you.”
Holly arrived in Reception a few minutes later. “Hello, Alex. Sorry if I kept you waiting.”
“Only two minutes,” Alex said, and eyed her above-the-knee skirt with obvious approval. “And well worth the wait, I might add. You look very fetching today, Ms James.”
“Only today?” she asked, and quirked her brow. “So I didn’t look fetching when I interviewed you?”
“I’m sorry, but you only looked moderately attractive that day.” He held out his arm to her. “Shall we go?”
Holly smiled and took his arm, charmed by his light-hearted mood. “Yes, let’s do.”
Alex glanced back at the reception desk as they left. “Thank you. Sorry about your pencils.”
“It’s okay. My f-fault. And you’re welcome,” she murmured, her eyes behind their glasses still riveted on Alex.
“Poor girl,” he murmured as he followed Holly into the lift. “She has a regrettable speech impediment.”
“Oh, Alex — Eleanor doesn’t have a speech impediment.” Holly glanced at him and smiled. “It’s you.”
He looked at her blankly. “Me?”
Holly jabbed at the ground-floor button. “You have a devastating effect on women. You render them speechless.”
“Is that so?” He considered this, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I don’t seem to have that effect on you.”
“No,” she said lightly. “You’ve no effect at all.”
He linked her arm through his. “I’ll have to work on that, then, won’t I?”
As the hostess led them to a table at the Brasserie Holly covertly studied Alex. His back was broad, and his shoulders nicely filled out the grey worsted suit he wore.
She had a sudden, wild desire to grab him by his brown grenadine tie, pull him towards her, and run her fingers through that dark, floppy hair of his—
“Follow me,” the hostess said, and handed them menus as they seated themselves. “A waiter will be with you shortly. Enjoy your lunch.”
Alex studied Holly. “How’s your day going so far, Ms James?”
“Holly, please.” She opened her menu, still fuming over Zoe’s comment. “Actually, something happened yesterday…something that really cheesed me off.”
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,
