Marooned with the Millionaire

by Nina Milne

  She paused as she studied his face, and he focused on maintaining an expression of calm interest.

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I’ll take the Fifth.’

  ‘So it is true?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But what I will say is that even if it were true, hypothetically speaking, it wouldn’t matter.’

  ‘The truth always matters.’ Her voice was absolute in its conviction. ‘The bottom line is that Frederick chose pleasure over duty and his brother paid with his life. The people deserve to know that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if he lied to them once he could lie to them again.’

  Time to change tack. ‘For a start, the truth isn’t that black and white, cut and dried—whatever cliché you like. Frederick did attend a party the night of Axel’s death. But it was a business function to celebrate a business deal—not some wild celebrity shindig. Frederick founded Freddy Petrelli’s Olive Oil, and the deal took his company into the global arena. Axel was heir to the throne—Frederick had no interest in politics at the time. So I’m not sure your “pleasure over duty” theme will hold water.’

  ‘Then what is all the fuss about? Why would it have been covered up in the first place?’

  ‘Because Axel was Lycander’s hope for the future—the Golden Prince who would take Lycander back to prosperity and fairness. At the time Frederick was pretty unpopular—he was seen as being like his father because of his party lifestyle. Bottom line is that the people would have preferred Frederick to have been in that car, and they loathed the idea that he was now heir to the throne. The throne was already rocking; if they had known he should have been in the car the monarchy could have been overturned.’

  ‘So, hypothetically speaking, you agree that a cover-up was the right way to go?’

  ‘It is what Axel would have wanted. Whatever it took for his vision of Lycander to be achieved and for the monarchy he believed in to remain stable.’

  That was what had driven Marcus to step forward to offer Frederick his support, even when his own grief was at its height.

  ‘He believed in Frederick.’

  ‘That isn’t the point. The point is that by concealing the truth Frederick may have changed history—changed people’s lives.’

  ‘For the better.’

  ‘Maybe, but maybe not. And maybe not long-term. And—’

  ‘You can play alternative endings until you’re rainbow-coloured, but at the end of the day you make the decision you make on the day.’

  ‘And what if it turns out to be the wrong one?’

  ‘Then you have to live with the consequences.’

  The words came out way too harsh as memory stirred, pulling him back to eighteen years before, and the decision he’d made then. He’d rescued Elvira from the fire and had made the decision not to go back in for his parents.

  Little matter that, given the state of the fire, he would most likely not have survived. Little matter that he had been restrained by his neighbours. He knew that if Elvira had still been inside somehow he would have broken free and tried to save her—would have perished in the attempt. But he hadn’t done so for his parents. A decision made that he had to live with. And God have mercy on his soul.

  He pulled his mind from his own thoughts and flinched at the expression on April’s face. The colour had leeched from her face and despite her best efforts to cover it up her hand shook as she placed her glass down. Wine slopped over the side and spread a puddle on the white of the tablecloth.

  ‘April...?’ In that second he knew with bone-deep certainty that whatever demons haunted April, whatever decisions she rued in her life, they rivalled his own. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’ She reached for a napkin, fumbled, and hauled in an audible breath. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No. You aren’t.’

  He could sense the pain that emanated from her and wanted to soothe it. Lord knew he could empathise with the whip of guilt and pain. Without thought he reached out and covered her hand in his, and felt sensation jolt his veins and heat his blood. Her green eyes widened, as if her reaction to his touch had jerked her from the edge of pain.

  ‘Then I will be fine.’

  Her gaze lingered on his hand and gently she pulled her own out from under it, retrieved the napkin and scrubbed at the wine stain.

  ‘But there is something I want to know. You told me how the people felt about Frederick and Axel. What about you? Axel was your best friend. How did you feel?’

  Marcus closed his eyes in an attempt to ward the question off; this was something he had spoken to no one about—not even Elvira. But suddenly here and now, as he opened his eyes, met her gaze and saw the genuine compassion in them, for a moment he wanted to share the grief.

  Axel had been like a brother to him—the one person he had let a little close. They had been best friends as boys, had run and played together, argued politics and crafted Lycander’s future together. But...

  ‘My feelings are irrelevant. It is Lycander that matters. Nothing can bring Axel back. His death was a tragedy, but maybe his legacy can live on.’

  April nodded, her green eyes wide with empathy as well as sympathy. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said simply, ‘and I appreciate how strongly you believe that Frederick is the right person to rule Lycander now. And I do understand why you want me to drop the story.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure it is up to me to make a decision of such enormity with such huge possible repercussions. I need to think.’

  ‘Understood.’

  There would be no point in pushing her and in truth he understood her stance.

  ‘So, right now why don’t you have some of Gloria’s chocolate and apple torte, famed throughout the region? And then I’ll drop you back to your hotel.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Thank you.’

  But as they ate the sumptuously decadent dessert conversation dwindled, both of them caught up in their own thoughts, both of them with decisions to make.

  Marcus glanced at the serious intent on April’s face as she dabbed up the last flakes of pastry with one finger. He didn’t know which way her choice would fall—he suspected neither did she.

  A sylvan picnic hadn’t cut the mustard, nor even the Lycander tomato chutney, so he needed to move to Plan B.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  APRIL OPENED HER eyes and puffed out a sigh. She might as well face it—sleep had left the hotel room and it wasn’t coming back. Unless her fitful, restless swivel round the sheets counted.

  Every time she closed her eyes Marcus Alrikson—drat the man—insisted on an invasion of her dreams. As she lay there, gazing wide-eyed at the ceiling, irritation and a dollop of sheer guilt swathed her already heated skin and she pushed the duvet off with more force than necessary.

  This was unacceptable. This unwanted attraction had caused her to lose the thing she valued most—her objectivity. She couldn’t see her way forward—couldn’t work out what to do about the story she almost wished she’d never discovered. Part of her wanted to drop it. Problem was, she couldn’t be sure of her motivation. Had she allowed her attraction for him to cloud her judgement and make her want to do what he said?

  Her entire being revolted against the very concept that she would be foolish enough to do that again. Attraction had rendered her unable to see Dean as he truly was—had propelled her into a foolish, disastrous and tragic marriage.

  April wanted to pull the duvet over her head and go into hibernation mode... No way. That way lay the path back to depression. Right now she needed to kill this attraction off, shut her hormones down and focus on a return to her safe, even-keeled life—the one she had worked so hard to construct, brick by painstaking brick.

  The buzz of her phone provided a welcome relief from her thoughts.


  ‘Hey, Kathy.’ Her editor, who could perhaps help with this dilemma. Except she wasn’t sure she wanted the decision taken out of her hands...

  ‘April. Glad I caught you. I’ve just spoken with Marcus Alrikson and it sounds like you’ve ruffled some feathers.’

  For a moment words deserted her as the sheer gall of the man blasted her. But it wasn’t only anger—there was a sense of betrayal as well. He’d gone over her head to her editor.

  ‘I really don’t know what you were thinking, April. We were very lucky to get this exclusive coverage of the Lycander Royal wedding, and we agreed to write a feel-good article on the lifestyle of the royal couple—not to dig up a political scandal. You have single-handedly nearly screwed that up.’

  The tone of the other woman’s voice twanged a nerve—a reminder of the numerous occasions on which Dean and his family had explained to April why she didn’t measure up. As a wife, a mother, a person... The memory kept her vocal cords in stranglehold, conveying an almost hypnotic belief that, yes, she was wrong, stupid...

  April dug her nails into the palm of her hand to wake herself up. Tragedy had reformed her and she was no longer that woman. ‘Kathy,’ she broke in, ‘this is not just a scandal. It’s a political story that could have huge ramifications if it’s true.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it is not the sort of story our readers would be interested in. Marcus Alrikson has made it plain that if we don’t back off they back out—and the wedding coverage will go to What’s Up? instead. I will not lose this to our biggest competitor. So drop the story.’

  ‘But—’ April began, feeling conflicting emotions tear at her. Relief that the decision had been taken out of her hands versus her principles, which told her that the decision was hers to make, and had to be made on different grounds than readership numbers.

  ‘No buts. Drop the story. I had an agreement with Marcus Alrikson—I intend to keep it.’

  Five minutes later April flung her phone onto the bed. In record time she shed her tartan PJs, tugged on jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, grabbed her bag and blazer and left her hotel room. How dared he? Of all the arrogant, idiotic—

  Her mental invective halted as she strode through the lobby, out through the revolving doors and glared around for a taxi.

  Once at Marcus’s offices she didn’t even pause—she stormed inside with no more than a perfunctory glance at the historic grandeur of the building. Right now she didn’t care if he was in Fort bloody Knox—she’d find him. And if he wasn’t in she’d wait for as long as it took.

  Attempting to summon a polite smile, she approached the semi-circular reception desk. ‘Is Marcus Alrikson available?’

  ‘Ah, you must be April. I’m Karen. Marcus asked me to take you straight up when you arrived.’

  ‘He did?’ A tiny puff of wind left her sails of fury, but April soon remedied that as adrenalin pulsed through her. If he was willing to fight, then bring it on. ‘Excellent.’

  She followed the petite blonde receptionist down a maze of corridors and up a flight of oak-banister stairs—the building appeared to have been haphazardly converted from royal residence to office complex.

  ‘Is Marcus expecting me at a certain time?’

  The woman nodded. ‘He said somewhere between nine-thirty and ten-thirty.’

  So she was that predictable, was she?

  April caught a glimpse of her reflection in a gilded mirror. Her eyes had squinted to slits and her expression defined the word glower, so she couldn’t blame Karen for her apprehensive glance.

  Finally they reached a door where a discreet plaque showed they’d reached their destination. A perfunctory knock, then Karen announced April’s name in a relieved murmur and scurried back down the corridor.

  Marcus rose from behind a teak desk that screeched antiquity. ‘April. I’m guessing you’ve spoken with Kathy.’

  ‘Yes, I have, and I am here to tell you that you are despicable. You went over my head and behind my back to my editor. I could have been sacked.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ But a tinge of discomfort climbed his cheeks. ‘I explained that you had strayed from the brief, but I also made it crystal-clear that you were doing a fantastic job on the wedding article and that I categorically wanted you to continue with that.’

  April could hear the hiss of metaphorical steam from her ears. ‘So now you want my thanks?’

  ‘No.’ All signs of unease had vanished. ‘I simply want you to get on with the agreed article.’

  ‘I am. But I have come across a separate story about Axel and I have told you I need time to consider what to do about it.’

  ‘And that’s what you now have. Time. Write the article on the wedding. At the end of that, if you want to pursue the other story you can. There will be nothing I can do about it. But I want to make sure you do really consider the consequences.’ He moved away from the desk, his frustration evident in each stride. ‘I am not asking you to cover up a crime. Even if Brian Sewell is telling the truth, Frederick did nothing wrong; the events of that night were simply a tragedy. One we all have to live with and make the best of.’

  The words smote her—extinguished her anger in an ice-cold deluge. She knew oh-so-well how a few minutes could change your entire world. How one decision could have a domino effect you had never intended. But did that make you any less guilty...? April didn’t think so. In which case Frederick should have to face up to what he’d done.

  Yet she hadn’t, had she? What jury had judged her? What punishment had she received apart from the life sentence of having to live each and every day without Edward, imagining how it might have been? He would have been six years old. Six years and few months. He’d be at school... He’d...

  Stop. That way led nowhere. The clock couldn’t be turned back. Perhaps Frederick wished it could be.

  Think.

  Hard to do that when once again her body was hyper-alert to the man now standing so tantalisingly close to her. For a moment of insanity she wanted to close the gap between them and throw herself at the bulk of him, lose herself, submerge these roiling thoughts in desire. After all, he had said it himself—his only interest in women was on a physical level. And for years and years April hadn’t felt so much as a semi-spark, a micro-spark of desire for any man.

  Get. A. Grip. Think. Objectively.

  Marcus met her gaze full-on. ‘I believe it is in Lycander’s best interests for this story not to be pursued. You also have my personal word that Frederick has done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Your “personal word” is simply an expression of your personal opinion. Many others may not agree. Plus, it’s hard to put much stock in your word.’

  Now anger flashed across his face and instinctively she stepped back; fear could still surface after all these years.

  His expression morphed into a frown at her involuntary reaction and she forced herself to continue. ‘Going to Kathy was hardly above-board.’

  ‘I did what I needed to do.’

  There was no compromise in his tone, and again she braced herself, waiting for the tide of anger, the bluster, the threats.

  Instead he said, ‘I won’t apologise for that. But I am sorry if there was negative fallout for you. I did my best to minimise that.’

  For a second she had the feeling that he had surprised himself. Dammit, she almost felt grateful—and that made her even more furious. True, he could have requested she be kicked off the story altogether, but she had still been manipulated and she hated it—it was too reminiscent of her time with Dean, and she would not take it.

  But what could she do? Tell Marcus to stuff it? Resign from the wedding article and pursue the other story? The problem with that was that it smacked of cutting her nose off to spite her face. For a start it would be professional idiocy and, truth be told, she still wasn’t sure she even wanted to pursue the story.

  What to do? What to
do?

  Objectivity still eluded her. Not even a particle of it was to be found as she tried to think. Her story had the power to be the catalyst to topple a throne—and she did need time to decide what to do with it. But, dammit, she wouldn’t just sit back and be manipulated.

  ‘So you’ve guaranteed that I take time to consider? Fine. But I need something more than time.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Suspicion tinged his voice and her anger resurfaced as he assumed the reason.

  ‘I won’t be blackmailed.’

  The anger swelled, rolled words off her tongue. ‘If you want me to take your word for it that pursuing this story is the morally wrong thing to do, then prove it. Let me shadow you—let me see what Lycander is all about. Show me what Frederick is doing. More than the community centre.’

  She took a deep breath. She’d show him blackmail.

  ‘And I want an exclusive article with you. We could call it The Real Marcus Alrikson. On the record.’

  Even as she said the words she felt an unholy glee at the knowledge that this would be his worst nightmare.

  For a second, sheer horror etched his face. ‘Forget it. I told you—I won’t be blackmailed.’

  ‘It’s not blackmail. It’s a means to help me make a decision and a way for me to retrieve my reputation with Kathy.’

  There was a long silence as he gazed past her, clearly deep in thought. His fingers drummed the desk in an impatient tattoo and then ceased as he looked at her.

  For an instant she thought he’d call her bluff, but then he nodded. ‘OK. But I get to vet the finished product.’

  ‘We can discuss the finished product,’ she conceded even as she frowned. Had that been too easy? Why on earth had he capitulated? ‘But that doesn’t mean you get to rewrite it, and when I interview you it will be on the record. You get that, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said easily—and as she looked into those dark eyes she knew damn well that he had no intent of letting her anywhere near the real him. Well, they would see...

  Curiosity, determination and a funny little thrill shot through her. ‘So, when do we start?’