Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (31 page)

“She was hungry,” she said defensively.

Jamie sighed. “Great. So you’ve taken in a pregnant stray cat with a taste for Devonshire cream.”

Holly bit her lip. “I seem to be a magnet for strays.”

“Well, go and feed your cat,” Jamie said, and let go of her. “It’s bed for me. And I’m sorry about…this. I’ll blame the whisky. Goodnight, Holly.” He looked at her as if he wanted to say more, then went down the hall into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“ARE THE LOT OF YOU FUCKING INCOMPETENT?”

Marcus Russo followed his question with a terrifying scowl and a string of expletives. The line cooks kept their faces averted and busied themselves chopping, measuring, and prepping ingredients for the day’s menu. Chef Russo was in an unusually foul temper this morning…

And not one of them wanted to draw his fury down on their heads.

Jago had nearly finished chopping onions into a fine dice for Jim, the broiler man. He hated chopping onions; he’d started in dicing them up early this morning, and his eyes were streaming. Tomorrow he’d wear a pair of goggles to work. He was sick of going home every night, red-eyed and reeking of onions.

Gradually Jago became aware of a shadow behind him. The kitchen had grown silent, too. There was no clash of pots and pans, no good-natured hurling of insults between the cooks…

Only the eerie quiet just before a storm hit.

“How long have you worked here?” Marcus asked him softly.

Jamie continued to chop and glanced up at him. “Two months, chef.”

“Two months,” Marcus mused. “Long enough, then, to know that we don’t put our knives in the dishwasher, yeah?”

Jago nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And long enough to know that we sharpen them before and after each use?”

Again, Jago nodded warily. “Yes, chef.”

“But not long enough, apparently,” Marcus went on, gathering steam, “to learn to use a knife properly! What the hell is this—” he stuck two fingers in Jago’s bowl of chopped onions and lifted them up, a look of disgust on his face “—this
shit
? The chop isn’t uniform. You’ve got chunks in there.” Marcus grabbed the bowl of onions — two hours’ worth of tedious, eye-watering chopping — and flung it to the floor. “I’ve seen five-year-olds chop an onion better than this!”

“Sorry, chef,” Jago mumbled, his face burning.

“My God, it’s not rocket science, is it? If you can’t even chop a bloody onion, how will you learn to sear a steak, or make a proper garlic mash? Start over,” he roared, and took up an unpeeled onion and flung it at Jago. “And then clean up this fucking mess before someone slips!”

With that, Hurricane Marco moved on and began shouting abuse at the waiters for not wrapping the silverware properly.

Jago tamped down his fury and abandoned his station to go and fetch the mop and bucket and some kitchen roll. He’d like to chop Chef Russo’s hands into a fucking bloody fine dice, and no mistake.

“Don’t feel bad,
cholo
,” Jim said as Jago stalked past, mop and bucket in hand. “We’ve all been in the shit with Chef R. Just get a move on with those onions. I’ll need ’em soon.”

“No worries,” Jago replied through gritted teeth as he cleaned up the mess. “I’m on it.”

When he got a break a couple of hours and a mountain of chopped onions later, Jago made his way around the corner to the kitchen entrance of Gordon Scots.

“Jago!” Jamie said as he spotted the young man standing hesitantly in the doorway. “What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute? I know you’re busy—”

“It’s okay. I can spare a few minutes. We can talk in my office.”

Once they were in Jamie’s office and the door was closed, Jago came straight to the point. “Does your job offer still stand?”

“Absolutely.” Jamie sat on the edge of his desk and regarded Jago curiously. “What’s happened? Is Chef Russo living up to his reputation?”

“The man’s a prick. And a bully,” Jago added darkly. “The line cooks are fed up, they’re ready to walk. He’s impossible to please! Two months on, and he still won’t let me do anything but make salad and chop onions; and according to him, I can’t even do that right.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll need a fry cook on the dinner shift soon. Tom’s leaving.”

Jago’s face lit up. “Really? I’m a dab hand at frying.”

“I know, I remember you said you worked at your uncle’s chip shop. I’ll start you out on a trial basis, see how it goes. Okay?”

“Fair enough.” Jago pumped his hand. “When can I start?”

“Tonight, if you like. Tom can show you the ropes.”

“Thank you, sir. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

On Saturday night, Holly came in to work the dinner shift when one of the regular waitresses called in sick. Neither she nor Jamie had mentioned The Kiss. His demeanour at home and at work was pleasant, professional — and a touch distant. Holly suspected Jamie was as thrown by The Kiss as she was.

It was nice, that kiss, no question; very nice. The memory of his lips on hers, the thoroughness with which his mouth had possessed hers, still sent a little quiver through her. But it confused her at the same time. After all, she was wild for Alex Barrington. He was everything she’d ever wanted.

Wasn’t he?

“Order up!” Jamie bellowed. “Table six.”

Holly put in her ticket for a four-top in the corner and went to the pass. She took up the plate and glanced at the order ticket. Steak and garlic mash.

“Thanks, Jamie,” she called out. But he’d already turned away to the Salamander to caramelize a crème brûlée someone had ordered…

Almost as if he was avoiding her.

That’s ridiculous
, Holly chided herself as she carried the plate to table six.
He’s probably already forgotten about that silly kiss
—

As she neared the table she came to a stop. “Will?”

He looked up. “Hols! Fancy meeting you here.”

She set down his plate and eyed him suspiciously. “Did you know I worked here? Or is this just a random coincidence?”

He grinned. “If I said it was a random coincidence, would you believe me?”

“No.”

“Okay, then, the truth — I heard Mark and Kate complaining about a waitress who dumped salad and hot frites all over them on Monday. Imagine my surprise to find out it was you.” He winked. “Good girl. Mark’s still complaining about it to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Arsehole,” Holly muttered. She folded her tray under one arm. “How are you? Have you talked to Zoe?”

“I’m okay. And no, I haven’t seen much of her.” He shook out his napkin. “Not since your article came out.”

“Yeah, my article,” she said, her words bitter. “What a travesty. I told Valery you didn’t take the picture, and that I had no idea where it came from, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m sorry you got sacked. It wasn’t fair. Don’t worry, though,” he reassured her. “You’ll land on your feet.”

“I only tried to help Zoe, and save Sasha’s job. To think I felt
sorry
for her. I wish I’d never said anything to Valery!” Holly said fiercely. “If I hadn’t, that vindictive cow wouldn’t have got me sacked, and I’d still have my job.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you did the right thing,” he said. He hesitated. “Sasha swears she didn’t do it, Holly.”

“And you believe her?”

He frowned. “I do, yes. We had a huge row over the whole thing, actually. She says she had nothing to do with the photo swap. She did admit, however,” he added, “that she shot your promotion down. Valery was ready to offer you Sasha’s job.”

She studied him curiously. “Where is she tonight, anyway? I thought you two were seeing each other.”

“We are. She’s with her sister, Amanda. She tried to kill herself again last night.”

“Oh, God — I’m sorry.” And she was. No one should have to deal with what Sasha was dealing with, without a family to help and support her. “But it still doesn’t excuse what she did to me.”

“
If
she did. Anyway, I told her you were only trying to save her job. Once things calm down a bit, she’ll see that.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Holly heard the order bell ring. “Well, I’ve got to go. We’re slammed tonight. Thanks, Will. If anyone can reason with Sasha, it’s you.”

“Holly?” Jamie called out sharply. “Your six-top’s up!”

“I’ll be right there,” she answered him. She turned back to Will with a sigh. “Tell Zoe I said hello, when you see her. And you can tell Sasha,” she added with a cheeky grin, “that working for Jamie’s much more fun than working for
her
.”

Chapter 45

On Sunday morning, Holly decided to put her limited culinary skills to work to make breakfast while Jamie was in the shower. She was just slicing the tomatoes and putting them in to fry when he came in, pulling a tan polo shirt over his head.

“What’s this?” he asked, glancing at the bacon and tomatoes sizzling in the pan, as well as the broken eggshells and tomato bits littering the countertop and floor.

“Well, isn’t it obvious? I’m making us breakfast.”

A look — surprise, mingled with alarm — crossed his face. “That’s great, Hols, but I’m getting ready to go.”

“Go?” She turned, spatula in hand, and looked at him in surprise. “Where would you go this early on a Sunday morning? It’s your day off.”

He picked up a couple of strips of bacon set aside to drain and took a bite. “I’m headed for the cheese festival in Exeter. I asked Kate to go along. Probably won’t be back till late. Got any coffee?”

“It’s on the table.” Holly turned back to the stove and slid the fried eggs — all six of them — onto a plate. “What am I to do with all this food?” she complained. “I can’t possibly eat it all myself.”

“Right. I’ve seen you put away food like Hamish MacDuff.”

“Who?”

“A Premiership footballer. Big bloke.” Jamie grinned and dodged the oven mitt she threw at him. He took two slices of fried bread and jammed them together with three eggs, half a dozen strips of bacon, and a couple of fried tomatoes. “There, fry-up to go.” Around a large, messy bite, he added, “You can come along with us if you like.”

“And be a third wheel? No, thanks.”

“You won’t be a third wheel. Anyway, it’s not a date, exactly. It’s just a day trip.”

“I’m sure,” Holly said tightly as she made up a plate of food that she suddenly didn’t want, “that Kate wouldn’t agree. She won’t want me hanging around, elbowing her aside while the two of you sip wine and nibble on cheese. Or whatever it is you do at a cheese festival.”

Jamie finished and tossed his napkin in the bin. “Look, if it bothers you, I’ll ring Kate and cancel.”

“It doesn’t bother me!” she snapped, with more force than she’d intended. “Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, I have things to do.”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Oh? Like what?”

“Girl things, like washing my hair, shaving, painting my nails…so it’s great you’ll be gone.”

“Good, then.” Jamie picked up his keys and sauntered to the back door. “I’m sure you and Mr Posh can find a way to pass the time together. Shagging for England comes to mind.”

“He’s not posh! And he has a name, damn it!”

“Oh, sorry, you’re right. Mr Posh, Mr Wanker, Mr Up-His-Own-Arsehole—”

“Oh, do shut up!” Holly said, irritated. “And you can leave, while you’re at it.”

“It’s my flat,” he reminded her, just before he opened the door and left.

Holly went after him and flung the door open. “You’re a knob, Jamie Gordon!” she called after him, in case there was any doubt. “See if I ever cook breakfast for you again!”

Then she slammed the door shut, gathered up the remnants of egg and tomato, and threw it all straight into the bin.

The shrill of his bedside telephone early Sunday morning woke Alex Barrington from a sound sleep. He thrust his hand out and groped on the table for the alarm: six a.m.

Groggily, Alex lifted his head to glance at the caller ID. Dominic Heath. Oh, fuck. “Dominic?” he croaked as he picked up. “Why are you calling me so early?”
And on my bloody day off
, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

Over background noise that sounded as if sixteen cats were auditioning for
Britain’s Got Talent
, Dominic shouted, “Alex! Mate! Are you after having a bit of fun?”

Alex struggled to sit up and open his eyes. “Actually, I’m after having a bit of sleep.”

“Sleep,” Dominic echoed, and laughed. “That’s funny, mate. Listen—” he hiccupped “—you can get all the sleep you like on my Lear on the way over. You’re going with me.”

“I’m not going with you,” Alex said firmly. Curiosity got the better of him, and he added, “Where are we not going?”

“Scotland. Inverness, to be exact. Need to meet with the estate agent. I’m putting the property up for sale, just like you suggested.”

Alarmed, Alex sat up straighter. “I’m sorry, Dominic, but I can’t possibly go to Scotland with you! I’ve got casework, research, appointments all next week—”

“Cancel ’em. Rearrange your schedule. You have a secretary, and a smartphone, don’t you?”

Alex passed a hand over his face. “Yes, of course I do, but I can’t rearrange my entire week’s schedule, just to up sticks and leave London on your whim—”

“I’m your client,” Dominic informed him, and belched. “My whims are your command. Besides, I need your financial advice.”

“You need a solicitor who specializes in real estate law. Call the chap I recommended, Tristan Whitely-Banks. He knows real estate law inside and out—”

“I don’t want that poncey arsehole, I want you.” Dominic’s voice went from belligerent to wheedling. “Look, there’s lots of dosh in it for you, and a ride on my private jet.” He added, “’Course, I can’t get up to any extracurricular activity, if you know what I mean, ’cause I’m with Gemma, now. I’m a changed man.”

Given Dominic’s colourful — and oversexed — past, Alex found that hard to believe, but wisely refrained from comment.

“But there’ll be plenty of booze and female companionship, if you fancy it,” Dominic went on, “and whatever happens on the plane stays on the plane, mate…”

Alex closed his eyes. There was no way round it; he’d have to go to Scotland with the temperamental little shit. If he refused, Dominic would raise a stink with Alex’s boss, Simon, and would threaten to take his extremely lucrative business elsewhere.