secretary, edged the door open and peered inside. “Sorry to disturb, but your nine o’clock is here.”

He settled himself behind his desk and reached for the phone. “Ask him to reschedule. I’m rather busy this morning.”

“Her,” she corrected him. “She says it’s urgent, and that she’ll be sacked if she can’t speak with you today.”

Alex sighed and returned the phone to its cradle. “Oh, bloody hell. I don’t want anyone to get sacked. All right — tell her I’ll give her fifteen minutes. But that’s all.”

“Very good,” she replied, and started to close the door.

“Oh, and, Jill?”

She paused expectantly. “Yes?”

“What does she look like? Is she young? Old? Is she attractive? Or is she a bit — you know — woof-woof?”

Jill pursed her lips in disapproval. She hated questions like that, and her boss knew it very well. He was an excellent solicitor, and a wonderful man; all the women in the office adored him. But she suspected he enjoyed teasing her.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” she replied, and shut the door.

Holly looked up from her seat on the tufted leather wing chair as Henry Barrington’s secretary returned.

“He’ll see you shortly,” she informed Holly.

“Thanks.” Holly sighed. At least she’d have a few more minutes to gather her thoughts.

Every time she’d gone to Google Henry Barrington yesterday afternoon, she’d been interrupted. As a result she knew nothing about him. She didn’t even know what he looked like.

She reviewed her knowledge of finance. Money, obviously, and, um — stocks, bonds. Bank statements. And overdrawn bank statements — which hers would soon be, if her father refused to help her, or if Sasha sacked her…

As to her knowledge of law — well, she read John Grisham and watched Law and Order sometimes. She knew the police gathered evidence and built a case, so that men and women in robes and wigs could prosecute them in court. What was up with those wigs, anyway? They made grown men look like…spaniels.

Holly sighed. She was in deep, deep trouble here. Oh, well — she reached down and straightened the collar of her vintage sweater — at least she looked presentable. Perhaps Mr Barrington would be so overcome by her stylishness that he wouldn’t notice her financial ignorance.

As she flicked dispiritedly through the pages of the magazine on her lap, her thoughts wandered. Had Anastasia Steele felt this nervous, she wondered, when she’d first interviewed Christian Grey?

“Mr Barrington,” Holly imagined herself purring as she stood before a tall, icily handsome blond man, “I’m here to interview you. I’m writing an article, ‘Fifty Shades of Henry’.” She met his cold — yet über hot — blue gaze. “I’d no idea you were so attractive. Or so very, very kinky—”

“Miss James? Mr Barrington will see you now. His office is located at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you.” Holly stood on shaky legs and made her way down the hall. Her heels sank soundlessly into the thick carpet. She felt in her shoulder bag for her steno pad — check. Pen — check. Voice recorder — she groped around amongst the keys and lipsticks and crumpled KitKat wrappers, searching — but there was no voice recorder.

Where the hell was it? She knew she’d put it in her bag first thing this morning; she knew she had—

While she scrabbled in her bag like a demented squirrel looking for nuts, Henry Barrington’s office door swung open.

“Miss James? Henry Barrington. Please, come in.”

“You’re Henry Barrington?” Holly blurted out.

His hair was thick and dark, with just the slightest bit of curl, his eyes a velvety brown. “Alex,” he corrected her as his hand enclosed hers. His grasp was firm and warm as he ushered her in. “You sound surprised.”

Holly preceded him inside the office. She had a vague impression of bookshelves and mahogany panelling and the quiet, hushed atmosphere of a library. “That’s because I was expecting someone, erm, a bit…different.”

“Someone,” he observed with a quirk of his brow, “older?”

“Yes! That’s it exactly. I was expecting a man named Henry, who combs his hair over his bald spot, has a high, shiny forehead, and who wears sock suspenders and a regimental tie.”

“Well,” he said, amused, “I may not fit that very detailed description, but, I assure you, I’m fully qualified, despite my non-regimental tie and full head of hair. Please, sit down.”

Under his dark navy-blue suit he wore a shirt pinstriped in paler blue. A wafer-thin watch flashed on his wrist as he indicated one of two wing chairs angled in front of his desk.

Holly sat down. They certainly liked wing chairs here at the Grosvenor Financial Group.

He resumed his seat behind the desk as his secretary appeared. “Ah, here’s Jill.” As she entered and set down a footed silver tray with coffee, milk, sugar, and cups he turned to Holly. “Is something wrong, Ms James? You look puzzled.”

“Wrong? No.” She accepted a cup of coffee with cream from his secretary. “I thought your name was Henry. Not Alex.”

“It is. Alexander is my middle name. Hence—” he smiled a brief but nonetheless devastating smile “—Alex.” He placed the cup of tea with lemon Jill handed him to one side. “Now — what can I do for you today, Ms James?”

“I…er…” All intelligent thought fled as she met those velvety brown eyes. His lips looked as firm and inviting as a Greek statue’s, but better, because they weren’t carved of marble, but were made of warm, kissable flesh…

“Ms James?” he prodded.

Holly mentally shook herself. She couldn’t remember a single thing she’d planned to ask him. “I…like your red handkerchief,” she stalled as she dragged her gaze away from his lips. “It looks very stylish with your navy-blue suit.”

“My red handkerchief?” he echoed. “But I’m not wearing a handkerchief.”

“Yes, you are.” Her glance strayed to his breast pocket.

He glanced down. The red thong peeked saucily out. Alex reddened and thrust the offending bit of silk deeper inside his pocket. “I’m very busy this morning, Ms James. If you’d be so good as to tell me what this is all about…?”

“I’m here to interview you,” she said, and set her mini-recorder on the edge of his desk and switched it on, “for BritTEEN magazine.”

“You want to interview me — a solicitor — for a teen magazine?”

Holly nodded. From his tone of mild distaste and his slightly raised eyebrow, he obviously equated teen magazines with porn.

“Why, for God’s sake?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I asked my boss the exact same question. ‘Who’d want to read about some boring old solicitor?’ I asked her. ‘Teen girls want to read about lip gloss, and boy bands, not barristers and quid pro quo…’”

When she caught sight of his forbidding expression, her words faded away. Oops.

“Are you implying that we in the legal profession are — or, more specifically, that I am — boring, Ms James?”

“Oh, no,” she hastened to say, “not at all! It’s just that…legal stuff, and stocks and bonds — well, those aren’t things the average teenage girl is interested in, are they?”

Oh, God, she thought, please let the floor open up and swallow me whole, right now.

But God wasn’t listening, because she remained where she was — sitting red-faced with embarrassment on the chair in front of Henry Barrington’s immense, and vaguely intimating, desk.

“No, I expect not,” he agreed, and leaned forward. He gave her a roguish smile. “Perhaps we should sex it up a bit.”

Chapter 4

Holly blinked. “I-I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Go ahead,” he commanded, “ask me a question. I’ll do my utmost to make the answer interesting, despite my tragically dull life as a member of the legal profession. Never let it be said that Henry Alexander Barrington bored the average teenage girl. Carry on, Ms James.”

Holly sat before his desk with her pen poised over her notepad — she always took notes in addition to recording her subject — and before she could stop herself, blurted, “Are you married?”

Heat suffused her face. Oh, shit, what a stupid, stupid question. Where in hell did that come from?

He lifted his eyebrow. “Married? No.”

“What exactly is it that you do, Mr Barrington?”

He regarded her, baffled. “I thought interviewers generally knew a bit about their subjects beforehand.”

“Well,” Holly apologized, “usually they do, but I didn’t have any time to prepare.” Gamely she added, “It’s something to do with the law, and finance, isn’t it?”

He nodded cautiously, as if placating a lunatic. “Yes.”

“So you’re a barrister, then?”

“Solicitor,” he corrected her.

“I see. Do you wear a wig?” she enquired.

“No, thank God.”

“Why do they wear those wigs, anyway?” Holly asked with real curiosity. “They look ridiculous.”

“Well, originally the wigs provided anonymity, and ensured the judge wouldn’t favour one barrister over another. Now they’re mainly ceremonial.”

She glanced at her notes. “There’s a rumour you’re planning to stand for MP in the next election. True?”

“I’m considering it, yes. But I’d rather you didn’t put that in your article.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “My boss mightn’t like it. I’d have to quit if I won, you see.”

She nodded and crossed through her notes. “No problem. So what is it you do here, exactly?”

“Well, in my capacity as a solicitor, I research financial casework for my clients. Then I give my instructions over to a barrister, who presents the case in court.”

She scribbled a note on her pad. “You invest money for clients, too, don’t you?”

“Some of them, yes. And if I’ve done my job properly, my investments make my clients more money.”

Holly put an absorbed expression on her face and took notes as he talked in detail about index funds, buy-outs, and a lot of other incomprehensible and dead boring financial stuff.

Pro, she scribbled, her pen flying across the page, A.B. dresses conservatively, but well. She leaned forward slightly. And he smells divine. Con, she scrawled, no sense of humour; goes on relentlessly about dead boring financial stuff…

“Ms James?”

Holly started. “Oh. Sorry. What?”

“Have you any more questions?”

“Well…there is one thing…” She pressed the tip of her pen against her lower lip. “We always ask what we call our ‘One Outrageous Question’, you know.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

She couldn’t ask it. He was far too posh and upper-crusty. But Sasha would have Holly’s head if she didn’t ask the One Outrageous Question and get at least one memorable — i.e., sexy — quote from Henry Alexander Barrington before he threw her out.

“Well?” he prodded, with a trace of impatience.

She hated to ask him the Question; it was impertinent. It was cheeky. But if she didn’t ask it, she’d be sacked.

“Do you…do you…?” She tried to finish, but couldn’t. The question got choked up in her throat and wouldn’t come out.

“Do I what?”

“Do you believe in sex on the first date?” she asked in a rush.

“What?” he exploded. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Well,” Holly said defensively, “you did say you wanted to sex up the interview.”

“Yes, perhaps I did — but this? This is ridiculous! What kind of a question is that to ask me — a solicitor — for an intended audience of…of spotty-faced teenage girls?”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s why we call it ‘One Outrageous Question,’ after all—”

His face darkened. “As a journalist — and I use the term loosely — don’t you find that question irresponsible? Don’t you think it wrong to present young girls with such salacious information? Wouldn’t they be better served to learn something useful, such as how to manage their money sensibly? You do your readers a disservice, Ms James.”

“We give our readers what they want, Mr Barrington.” Holly heard the defensive tone in her voice. She sounded just like Sasha. “And we publish topical pieces, too,” she added.

He didn’t look remotely convinced. “Indeed.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “Such as?”

Good question. “Well, such as…” Holly groped around in her thoughts for a suitably weighty subject, and suddenly a half-formed but brilliant idea sprang to mind. “Such as teen homelessness in London,” she finished triumphantly.

“Homelessness?” he echoed. “But aren’t there shelters? Don’t the local councils take care of these things?”

“They try. But with so many people on the streets, it isn’t nearly enough. People fall through the cracks.” She thought of the homeless girl, and her glance swept over the bookshelves full of richly bound leather law books and the plush Axminster carpet before coming to rest on Alex Barrington. “We have so much. And they have nothing. It kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“That’s all very well,” he agreed, his face still a thundercloud. “But asking me if I condone sex on a first date for the delectation of a bunch of immature teenage girls is ludicrous and…and ill-advised.”

Holly stiffened. She didn’t know what he’d said, exactly — all that lawyerly talk did her head in — but she was sure there was an insult contained in there somewhere.

“I’m sorry, Ms James, but this entire line of questioning is out of order.” He glared at her. “I refuse to condone underage sexual activity in the pages of a teen magazine, in between adverts for spot creams and flavoured lip gloss!”

“But the readers of BritTEEN want answers to these kinds of questions, you know. Our readers are young, smart, hip—”

“And have no need to know whether or not I approve of sex on a first date,” he snapped.

“Well,” Holly retorted, “I doubt that they’d care, anyway. I mean, let’s face it, you’re not exactly Justin Bieber.”

“And you’re not exactly a candidate for the Man Booker prize,” he shot back, “are you?”

Holly closed her steno pad and thrust it in her bag. “No need to be insulting, Mr Barrington,” she said primly.

“You started it—” he began, then let out a slow, aggravated breath. “Good God, I feel like I’m eight years old, having a row with my sister. This is ridiculous.”

“You could tell me the answer off the record, you know.”

“Out,” Alex said firmly, and came around his desk to grip her by the arm. “Off you go.”

“Wait a minute! My recorder—” Holly snatched it up, too flustered to turn it off, and stared at him in confusion. “What are you doing? You’re not throwing me out?”

“I most certainly am. Thank you very much, Ms James, but you need to go. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” And he pressed his lips together and pulled her unceremoniously towards the door.

Chapter 5

Outraged, Holly pulled back, and as she did her handbag slid off her shoulder and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

She groaned as all of her personal effects — tampons, Mentos, even the raspberry-flavoured condom she’d got as a consolation prize at her best friend’s hen night — spilled out on the thick pile carpet in full, inglorious display.

Holly bent down, hot-cheeked with mortification, and scrabbled to pick up the wayward items.

“Here, let me.” Alex knelt down next to her, and as he did the bit of red silk tucked in his pocket fell out.

Holly’s eyes widened as she saw the red thong lying on the carpet. “Oh, my God! That isn’t a handkerchief in your pocket — it’s a red thong!”

“Yes, it is.” His words were abrupt. He grabbed the thong and thrust it back into his breast pocket. “I had a wager with the boys in the office. Harmless bit of fun, that’s all.”

“I so don’t want to know,” she snapped.

“Ah — I believe this is yours.” His eyes met hers, gleaming with amusement as he handed over the foil-wrapped, raspberry-flavoured condom.

Holly opened her mouth to explain, but nothing came out.

“Never mind,” Alex told her. “I so don’t want to know.” He raised his brow. “I’d say we’re about even on the embarrassment scale, wouldn’t you?”

Holly managed — only just — to nod. Mortified, she shoved the condom back in her bag, murmured her thanks, and fled towards the door.

“Ms James, before you go…”

“Yes?” Holly turned around.

“Have you never thought of pursuing a job as a serious journalist? Your talents are obviously wasted on BritTEEN.”

As her surprise gave way to anger, Holly’s mouth opened and closed like a trout just landed out of the water. Before she could form a reply, he spoke again.

“Oh, and one more thing before I throw you out…”

“Yes?” she snapped.

“Off the record—” he paused “—that means I can say something, but you can’t publish it — I do approve of sex on a first date. Absolutely. But having said that,” he added grimly, “I’m referring to responsible adults, not teenagers with spots and raging hormones. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy, Ms James. I haven’t time for any more of this nonsense.”

Before Holly could object to this latest insult — nonsense, really? — he wished her a curt “good afternoon” and ushered her out, shutting the door firmly after her.

Alex returned to his desk to get ready for his next appointment. As he leaned forward to press the intercom button a pink marabou feather floated in the air where Holly James had stood and drifted, slowly, to the floor.

He went around his desk and bent down to pick it up. It was soft, like the downy back of a newly hatched chick.

“Silly girl,” he murmured, and shook his head.

Absently he thrust the feather in his pocket, then turned back to his desk and pressed the intercom button. “Send in the next appointment, Jill.”

“How can I help you, Mr Russo?” Alex asked the famous chef when they were both seated a few minutes later.

“How can you help me? You can make me more fucking money,” Marcus replied succinctly. “That’s how you can help me.”

Alex was taken aback, but managed a polite smile. “You’ve come to the right place. Making money for my clients is, after all, my job.”

Marcus grunted. “I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version of my finances, then, shall I? I’ve expanded too quickly and my company’s losing money. I’m behind in payments to my suppliers, and I owe the bank seven million pounds. And to top it off, my wife has upped sticks and left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The bottom line, Mr Barrington,” Russo finished, “is this: my new restaurant, Brasserie Russo, has to succeed, or else my company goes under. And I refuse to let that happen.”

Alex leaned back in his chair. “Well, Mr Russo, I’d recommend you file bankruptcy and restructure your debts. Then we’ll need to make your investments work harder for you.”

Marcus grunted. “And how do we do that?”

“I’ll work out an investment strategy best suited to your needs. Decide how risk-averse you are, and go from there. And I’d suggest you find ways to cut costs in your current business operations, if you haven’t already. Have you any property you can liquidate and divert into stocks?”

Marcus shook his head. “I owe a seven–million-pound overdraft to my bank; if I sold my house today, they’d take every fucking penny.” He eyed Alex. “I just signed a deal with ITV to do a reality show, Chefzilla. The cameras will follow me at work and at home.” He frowned. “Of course, if I’d known my wife would do a runner, I wouldn’t have agreed to do it. We start filming next week. It should be lucrative…and entertaining.”

Personally, Alex had his doubts, but he nodded politely.

“Invest my television fees, Mr Barrington,” Marcus went on. “Slap the cash into whatever stocks you think best.” He stood. “You come highly recommended. I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you.” Alex stood as well and shook Russo’s hand. The chef’s grip nearly broke his fingers. “I’ll draw up a portfolio and have it ready next week.”

But Marcus, heaping abuse on some poor unfortunate at the other end of his mobile phone, was already striding out of the door, leaving a trail of Acqua di Parma and four-letter words in his wake.