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,
