Free Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) by Katie Oliver

his mobile,” Zoe retorted, “that’s why. He must’ve left it behind, and I grabbed it by mistake. And it’s got…things, on it. He’s involved in some pretty dogdy stuff, Sha. I think…” she hesitated “…I think he might be a sex trafficker.”
    “Bloody hell,” the other girl breathed, and came to a stop. “You’ve landed right in the shit, haven’t you?”
    Zoe’s hand tightened on the rucksack strap. “Yeah. Right in it.”

Chapter 12
    Traffic out of London on Friday afternoon was epic. Holly resisted the impulse to turn around and go back home as she inched the Skoda along the Euston Road. Good thing she’d brought along some cheese and onion crisps and a Diet Pepsi. At least that red ‘check engine’ light wasn’t showing up today.
    Holly sighed.
Just get me to Oxfordshire
, she silently urged the car. At this rate, she might not make it onto the A40 until tomorrow.
    But once onto the exit at Oxford/Cheltenham, she quickly made up for lost time. She reached Chipping Norton just after five and turned up a dirt road edged haphazardly with foxgloves and nettles. As she braked in front of the seventeenth-century house, made of Cotswold stone and half obscured by ivy, she climbed out of the car and breathed in the scent of honeysuckle.
    Holly retrieved her duffel bag from the back seat, noticing as she did the sleek Audi sedan and Range Rover parked nearby. Must belong to John and Enid Whatsit…
    “Holly!”
    Suddenly Mum was there, enveloping her in a Guerlain-scented hug, clucking over the empty crisp and Peparami wrappers strewn on the seat, asking her when she’d left London.
    “Two hours ago,” Holly told her as she pulled her duffel out. “Traffic was murder, but—” her gaze swept over the fields, running riot with ox-eyed daisies and bluebells “—it’s good to get away, even if it’s only for the weekend. Where’s Dad?”
    “He’s in the study with the dogs, reading
The
Guardian
.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “Some things never change. Oh, and your sister’s coming back home tomorrow, for a few weeks.”
    “Good. We text sometimes, but I haven’t seen her since she left for uni.”
    Hannah, much to their mother’s dismay, had sailed off to a fine arts university in Norwich, following a tumultuous relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Jago.
    “Well, come along inside. John and Enid are here, and I’ve had your old room tidied—”
    “Mrs James!” Mrs Henley, the part-time cook, stood on the doorstep, arms crossed belligerently against her large bosom. “We haven’t any eggs. All them soufflés you wanted have used up every blessed one, and there’s naught to be had for your guests’ breakfast tomorrow.”
    Cherie turned to her daughter. “We’ll talk later, darling. Drinks in the drawing room at seven, mind, don’t be late. Mrs Henley,” she called out briskly as she headed back to the house, “surely we can send someone to the village to get some eggs…”
    “But the market’s closed, and I can’t spare anyone—”
    “I’ll send Alastair to Tesco,” Cherie told her. “Problem sorted.”
    Holly skirted past the two of them into the house and headed up the stairs to her old room. Once inside her bedroom — its pale pink and green striped walls still plastered with childhood posters of pop stars, shirtless footballers, and horses — she shut the door and threw her duffel bag on a chair.
    She’d tossed the latest issue of
BritTEEN
in her duffel at the last minute but hadn’t had time to look at it yet. Her “One Outrageous Question” interview with Alex Barrington was inside, and she was dying to read it.
    It was only five-thirty…plenty of time to shower and change before seven. Holly grabbed the magazine, belly-flopped down on the bed, and flipped eagerly to page thirty-seven.
    There was the photo of Alex she’d submitted, showing him bare-chested at the helm — bow? she could never keep it straight — of a sailboat. He looked, as always,