Katie Oliver - Love And Liability

He leaned forward. “I’m intrigued. What happened?”

“I went out for lunch, and I saw Zoe — the homeless girl whose rucksack was stolen — and I bought her a muffin and a cup of coffee. And do you know what she did?”

“I’m guessing she didn’t kneel before you and clasp you round the legs and thank you profusely.”

“No.” Holly blinked. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“All, sort of, lawyerly.”

“Well, I am a solicitor, after all. So it would seem to follow that I should talk in a lawyerly fashion.”

“There you go again!” Holly accused him.

“Sorry,” he said, and smiled. “I promise to speak normally from this point forward. Go on.”

“She criticized my outfit! Imagine having your clothing critiqued by a street person,” she told Alex indignantly as she studied the list of starters. “That’s like…like Mahatma Gandhi judging a cooking show.”

“I wouldn’t worry. After all,” he added, “she’s living on the street; yet you’re upset over a negative comment about your clothing. Rather puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

Holly blinked. “You’re throwing my own words back at me, aren’t you?” She smiled slightly. “I guess I deserve it.”

“Unfortunately, as you pointed out when you interviewed me, homelessness is a very real problem. I’ve looked into the matter, and you’re absolutely right. With budgets slashed, there’s less help to go around at a time when it’s most needed.” He sighed. “But don’t get me started on my political soapbox. What will you have for lunch?”

Holly studied the menu. “The grilled sea bass, I think.” She laid the menu aside. “So have you decided to run in the next election, Mr Barrington?”

“Alex, please. And yes, I have. However, I’ll need ten parliamentary nominations in order to stand for my constituency.”

“Oh, you’ll manage that easily, no problem.”

He smiled. “Thanks for your vote of confidence. Now, tell me more about this very opinionated homeless girl.”

“Well, she knew my look was boho, and she knew who Alexa Chung was. Only a fashionista would know those things.”

“And what,” Alex asked, frowning, “is ‘boho’, exactly?”

She looked at him oddly. “You know — bohemian.”

He nodded. “Ah. Right. You know,” he added with a frown, “listening to you talk is like conversing with someone who’s fluent in a language I haven’t quite mastered. I understand most of the words, but some of them are entirely foreign.”

“Sorry. I promise, not another word about fashion, if you promise not to talk about law, or politics. Tell me about your crap day.” Holly sipped her water and regarded him expectantly.

“My crap day?” He paused to give their orders to the waiter — grilled sea bass for Holly, salmon for him — and turned back to her. “So far, my day’s actually been quite good.”

“No, I meant the other day, when I interviewed you. You called me that night, and said you’d had a crap day.”

“Oh. Yes.” He winced. “Well, I ended up with two new clients that afternoon. Both of them have proven to be very—” he paused “—difficult. And very high profile…”

“High profile?” Holly echoed, intrigued. “Ooh, do tell!”

He looked uncomfortable. “I really can’t discuss my clients with you. I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

“Oh, come on! You can’t say something like that and then leave me hanging,” she protested.

“No, I suppose not.” He sighed. “Let’s just say, one of my new clients is a temperamental — with an emphasis on mental — rock star; the other is a hot-tempered television chef.”

Holly leaned across the table and whispered excitedly, “Wow, so are you saying that Dominic Heath and Marcus Russo are your clients? That’s so cool.”

“No, trust me, it isn’t cool. It’s dreadful. Despite his difficult reputation, Marcus Russo is…even worse. And Dominic…” He paused. “He’s a nightmare in leather trousers.”

“He can be,” Holly conceded. “But under the laddish exterior, he’s actually not that bad.”

“Oh? You sound as if you know him personally.”

“I do,” she admitted, “but not very well. He and Natalie — she’ll be my sister-in-law soon — were together for two years. She blagged me an interview with Dom. That’s how I got my job at BritTEEN .”

“Small world. They broke up, I take it.”

Holly nodded. “He dumped Natalie to marry his ex-wife…who dumped him just before their wedding ceremony, when she caught him shagging the bridesmaid. It was all over the tabs.”

Alex frowned. “Oh, yes. I remember. Quite a stir it caused.”

“And Marcus Russo…he’s a Michelin-starred chef!”

Alex nudged dispiritedly at his tumbler of water. “Yes. Nevertheless, it’ll be a headache to deal with either of them, much less the pair.” He leaned forward. “Enough about me, I want to know about you . Tell me all about Holly James.” He raised his eyebrow. “Sex on a first date? Yes…or no?”

“There you go again, throwing my own questions back at me.”

“It’s only fair.”

She toyed with her fork. “Well, it depends, of course.”

“On what?”

“On…things,” she hedged. “Like whether they — he, and she — are attracted to one another, or not.”

He reached out and picked up her hand. “And if they are?” he asked quietly. “Attracted to one another, I mean.”

Holly met his eyes. God, he was gorgeous, with those dark, penetrating eyes, and those lips, so firm and inviting, and so close to hers…

Just then, the waiter arrived with their lunches. “Who had the sea bass?” he enquired brightly.

“I did,” Holly said, and leaned back with mingled relief and disappointment. She waited as he set their plates down.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Alex observed after the waiter departed.

She picked up her fork and pretended to consider. “I think I’ll need a second date before I’m ready to give you a definitive answer.”

“Spoken,” he said with approval, “like a true politician.” He lifted his glass of water and waited until Holly did the same, then touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to a second date, Ms James,” he added huskily, “and quite possibly, a third.”

Chapter 11

“Have you ’eard, Jamie?” the delivery man called out as he backed his truck behind the restaurant and jumped down. “Your restaurant’s about to ’ave a bit of competition.”

Jamie Gordon wiped his hands on his apron. “Yep. I’ve heard.”

Opening a restaurant had been Jamie’s dream from the time he was a student at culinary school in Edinburgh. Seven years on, his dream was finally a reality. Thanks to his half-brother Rhys’s financial stake, Gordon Scots was open for business.

And now Marcus Russo, the popular, potty-mouthed television chef, was about to open a new brasserie right around the corner.

His mobile buzzed. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered as he saw Rhys’s name on the screen. “What’s up, bro?”

“I understand you have a competitor moving in.”

“Yeah. No worries. We’ve had great reviews and we’re busy as hell. Everyone loves the whisky bar.”

“Good. Nat wants you over for Sunday dinner soon. Oh, and she says to bring along one of your chocolate whisky cakes for afters.”

“Sure, let me know when. Give Nat my love. Talk soon.”

The deliveryman began unloading crates of fish from the truck. “That Marcus Russo may be one hell of a chef, but he’s a bastard to work for, and no mistake.”

Jamie glanced up from his inspection of a case of iced salmon. Russo, although notoriously abrasive and short-tempered, had half a dozen successful restaurants to his name, all boasting at least one Michelin star. He put aside the crate and reached for the next.