A glamorous assignment, a brooding bachelor...

Might April get more than the scoop she bargained for?

When journalist April Fotherington is assigned to write about handsome, elusive royal chief advisor Marcus Alrikson she knows she’ll have her work cut out. What she doesn’t expect is that they’ll end up huddled in a candlelit hideaway during a desert island thunderstorm! April and Marcus share one special night—but could there be consequences beyond their spontaneous island encounter?

NINA MILNE has always dreamed of writing for Mills & Boon Romance—ever since she played libraries with her mother’s stacks of Mills & Boon romances as a child. On her way to this dream Nina acquired an English degree, a hero of her own, three gorgeous children and—somehow!—an accountancy qualification. She lives in Brighton and has filled her house with stacks of books—her very own real library.

Also by Nina Milne

Christmas Kisses with Her Boss

Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

The Derwent Family miniseries

Rafael’s Contract Bride

The Earl’s Snow-Kissed Proposal

Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Marooned with the Millionaire

Nina Milne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07760-6

MAROONED WITH THE MILLIONAIRE

© 2018 Nina Milne

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To one of my very best friends,

who has proved the healing power of love.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

MARCUS ALRIKSON LEANED back in the ergonomic comfort of the luxurious leather chair—his one extravagance in an office he spent way too much of his time in. But needs must when the devil drove. Even when the devil was his own personal demon—the one that ensured he never lost sight of the need to succeed.

Right now his focus was on ensuring that the royal wedding was a success. It could be argued that as Chief Advisor to the Prince of Lycander his remit didn’t include wedding planning—and in truth the bride’s dress and the groom’s choice of tie didn’t interest him in the slightest. The security of the royal nuptials, however, was very much his responsibility—after all alongside his role of Chief Advisor he also headed up Alrikson Security, a byword in security provision services across Europe.

There was also the fact that he had a great deal of respect for Prince Frederick—the Prince was a good man, a ruler with a vision for the future of Lycander. A vision shared by Marcus.

He focused on the screen and studied his plan. His formidable brain assessed the risks, considered the most acute of angles, searched for the tiniest of chinks in the armour of defence and protocol that surrounded the upcoming wedding extravaganza.

In mere weeks Prince Frederick of Lycander would marry Sunita Bashwani-Greenberg, an ex-supermodel and mother of his two-year-old son Amil.

The union was a love-match that the people of Lycander had mixed feelings about. Frederick’s ascent to the throne had been shrouded in tragedy and scandal, and it had taken him two years of fair and just rule even to begin the process of bringing the Lycandrian people round. And the throne still wobbled—Frederick had many enemies who would happily overthrow him and end Lycander’s monarchy, enemies who would sabotage the wedding.

Not on Marcus’s watch. It was crucial that this wedding went without a hitch.

His frown intensified as he glared at the screen, looking up only when he heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

A rare smile touched his lips as his sister entered the room. ‘Elvira.’

‘Hey, big bro.’

‘What can I do for you?’

As always he felt a profound relief when he saw his little sister, and a sense of gratitude that her life had worked out—that she seemed to have adjusted after her shaky start. Now twenty-two, she was content and successful and in her final year of studying law at university.

Speaking of which... His smile vanished. ‘Shouldn’t you be at lectures?’

‘Relax. I’m free of lectures this morning. My tutor’s ill, so I thought I’d drop in.’

He should have known Elvira wouldn’t skip a lecture; for all his big-brother crackdown he knew that his sister took her studies seriously, and truly appreciated the opportunities life had granted her.

No, not life. Those opportunities had come courtesy of death—the death of their criminal, alcoholic, violent parents in a fire. The same fire that a twelve-year-old Marcus had rescued his younger sister from, the identical inferno he had failed to rescue his parents from. Jonny and Alicia Brockley had perished.

Marcus and Elvira had been adopted, and their lives had dramatically altered course. For the better. The knowledge was a permanent biting ache of guilt.

Marcus shook his head—now was not the moment for a trip down the ravaged and torturous twists of memory lane.

‘Anything in particular on your mind?’ he asked as he gestured for Elvira to sit, and waited as she curled up in the comfy chair he’d sequestered from one of the many rooms of the Lycander Palace. His office was a mishmash taken from the mounds of furniture stockpiled by previous royal incumbents.

‘April Fotherington turned up at uni today...for “a chat”.’

Marcus drummed his fingers on the desk in an irritated tattoo. April Fotherington was a writer for a popular upmarket celebrity magazine, and she was in the process of writing a feel-good article on the Lycander wedding. With an emphasis on feel-good. That had been the deal Marcus had made with the magazine’s editor-in-chief. In person. Emphatically.

So a question begged. ‘Why would April need to have a chat with you? You don’t know Frederick or Sunita.’

‘She wasn’t asking about them. She was asking about Axel. About the night of his death and his relationship with Frederick.’

Damn it to hell.

Axel. He had been Marcus’s best friend, Frederick’s older brother, tragically killed in a car crash two years before. ‘Do you think she knows anything?’

Elvira shrugged. ‘I don’t think she knows anything. But I think she suspects something is a bit off—which is a problem. April Fotherington is good at what she does and she may well pursue this angle.’

‘Did you give anything away?’

Elvira narrowed her eyes. ‘Of course I didn’t. Give me some credit, Marcus.’

‘Sorry—and I’m sorry you were put in this position.’

Frustrated anger welled inside him—the type that in his early years would have had him punching a wall. Now he had learnt to convert it into cold, hard determination.

‘I’ll deal with it. April won’t bother you again.’

‘Whoa—hold on.’ Elvira frowned. ‘Don’t go overboard—all she did was ask a few questions, and I may be completely wrong to think she suspects anything. She was perfectly nice about it as well.’

‘I get that. But I—’

‘You hate that your little sister is involved in this. But it’s not your fault. Or hers.’

Yet somehow it felt that way to him.

‘Thank you, Elvi.’ Marcus rose to his feet.

Elvira’s brow creased into deeper grooves. ‘Where are you going?’

He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it.

‘I’m going to give you a lift to wherever you want to go, and then I am going to do my job and close April Fotherington down.’

* * *

April glanced down at her notebook, then up and around at her hotel room. Situated on the outskirts of Lycander’s town centre, it was pleasant enough, though not extravagant—well within her editor’s budgetary requirements. The room’s impersonal anonymity suited her, being reminiscent of her own small London flat.

Chewing the end of her pencil, she stared down at the words she had written.

Fact One: Two years ago Axel, heir to the throne of Lycander, died in a fatal car crash after attending an official state function.

Fact Two: At said function Axel claimed that his younger brother Frederick had originally been asked to attend, and Axel had demanded to take his place.

Fact Three: Prince Frederick, then known as the Playboy Prince, instead attended a celebrity-packed party aboard a yacht.

Fact Four: In the here and now I have interviewed a political activist called Brian Sewell, who claims that, ‘Axel should never have been there. Frederick bailed out at the last moment to attend some jet-setting party and Axel stepped up—just like he always did. Frederick didn’t give a sh—Pardon me. He didn’t give a damn about Lycander; he only cared about himself and his hedonistic lifestyle. He should have died in that car crash, not Axel. Axel didn’t want to attend that function—he had other plans.’

April’s gaze lingered on the words died and car crash and black despair threatened, jabbing at every nerve-end, twisting her brain with jagged flashes of memory.

Her baby son’s face, his milky smell, the down of his hair as a newborn, the first gummy smile, the first toddling step... And then nothing. There would be no more firsts. No more anything.

Because Edward had died in a car crash.

Her fault—the knowledge throbbed and pulsed her brain.

Fact One: I was planning on leaving my husband, Edward’s father—Dean Stanworth.

Fact Two: Dean discovered my plans and arrived home in a drunken violent fury, snatched Edward and drove off.

Fact Three: He crashed, and both he and Edward perished.

Breathe, focus. She used all the tricks of the grief trade, so carefully learned, and tried to numb the pain. One last exhale and she was able to regard her notebook again, read the facts about Axel with structured dispassion. Able to block away the grief that clamoured behind the barricades.

The question now was: what next? Speak with Prince Frederick about it? No. Too soon. She needed further verification—after all, there was every chance her source was unreliable... Brian Sewell was a known anti-monarchist. Yet the intuition born of three years of dedication to her job—countless interviews—told her this was the truth.

Damn it.

She liked Frederick, she liked Sunita, and her commission was to write a happy piece—a feel-good fairy tale article that indicated belief in a happy-ever-after. April might not have achieved a happy-ever-after of her own, once the glitter had blown away her own personal fairy tale had decayed into a dark story of misery-ever-after. But that didn’t mean she begrudged happiness to others. However—and there always seemed to be a ‘however’—she believed in the truth.

If she had faced up to the truth earlier, tragedy might have been averted.

Relief swathed her as the phone rang, distracting her from another visit to the past. It was imperative she kept herself on track. Picking up the receiver, she identified herself.

‘Good morning, Ms Fotherington.’ The hotel receptionist’s professional bell-like tone was clear. ‘Marcus Alrikson is here for your meeting.’

Marcus Alrikson? Meeting?

April’s mind slalomed, raced, whirred as she considered the words. For a start she did not have a meeting scheduled with Lycander’s millionaire Chief Advisor, because he had made it crystal-clear that he didn’t see any need for one.

April hadn’t taken it personally—Marcus Alrikson hadn’t given a single press interview in the past two years. He was a man who wielded massive influence and acted behind the scenes. Of course she knew about him. A self-made millionaire by the age of twenty-five, thanks to his start-up company, Alrikson Security, and from a privileged background. He’d attended a prestigious school where he’d met Prince Axel of Lycander, and after Axel’s death he’d been appointed Chief Advisor to Prince Frederick.

She’d seen him before too, of course, but only from a distance or in a photo, or in the very briefest of video clips as he strode through packs of reporters. Enough for her to garner the sense of a man who radiated an aura of tightly self-contained power, and to register the fact that he had the looks and build to wow the public, if he so wished.

Yet that desire was quite clearly not on the man’s wish list—his expression always neutral with a veer towards grim.

So what was he doing here?

Clearly her meeting with his sister Elvira had rattled his cage.

Excellent.

‘I’ll be right down.’

Grabbing her oversized bag, she spared one glance at her reflection as she headed to the door. Good thing she always dressed ‘business casual’, and her wardrobe choices were simple. Today she’d opted for slim-leg trousers, a tucked-in shirt and a blazer. Sensible flat shoes. There was no need to do anything to her dark auburn hair; her chosen style was short, sleek and easy to maintain.

So she was ready to face whatever Marcus might throw at her—and she had no doubt there would be something. Marcus Alrikson was anti-press, and if he was here that meant his feathers had been seriously ruffled.

The lift took her down to the marble lobby, and she crossed to the curved reception desk and nearly screeched to halt. The man standing there was...gorgeous.

Those glimpses of him, those images, couldn’t have prepared her for the reality of Marcus Alrikson in the flesh. Or for her visceral reaction to him. Her tummy twisted and her hormones fizzed out of their deep hibernation mode with a suddenness that had her brain at panic stations. Shock slowed her steps further.

April didn’t do attraction; her hormones hadn’t so much as whispered in the past years. In fact forget hibernation—she’d been pretty sure her hormones were stone-cold dead. And that had been fine by her. The fuse of attraction could set off a chain reaction that ended in misery—that was a life lesson she’d learnt. So this fuse was being doused right now.

Marcus’s eyebrows rose and he raised his hand in salute.

Get a grip and get moving!

As she headed towards him she reminded herself that she’d interviewed princes and billionaires, Hollywood A-listers and models. But, dammit, this man had a presence that had nothing to do with his undeniable wealth, status, or even his equally undeniable good-looks: dark unruly hair, a shade overlong, midnight-blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a strong nose that looked as if it might have broken at some point.

OK. So he was good-looking. But that wasn’t the point. The point was the story—and she’d clearly provoked concern at the very least or he wouldn’t be here. Yet he didn’t look remotely worried, or angry, though there was a sense of taut energy in his stance—an energy she sensed was his perpetual state, a part of who he was.

‘Mr Alrikson.’

There was a moment, a fleeting instant, when his expression registered the tiniest glimmer of surprise. Surprise and something else—his dark gaze had rested on her face, something had flickered and her treacherous body had responded, craving to move nearer to him.

Staunchly she kept her feet planted on the floor. ‘This is unexpected.’

‘Yes, it is.’ He frowned, as if the words had escaped of their own volition. Then, ‘Please, call me Marcus.’

She inclined her head, knowing that common courtesy indicated a need to shake hands. But she didn’t want to. Stupid, she knew, but her body’s reaction to him had caught her utterly off guard, wrong-footed her enough that it was a relief not to be in heels.

This was ridiculous. Her distrust of good-looking men was based on experience of the bitter kind. Handsome men had a different perspective on life—a belief that they were God’s gift, and an easy arrogance that could lead to less than desirable character traits.

Never judge a book by its cover was a saying she believed in wholeheartedly.

‘Marcus. I wasn’t aware that we’d scheduled a meeting. In fact I am certain we didn’t, because you made it very clear that you felt there was no need to meet me. Instead you very kindly had your office give me this scintillating quote: “I wish the couple every happiness”.’

Easy does it, April.

She really did have to get a grasp of events. If she could pull off an interview with Marcus it would be a journalistic coup. So antagonising him was a rookie error she could ill afford. Blaming Marcus for throwing her into a loop-the-loop was foolish in the extreme.

‘Yup. That about covers it.’ Any initial response to her was clearly under control now, and his voice was an easy, deep drawl.

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I thought you had been commissioned to write a feel-good article on the Lycander wedding—with an exclusive focus on the happy couple.’

‘Yes. That’s correct.’

‘So why did you feel the need to accost my sister?’

‘“Accost” is a strong word. I simply spoke with her.’

‘Accost is an entirely accurate word. You accosted her at her university campus without any attempt to schedule a meeting.’

‘I thought she might be helpful in shedding light on an...an angle I have come across.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Elvira is barely acquainted with either the Prince or Sunita.’

‘As I said, it’s a different angle.’

‘So I gather—and I look forward to hearing exactly what that angle is.’

April’s mind weighed and discarded options. Her intuition that Elvira had been hiding something seemed vindicated now that here in front of her was a main player. But perhaps the most sensible option would be to decline to cross swords with a man who was undoubtedly a master fencer. Instead she should take this as tacit confirmation that there was some truth to her suspicions and pursue her investigation.

‘I’m afraid I’m not ready to share yet.’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t acceptable.’

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘Of course not. It’s an observation. I have a deal with your magazine—if you are in the process of reneging on that deal then I have the right to know. Both the Prince and Sunita have more than co-operated with you thus far, as have various palace officials. That co-operation will cease.’

A part of her knew she should be jubilant—he must be rattled. Yet he didn’t look it—instead he looked utterly at ease...a man who believed he was in control of the situation.

‘Sounds like a threat to me.’

‘Not at all. Consider it a negotiation. Why don’t I buy you a coffee and we can discuss terms?’

A sudden jolt of anticipation shot a frisson of awareness through her. On some stupid level she wanted this skirmish, and she knew the reasons why were more complex than her pursuit of an angle to a story. She had the horrible feeling it had something to do with the insidious tug of awareness her brain was desperately trying to shut down.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

CHAPTER TWO

MARCUS FORCED HIS expression to remain neutral. No way did he want to project any of the disquiet that had surfaced inside him. April had a reputation as being a writer with integrity; her articles never gossiped—or if they did the gossip was fact not rumour or speculation. Which was exactly why anyone with a secret to hide hoped to slip under her radar.

Unfortunately the Prince of Lycander did have a secret, and it looked as though April Fotherington’s radar was abuzz. The angle she was in hot pursuit of was exactly the slope he didn’t want her to climb. Because at the summit lay political disaster.

That was what he needed to focus on...shame his body had other ideas. One look at April and va-va-voom—he’d been worried his eyeballs would pop out on cartoon springs. Her beauty was undeniable, and yet he couldn’t quite identify what it was about her that had caused such an intense tug of desire. Especially when she represented a danger to everything he had worked for over the past few years.

Perhaps it was best not to analyse the situation, or he might give in to the desire to study her at greater length, absorb her natural grace as she walked slightly ahead of him, check out the length of her legs, the slender span of her waist, the dark auburn of her hair that tapered onto the delicate nape of her neck...

Whoa. What was wrong with him? Right now April classed as the enemy, and his focus needed to be on shutting down this story—not ogling the opposition.

And so he continued through the lobby, eyes focused firmly above her head as they entered the hotel restaurant now nigh on empty in the post-breakfast pre-lunch lull. Scanning the room, he picked the optimum table—one that granted privacy and the opportunity to check the room for potential eavesdroppers.

He strode across the plush carpeted floor to a corner table, flanked by walls and potted greenery. A waiter materialised, pulled out chairs and proffered a menu, which Marcus waved away.

‘I’ll have a double espresso.’

‘Latte for me, please,’ April supplied.

He allowed himself to study her for a moment, telling himself it was a simple assessment to enable him to read her better. And if it unsettled her a little—well, all the better.

Dark auburn hair framed a heart-shaped face. Vivid green eyes of a colour he had never seen before—darker and softer than emerald—brought to mind forests and elven folklore. Her face held an allure that she seemed genuinely unaware of—there was no attempt at being coy, nor any overt flirtatiousness in her body language. And yet he could sense a simmer of awareness—the type of awareness that made his gaze linger a little too long on her generous lips, on the graceful tilt of her neck...

Stop. Get with the plan.

The point was to unsettle April, not himself. This situation was dangerous, and he needed to keep focused on what was important. April Fotherington’s lips definitively did not come under that category.

‘So...’ he said.

‘So?’ she returned.

‘Why don’t you tell me what your angle is?’

Tipping her head slightly to one side, she contemplated him. No doubt wondering how little she could disclose and get away with.

Seeing the waiter approach, he raised a hand. ‘Hang on. Our coffee’s here.’

They both waited in silence as their drinks were carefully deposited in front of them, and then for a few more beats until the waiter was out of earshot.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

She blew out an exaggerated puff of air. ‘Telling you is a non-starter. Once I tell you, you’ll try and kill the story.’

‘Yes. We both know that. But if you don’t tell me you’ll lose all access to the Prince and his bride and we’ll call in a different magazine.’

A frown creased her forehead. ‘Isn’t this overkill? All I’ve done is have a chat to your sister.’

‘Not true, April, and we both know it. You also met with Brian Sewell.’

The anger he’d felt at that discovery resurfaced, and he forced his body to remain relaxed, his voice almost casual.

Her whole body stilled, but other than that she gave no indication of guilt. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Did you approach him?’

‘No. He approached me. I understand he is a great proponent of democracy and I wanted a different perspective to put into the article. I won’t apologise for that.’

‘I’m not asking for an apology. I’m asking you not to pursue whatever line he has cast.’

Green eyes met his with cool aplomb. ‘I can’t do that. If there is a story there I need to follow it.’

‘Even if it isn’t the story you have been commissioned to write?’

‘Maybe it’s a better story.’

‘And that’s all you care about, isn’t it? The story? Circulation? Your reputation? And never mind the collateral damage.’

‘No!’ Her eyes flashed sparks at him as she pushed her cup away and leant across the table. ‘I care about the truth. And if this story is true then clearly all you care about is covering up the truth.’

‘I will tell you exactly what I care about. I care about Lycander. I care about my country and its people.’

‘Then surely you believe that “your” people deserve the truth? That is all I want to discover. The truth.’

The fervour with which she spoke was quiet but absolute, and for a second it caused him to pause.

‘Then perhaps you should choose your sources more carefully.’

‘Meaning...?’

‘Meaning Brian Sewell is not exactly a credible source. Plus, as I heard it, he was pretty plastered at your lunch yesterday—I’m not sure his drunken ramblings will stand up to scrutiny.’

Her green eyes narrowed and her entire body vibrated with outrage. ‘Are you spying on me?’

‘No. But I am keeping tabs on Brian Sewell. He is a dissident of the worst type.’

‘There is no crime in being a dissident.’

‘No, but there is a crime in organising and encouraging violent rallies—mobs made up of people who simply want an excuse to legitimise violence and mayhem.’

‘Then why haven’t you arrested him?’

Because the man was more slippery than a jellied eel. He played the part of a concerned citizen who simply wished to advocate a voice for democracy to perfection, but in reality he was no more than the leader of a criminal gang of nutters.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, believe me, and as soon as I have a watertight case against him Sewell will be behind bars.’

‘Well, I believe a man is innocent until proved guilty, and right now Brian Sewell looks perfectly credible to me.’

‘Brian Sewell is dangerous and manipulative.’

She snorted—there was no other word for it.

‘Please give me some credit. I am not an idiot and I have no intention of being manipulated. If his claims don’t stack up I won’t publish them—or even refer to them in any form.’

‘By then it may be too late—Sewell has spun you a web of dirt, and dirt sticks. To investigate you will have to ask questions, and then the story will gain momentum—the type of momentum that people like Sewell will harness. Then it won’t matter whether it is true or not—the ramifications for Frederick will be huge, as well as casting a blight over his wedding.’

She shook her head. ‘This still doesn’t make sense. I get that you may be worried—but this worried? You must have to deal with stuff like this all the time. There must be plenty of people opposed to the monarchy, and I am quite sure you are more than capable of dealing with them and their stories. You’ve got your tightie-whities in a knot over this one because you think I may have something explosive—something true.’

There was a pause—then horror etched her face, along with a tinge of disbelief, and despite the seriousness of the conversation a smile tipped his lips.

‘Lucky for me, I don’t wear tightie-whities.’

The flush deepened and he knew with crystal clarity that she was wondering exactly what he did wear... And suddenly he couldn’t help but wonder the same about her. Her gaze meshed with his and awareness swirled the air.

Then she shook her head. ‘I don’t think your choice of underwear is salient right now. Or ever will be,’ she added hurriedly.

She was so very right. Irritation sloughed over his skin. What the hell was he doing?

‘The bottom line is that if Brian Sewell is telling the truth then I have a duty to disclose that truth.’ She looked at him. ‘But I’ll tell you what I can offer.’ She leant forward. ‘Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is? I’ll interview you. You can comment on Brian Sewell’s claims. If they aren’t true then tell me flat-out that he’s lying.’ Her eyes were intent now. ‘I am not after dirt. I don’t want to blacken anyone’s name or cause unnecessary harm or distress with salacious rumour. That’s not what I do. I want the truth. So let me question you on the record about Brian Sewell’s comments.’

For an insane moment he was tempted—to explain the truth and trust April to see that decisions that had been made on the back of guilt, misery and tragedy had been made for the greater good. Decisions had been made to cover up the truth not because anyone had done anything wrong, but because the truth might have resulted in the overthrow of the monarchy.

Prince Frederick should have been at that state function, and he had bailed out at the last minute because he’d wanted to attend a party to celebrate pulling off an amazing business coup. Axel had agreed to attend in his place and had decided to pretend that he had instigated the swap in order to show Frederick in a more favourable light.

Then had come the tragedy—on leaving the dinner Axel had been involved in a fatal car crash. If the people of Lycander had discovered that it should have been Frederick in that car they might have lynched him, and the monarchy might well have been overthrown. So there had been a cover-up. He had no idea how Sewell had got hold of the information, but he had. Maybe he had simply hazarded a lucky guess...but there it was—the less than shining truth.

He squashed the crazy, inexplicable temptation to share it. Surely he was too experienced to be hoodwinked by a pair of intense green eyes? How could he trust her? He barely knew her. Yes, perhaps she would reveal the truth in a sympathetic way, but it was too big a risk to take. Marcus would not throw everything and everyone he held dear to wolves and vermin like Sewell.

Prince Frederick of Lycander cared about his land and his people, and he was slowly but surely bringing Lycander back to a place of prosperity and fairness for all. The truth was not an option. Equally, though, there was no way he would lie—he’d be a fool thrice over to lie to a writer of April’s calibre.

So, neither the truth nor a lie...

‘No can do,’ he said easily. ‘I don’t do interviews—under any circumstances. I won’t make an exception to that rule, but I will show you why I think you should drop this story.’

Her brow creased in puzzlement. ‘Show me?’

He rose to his feet, hitched his wallet from his jacket pocket and put some money on the table. ‘Come with me. I’m going to take you on a tour.’

Her brow creased. ‘A tour?’

‘Yup.’

Her eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. ‘Why? I don’t get it. You’re a busy man. Wouldn’t it be easier to just answer some questions?’

‘No. The minute I go on record this story gains publicity and credibility. You know it. I know it. So I’d rather do this differently.’

‘What happened to the threats?’

‘I’d prefer to try the civilised way first.’ Because, whatever she was, she wasn’t a run-of-the-mill writer or a gossip columnist. ‘What do you say?’

Head tilted to one side, she considered, then nodded. ‘OK. I’m intrigued. Let’s go.’

* * *

A couple of phone calls later they exited the hotel lobby. What else could she have said? April mused as she pushed through the revolving door. No writer would have turned down the opportunity of a surprise tour from Marcus Alrikson. Problem was, she had a sneaking suspicion that no woman would turn it down either, and she had misgivings as to whether it was the writer or the woman in her that had acquiesced.

The writer, of course. It couldn’t be any other way. The very idea of being attracted to Marcus Alrikson—to any man—made her shiver in repudiation. Never again. That side of her life had been laid waste and would remain desolate through her own choice. If her hormones were foolish enough to try for resurrection she would mow them down without hesitation.

‘Where are we going?’ she enquired as they walked along increasingly tourist-thronged pavements towards the city centre.

Marcus gestured around. ‘What do you see?’

‘A shopping mecca for those who love fashion.’

Designer names abounded—clothes most people could only dream of called out to those with money to burn or credit cards to burden.

His dark blue eyes scanned her outfit, swept her body from top to toe, and to her own irritation she blushed. Then his gaze returned to hers and a funny little thrill shot through her veins at the expression in his eyes—a smoulder that she knew she hadn’t imagined.

‘It sounds like you aren’t one of their number.’

Sounds or looks? For an instant a stupid part of her bridled at his judgement, even though it was spot-on.

‘No. I’m not.’

Once she had been intent on always looking good, because Dean had insisted on it. He’d wanted his wife to be ‘a credit’ to him—wanted every man in the room to envy him.

Standing there in the heat of the Lycandrian sun April froze...could almost hear Dean’s rich Southern drawl. At the time she had taken his words as a sign of his pride in her, too smitten to see the truth—that to Dean she’d been a trophy, a prize and nothing more. So she’d made sure her clothes were the latest fashion, the most expensive and exclusive brands, had spent hours in the hairdressers, at the gym, putting on make-up. But now...

‘I try to be professional, but that’s as far as it goes. As part of my job I do keep up with the latest trends. Readers like details on what people are wearing.’ She waved a hand around. ‘Whilst I’m not a shopper, I appreciate the appeal to the rich.’

‘And a big part of Lycander’s economy relies on attracting the rich and the glamorous to our shores. We want designer names—we want the tourists and the parties. But we can’t only cater for the celebrity crowd. We need to look after our own people. So now I want to show you a different side of Lycander.’

A sleek black chauffeured car pulled up to the kerb and April climbed in first, forcing herself not to scrunch up as close to the window as possible to lessen their proximity. Daft. This had to stop—right now she needed to concentrate, to determine whether or not this was some complicated political manoeuvre to persuade her to abandon her pursuit of the truth.

The truth—that was what was important. Ever since the tragedy in which she’d lost Edward, after she’d clawed her way out of the pit of despair, she’d vowed never to sidestep the truth.

She watched the Lycander landscape flash by, saw the busy, prosperous streets recede and slowly morph into roads on a sliding scale of prosperity that eventually spiralled downwards, until a sense of squalor gradually pervaded. Buildings became less well maintained, shops became smaller and dingier, walls were scratched with the bright slash of graffiti. And as the miles were swallowed up soon the designer-laden city centre seemed like a bubble, an impossible dream.

Aware of his watchful gaze, she turned her head and saw the intensity of his expression. His face was suddenly harder, shadowed with grimness, his blue eyes dark with purpose.

‘When you think of Lycander, what images come to mind?’ he asked. ‘Other than that of a designer paradise, with yachts and jet-setters.’

‘Exports. Olives, wine and lemons. Beaches. Casinos. Wealth.’

‘Yes. All that exists. And under Prince Alphonse the casinos and rich celebrity hordes thrived. But he took the money they generated and instead of spending it on the country spent it on himself. He taxed the olives, the lemons, the vineyards, and he squandered the money on his lavish lifestyle. He squandered his people’s future.’

‘But...but surely someone could have stopped him?’

‘No. In Lycander, the ruler’s word is law.’

‘Then Brian Sewell has a point. The monarchy sucks.’

‘It depends on the ruler. Obviously Lycander’s fortunes are linked to the ruler’s morality and capabilities. History shows that overall the good times have outweighed the bad—most rulers have truly cared and ruled with justice.’

‘But Alphonse didn’t?’

‘No. But Axel would have, and Frederick does. Or at least he is trying to.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps one day democracy will be the right way forward—perhaps Frederick himself will decide to make those changes. But now is not the time. Lycander is not ready.’

‘What gives you the right to decide that?’

‘Nothing. It is not my decision—it is my belief. And I will fight for that belief.’

‘Then maybe you should let Brian Sewell fight for his.’

‘Through inciting violence and riots? Through a campaign of rumour and mire?’

‘OK. Not Brian Sewell. But those who believe that a ruler should be elected...shouldn’t be given such immense power simply through birth and blood.’

‘Lycander has had a monarchy for centuries, and on the whole it has worked. Right now it is working. But there is an enormous amount of work to do, and Frederick is the man to do it.’

‘Frederick—or you?’ The words came unbidden, ignited by the sheer determination in his voice.

‘Frederick is the Prince and he has a vision that I share. It is my honour to be of help to him.’

‘And if you and he disagree on policy? What happens then?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘This isn’t an interview, April.’

‘I know that. This is off the record.’

Marcus snorted. ‘But if you quote that “a leading figure in Frederick’s council” privately said blah-blah-blah, I’m sure people will join the dots.’

‘I won’t quote anything you don’t want to be quoted.’

‘That’s what you say now, but if our relationship goes downhill you may change your mind. For the record, I don’t want to be quoted. Period. What I do want is for you to drop the story.’

‘You still haven’t shown me why.’

‘This is why.’

He gestured out of the window and April turned her head.

Now they were in a different place all together. The streets were grubby, poverty was pervasive. Shops were shuttered, broken windows and rusted corrugated iron denoted a desolation that was a world away from lemons, olives and wine.

‘This is the result of Alphonse’s rule, and this is what Frederick wants to turn around. But to do that we need time—time that can’t be taken by a democratic, political fund-sucking fight.’

He leant forward and murmured to the driver, and two minutes later the car pulled to a stop.

‘I want to show you what we’re trying to do.’

CHAPTER THREE

MARCUS ALIGHTED FROM the car and April scooted across the seat after him, emerged and looked around.

This area was different again—not like the plush wealth of the city, nor the high glitz of Lycander’s high life, but it had an air of hope, shown by the green of a park, the few small cafés and shops that weren’t boarded up. One large building had a fresh coat of paint and boxes of flowers on the windowsills. The sound of music came from inside and the front doors were wide open. Groups of youths chatted outside, clustered in the sunshine.

‘This is a newly founded community centre. We opened it seven months ago, with funds from Lycander’s coffers and overseas help from the Caversham Foundation.’

April nodded. ‘Set up and run by Ethan and Ruby Caversham.’

‘I read your interview with them.’

‘They are incredible people.’

They truly were—April had warmed to the couple and their genuine belief in the foundation they ran for troubled teenagers.

‘Yes, and they helped us with money and, equally importantly, with advice.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘It takes more than money to get something like this to work. Teenagers have to want to come here, and they need to come here not to fight and continue gang warfare but because they want to help implement change.’

Before she could respond a group of five teenagers headed towards them, with more than a hint of swagger, and April stepped a little closer to Marcus. Big mistake. Strength emanated from him, and the sheer solidity of him, the scent of leather and a woodsy overtone, almost made her mewl.

Without subtlety she leapt sideways—she’d take her chances with the youths, who she could now see didn’t actually seem any threat. In fact she’d swear their studied nonchalance disguised pleasure.

‘Hey, Marcus.’

‘Blake.’ Marcus stepped forward and the two exchanged some sort of complicated handshake.

‘You here to train?’

‘Not today.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘I’m here to show April around—she’s a writer. April, this is Blake and Gemma, Jacob, Aurelie and Isaac.’

‘Why’d you bring her here?’ The suspicion in Gemma’s voice would have curdled milk. ‘She’s a gossip columnist. She won’t be interested in the likes of us.’

‘I’m a writer,’ April interjected. ‘I’m interested in all aspects of Lycander.’

‘Not just this ridiculous, showy waste of money royal wedding?’ Blake said. ‘And the so-called perfection of the Prince and his bride? My family can’t afford food whilst they squander millions on fireworks.’

Gemma shook her head emphatically, her bright blonde hair swishing in disagreement. ‘You need to look at the bigger picture, Blake. Sure, they’re spending a whole heap of money—but solely on Lycandrian goods, which will bring in loads of revenue to Lycander. Revenue that Frederick will put back into the system to benefit the people, so that your family and mine won’t have to rely on food banks.’

‘Charity.’ There was no disguise for the bitterness in Blake’s voice as he kicked at the kerbside. ‘People say that we’re layabouts and criminals, but what are we supposed to do?’

Isaac weighed in. ‘Accept the benefits on offer. Frederick has set up free courses. My dad has enrolled on a mechanics programme. Once he qualifies, maybe he’ll be given a chance at a better life.’

‘That’s one man out of thousands.’

‘No one said change can happen overnight. It’s a start.’

The debate continued and April glanced at Marcus, who had taken no part in the discussion. He simply leant against a wall and watched with interest, respect and definite pride. He caught her gaze and for a long moment held it, his dark blue eyes intent. She gave a near shiver—not of fear, but of sheer attraction.

Pushing off the wall, he asked, ‘So what do you all think of having a democracy?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘If you’d asked me two years ago when Axel died I’d have said yes.’

At the mention of Axel, April sensed a small movement next to her and turned her head, caught the flash of pain fleeting across Marcus’s dark blue eyes, the shadow of grief and loss. Not obvious, but evident to her. Hell, she could smell grief a mile off—sniff it out with the bitter sense of personal experience.

Without thought she moved a little closer to him, in an instinctive desire to offer sympathy as they listened to Gemma.

‘Because I believed Frederick would be a repeat of Alphonse—a playboy rather than a tyrant, a ruler who wouldn’t care about Lycander. But he promised that he would follow Axel’s policies, and so far he has. So right now I’m happy to give him a chance. But only if he is the real deal—if it turns out this is all a con, a ploy, a lie, then I’ll be on the streets in protest.’

‘So,’ April asked, ‘who here and now would vote for a democracy?’

By now more people had gathered, and there was a hum as the question circulated.

‘Those for?’

Hands were raised, but nowhere near as many as April would have expected.

‘Those against?’ Now there was a sea of hands, including Blake’s.

The discussion continued, and it was clear the group had forgotten that April was even there.

She turned to Marcus. ‘Interesting.’

‘Sure is. Because if you had seen a lot of these teens a few months ago they wouldn’t have cared. That’s part of the problem—sheer apathy or a mindless belief of the kind Brian Sewell encourages. He takes people’s rightful dissatisfaction with the system and turns it into hatred and violence.’

‘Whereas here you encourage people to think about it. And that is interesting too.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s you, isn’t it? This is your project, your input. I saw how those kids looked at you—they care about your opinion and I saw how proud you are of them.’

There was a pause and she couldn’t help it—she grinned.

‘You’re blushing.’

‘I am not blushing.’

‘Yes, you are.’ Without thought she reached up. ‘Right there.’

Lord knew she meant to point at his cheek, but somehow along the line the wires got crossed between her brain and her fingers and instead she brushed her hand down the angle of his cheekbone, along the firm line of his jaw tinged with early-afternoon shadow.

Her breath caught in her throat and for too long—way too long—her hand remained against his skin. Until finally her brain caught up with events and panic descended, sending the order to snatch her fingers away.

Unfortunately the panic also took a stranglehold on her vocal cords and no words, no excuses, no witty quip came to her lips.

‘Now I think it’s you who may be blushing.’

His deep voice caressed her skin and then he lifted a hand and oh-so-gently trailed a finger down her own cheek. Her tummy clenched at the hot flash of desire that shot through her.

‘Right there.’

It was a good thing he didn’t know that right now he’d be hard put to find a part of her body that wasn’t flushed with heat. An image of his finger continuing its trail streamed through her brain and she closed her eyes and summoned up the power of common sense.

Hadn’t she learnt her lesson? Learnt how attraction could deceive and twist and lead her astray? Enough. This man had a goal—to keep her from her story—and maybe his intent now was to distract her from her purpose.

Moving backwards, she summoned a rictus smile. But as she forced herself to look at him she saw his expression was as full of horror as her own, and she knew that whatever had just happened Marcus’s surprise equalled her own.

That hadn’t been a strategic move by Lycander’s Chief Advisor—in fact he looked as flummoxed as she felt. He, however, was recovering considerably quicker.

‘Right. We seem to have got distracted by a blushing contest. I declare it a draw. Now, why don’t I show you around the inside of the centre?’

He nodded towards the group of teens, who were still deep in conversation.

‘For the record, these kids are Lycander’s future, and I want them to have a future that doesn’t include seeing the inside of a prison. They deserve a lot more than that.’

His words pulled her into reality, brought her focus back. She nodded, deciding that the best way to go was to expel the whole memory of the past few minutes and erase it from her timeline. Hard, though, when her skin still tingled. She tried to concentrate solely on her surroundings, creating a memory of the image because she knew that this was a place she would like to write about.

April could see the thought that had been put into the interior of the centre, the efforts to make it look less institutional and more ‘homelike’. No doubt a lot of the youths here didn’t have the best home life, and so would appreciate the comfy sofas and recliner chairs and bean bags, the television and the well-stocked bookshelves, the up-to-date magazines stacked on tables.

There was a gym, a room with a pool table, a ping-pong table and then, after going down a corridor, they entered a room that contained a boxing ring.

‘Boxing?’ April tried to keep the disapproval from her voice.

‘Yes. Training is a great way to let off steam. There’s a whole lot of illegal boxing that goes on in the streets—the kind that can actually kill. I want this to be somewhere kids can come and pursue boxing safely.’

‘But it’s dangerous and violent and...’

‘It’s a sport. One that requires discipline and dedication. Danger and violence is on the streets.’

‘So, do you box?’

‘Yes.’

Heaven help her—because April certainly couldn’t help herself. An image of him stripped down, training with a punch bag, his muscles a testimony to discipline and dedication, shot across her mind.

‘Why?’ she managed, her reporter’s instincts coming to her rescue. ‘What’s the appeal?’

‘I started in my teens.’

His tone was less than forthcoming, and it wasn’t really an answer.

‘In fact it was boxing that started this place off. I set up a fight, offered to take anyone on in a one-on-one. I thought it would give them an incentive to come here.’

April stared at him. ‘And the best incentive you could come up with was to offer yourself up as a target?’ Horror touched her. ‘Couldn’t you have brought someone else in?’

‘I could’ve—but it wouldn’t have been as effective. I wanted to get their attention, show them that I’m more than some flash millionaire politician trying to rule over them. So, yes, I put myself on the line.’

He smiled suddenly and April blinked—the smile transformed his face, lit his dark blue eyes with a glint of amusement, and her toes twitched in her sensible flat navy shoes.

‘Don’t look so aghast. I’m actually pretty good.’

‘Yes, but you were up against fighters who might bend the rules. You could have been seriously hurt.’

She knew they were talking about teenagers, here, but she was pretty sure that a lot of the youths on the streets might be short on years but would be long on experience.

‘It was worth the risk. It got people here. A huge crowd, in fact, who stayed when it was over and listened to what I had to say about what was going to be on offer here. You heard Blake—these people are poor, but they have their pride. Most of them don’t want hand-outs. They wouldn’t have come here otherwise.’

‘What happened?’

‘I won. It was bloody, but the fights were fair. All but one, where the kid pulled a knife and got turfed out—not by me, but by the crowd. Three fights, and at the end they were willing to listen. The next day some of them came back, the day after a few more, and slowly... I think it’s working.’

His voice, the sheer force of his belief and zeal, held her mesmerised. As she looked around the ring she could picture the scene, hear the drip of blood on the canvas, the silence and the cheers of the crowds, the aura of grit and the focus of the fighters. Most of all she could see Marcus—a man willing quite literally to fight for his beliefs, to endure pain in order to win victory for others.

The idea took her breath away, made her feel a little light-headed even as she wondered why. What drove him to this? Grief over his best friend? A need to propel Axel’s vision into reality? Perhaps, but she thought there must be more to it. Whatever it was, she was damn sure he wouldn’t tell her.

‘I think it’s working too,’ she agreed. ‘Those kids are all thinking, and they all care one way or another. And they are all here.’

She followed him down another long corridor towards the unmistakable scent of food and the sizzle of onions and chips.

‘I’ll show you the canteen and then we’ll be on our way,’ Marcus said.

They entered a spacious room, complete with wooden tables and benches, one of which was being polished by a young girl April reckoned couldn’t be much older than seventeen.

‘Hey, Mia.’

Marcus’s voice was gentle, and the girl looked up and gave him a shy smile.

‘Hi.’ She straightened up.

‘Getting ready for the hordes to arrive for lunch?’

She nodded.

April walked forward with Marcus and smiled.

‘Mia, this is April. She’s a writer. April, this is Mia. And this...’

Mia had bent over, and too late April spotted the pram next to the bench. Mia scooped an infant out.

‘This is Charlie,’ Mia said softly, her face alight with pride.

April froze, caught wrong-footed, and desperately tried to remember all the defence mechanisms she’d learnt—how to shield herself when it was impossible to avoid a baby.

Marcus stepped forward and the baby gave an impossibly sweet gummy grin of excitement.

‘Charlie loves Marcus,’ Mia said as Charlie tumbled forward, clearly desperate for Marcus to take him.

Even through the descent of grief April registered that Marcus seemed very comfortable with the baby, holding him with the impression of ease and making quacking noises that elicited a stream of giggles from Charlie.

The sound twisted April’s heart. She could feel the room begin to spin and desperately tried to distance herself, to shut down her emotions before they became too hard to hold. It would usually be fine, but this had taken her by surprise—and, worse, Charlie had a real look of Edward about him. The same colour hair, tufted up into little spikes, the same gurgle in his laugh, the same chubby legs...

If she held very still she could almost allow herself to imagine for one wonderful moment that it was Edward.

Nearly as soon as it had come the illusion vanished, leaving behind tears of sadness. Somehow she held it together. ‘He is gorgeous.’ The tremble in her voice would hopefully pass without comment—and yet she was aware that Marcus’s forehead had creased into a watchful expression.

‘Thank you,’ Mia said as she took Charlie back from Marcus. ‘I need to go and check on the menu. It was nice to meet you. Wave to Marcus, Charlie.’

Relief flooded April as Mia walked away. Time to pull herself together. A few years ago that would have been impossible. But now she could do it—she would do it.

Her family had helped her put herself back together in the dark aftermath of Edward’s death, and she would not let them or herself down by returning to that black pit of despair. Instead she would focus on her life, her job, her future. The existence she had mapped out for herself, in which she had found a level of peace.

‘Are you OK?’

Marcus’s voice was gruff with a concern that both warmed her and made more tears threaten.

‘I’m fine.’

His frown deepened. ‘Are you sure? You looked as though you’d been sucker-punched straight in the chest and left down for the count.’

An apt description—not that she would admit it.

‘I’m not in the boxing ring, Marcus, and last I looked there wasn’t anyone throwing their fists around. It must have been a trick of the light. I’m completely fine.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I need to get back. I can get a cab. Thank you for the tour—I really appreciate it. It’s given me a lot to think about.’

‘Whoa. Hang on.’

Dark blue eyes studied her face and she forced herself to hold his gaze. The grief was under control now, but harder to leash was her awareness of him, of the fact that his gaze seemed to heat her skin.

‘I’m glad you’re OK, and I’m glad you enjoyed the tour. Can I take it that you’ll drop the story?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘No, you can’t. I said you’ve given me a lot to think about—that implies I need to go away and think.’

For a second she thought he’d argue; instead he nodded, though she could see reluctance etched on his face.

‘Fair enough. Then let’s meet tomorrow. Would lunchtime suit you? Say twelve-thirty?’

There it was again—that silly, stupid thrill of anticipation at the thought of seeing Marcus again. Madness. But no matter. After tomorrow there would be no need to see him again. Whatever decision she came to.

‘That’s fine.’

CHAPTER FOUR

MARCUS REREAD THE paragraph outlining fiscal policy for the third time, uttered a curse, and shoved the bound folder across his desk, oblivious to the dappled rays of golden Lycandrian morning sunshine or the sweet smell of mimosa that wafted in from outside.

If only he was as immune to images of April Fotherington. Yet her image intruded with persistence, flitting across his brain and pushing out the facts in the report.

Foolish! She wasn’t even his type. Insofar as he even had a type. Sure, she was attractive, but he had met plenty of attractive women in his time and none had had the ability to distract him from work. He had a work ethic that had driven him from the moment of his adoption—an iron determination to make something of his life. To atone for the night of the fire, and to make a difference in the world.

He’d figured out that to do that he needed money, so he’d built up his business and attained millionaire status. Now he was determined to help Frederick bring about change to Lycander—and he would not let an attraction stand in the way of that.

Perhaps it wasn’t an attraction...

Hah, Marcus—really?

Maybe, his brain persisted, his subconscious was trying to warn him that this woman was a threat, an adversary he needed to defeat rather than a woman he wanted to...

Wanted to what? Have a relationship with? He didn’t do relationships. Sleep with? Not happening. April was not his sort of woman...not an anonymous, discreet ship passing in the night, the type of woman who would never expect more than the very little he could offer: a brief interlude, physical release, and then moving on without regret.

There was a vulnerability about April, and despite her denial the previous day he sensed that she had demons that could vie with his own. And that meant she was so far off-limits she might as well be in a different stratosphere.

Pulling the report back towards him, he tackled paragraph three again, glaring the words into submission. Sheer will-power propelled him through the report, two meetings and a visit to the head office of Alrikson Security. But images of April filtered the net of his determination for the duration, and en route to pick her up he felt a strange, fizzy thread of anticipation run through his gut, followed by a bubbling doubt.

Why had he asked her to lunch? Yes, he needed to see her, but he could have done that in his office. Why make it a lunch date? Date? No. Meeting—that was the word.

Oh, God. It was time to get a grip. April represented a threat to Lycander he needed to eliminate. End of. He would do whatever it took to ensure his country was given the chance to return to prosperity. It was inconceivable that something as petty as physical attraction should get in the way of that.

Yet as the car pulled up outside the hotel with its bright awning and gilded doors, and he spotted April outside, clad in dark tailored trousers and a dove-grey short-sleeved blouse, his body tensed. His nerves went on alert in recognition of the kind of primal magnetic pull no amount of will-power could eradicate—a tug as far from petty as it was possible to be.

Fine. If he couldn’t eliminate it he would ignore it, conceal it, fight it...

A frown etching his forehead, he climbed out of the car and moved round to open the door for her. ‘Hi,’ he managed.

‘Hi.’

For a moment, he would have sworn he’d glimpsed a hint of shyness as she gestured downward.

‘I hope I’m dressed OK? I wasn’t sure where we’re going.’

A sensation suspiciously akin to panic roiled in his gut. Why on earth had this seemed a good idea?

‘For a picnic,’ he muttered. Muttered? ‘A picnic,’ he repeated firmly. ‘I thought that would be more private.’

Her expression registered a panic that no doubt mirrored his own. ‘Private?’

‘So that no one will be able to overhear our conversation,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Plus, yesterday you saw a lot of urban Lycander. I thought you might like to see somewhere more tranquil.’

In addition, he’d hoped a sylvan setting would influence her, that his words would be more persuasive in a less official ambiance.

‘We’re going to eat in the royal forest. I’ve arranged for the food to be delivered. It was a bit short notice, so it won’t be anything fancy, I’m afraid, but...’

As silence greeted this, it belatedly occurred to Marcus that the idea that had seemed brilliant in the confines of his office that morning no longer seemed quite so stellar.

Perhaps he should have wined and dined her in style? Perhaps a charm offensive would have dazzled her and impressed her into compliance? Unfortunately charm wasn’t his bag—was not a tool of his trade.

Even as a child he’d lacked charm. Charm would have got him nowhere with his parents—would have made no difference to their levels of violence or indifference, depending on their alcohol consumption or their reaction to the drug of the day. Charm certainly wouldn’t have helped him on the tough streets of his childhood, where sheer brute strength and the ability to fight dirty had been the only currency worth a dime. And by the time of his adoption it had all been too late—charm had quite simply never come into play. So it was unrealistic to expect it to come to his aid now. As for the picnic... He must have been running mad.

‘Of course if you would prefer we could simply divert to my office and...’

But then she smiled and his words dried up.

‘No. Sorry, you took me by surprise. A picnic sounds lovely, and it does seem the best way to make sure our conversation remains between us.’

‘OK. Great.’

The car pulled into the small car park, and as they climbed out Marcus’s phone rang.

‘Hi, Marcus. I’ve got the picnic and I’ve brought it to Umbrella Copse.’

‘Thank you, Gloria. We’ll be right there.’

Perhaps this would work out after all. He could see April’s appreciation as she tipped her head upwards to catch the dappled rays of the sun that filtered through the luxuriant trees, flecking the vibrant greens with droplets of gold. For an instant his gaze lingered on the elegant length of her neck, then moved over the beauty of her face, the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, the...

Stop and focus.

The point was that the lazy drone of bees, the call of the black kites, all seemed to indicate the need for tranquility and concord. Which would hopefully aid him in his quest—the reason he was here. To ensure that April dropped her story.

Then they reached the glade and Marcus came to an abrupt halt as he took in the scene before him.

For a long moment words failed him.

A wooden slatted picnic table was covered in a snow-white tablecloth, and laid with gleaming silver cutlery, fluted crystal glasses and bone china plates. A bottle of Lycander’s best Sauvignon Blanc nestled in a state-of-the-art cooler. A wicker picnic basket was on the bench, and Gloria was busy unpacking an array of delicacies onto large china platters.

She turned and beamed at him. ‘Perfect timing,’ she declared.

Marcus attempted to regroup as he mentally replayed his earlier conversation with Gloria in his head.

‘Hi Gloria. Could I ask a favour? Would you be able to rustle up a picnic for two—nothing fancy?’

Now he said, ‘Gloria—this is...amazing. But you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. I wasn’t expecting anything like this.’

‘It is no trouble.’ The dark-haired woman turned to April. ‘In all the time I have worked with him not once has he asked for a picnic, and not once has he asked us to create a meal for him and a lady—so we decided to make this special.’

Marcus opened his mouth to explain that this was a strictly business lunch and then closed it again. Gloria had gone to a great deal of trouble and, however low on charm he was, he wouldn’t hurt her feelings.

‘It’s fabulous, Gloria. Thank you—and please thank everyone in the kitchens as well.’

‘Of course.’ Gloria arranged a centrepiece posy of freshly picked flowers—a glorious burst of red, orange and yellow blooms—and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Please add my thanks as well,’ April said, and her voice was full of appreciation but underlaid with a tinge of panic he recognised all too well.

‘You’re very welcome. Enjoy.’ A beaming smile, a nod, and Gloria was gone.

Swallowing the urge to call her back—after all that would be cowardly in the extreme—Marcus looked at April, then at the picnic, and then back at April.

‘Um...’

Forget charm—even the art of conversation had deserted him, and a miasma of awkwardness descended. It seemed clear that April had been thrown a curve ball too—her cool self-containment looked more than a little fragmented.

And then, to his surprise, she gave a small chuckle—a sound that seemed to surprise her as much as it did him.

‘Your face!’ she said. ‘You looked absolutely horrified. Though I have to admit you covered it beautifully.’

He couldn’t help it; her smile transformed her face, lightened it in a way he couldn’t fully explain, and the sight caused his own lips to upturn. ‘I really am sorry. I didn’t want to make you feel awkward. It didn’t cross my mind Gloria would think this was a date.’

‘Because you don’t ever date?’

‘I really don’t.’

Not his thing. The closeness, the questions, the intimacy of a date was not to his liking. Every so often there was a woman—he didn’t embrace celibacy—but if pushed to describe his relationships the adjectives that came to mind were ‘brief’, ‘clean’ and ‘functional’. ‘Relationship’ was too deep a word—they were more like understandings, interludes, soon over and forgotten, conducted discreetly and anonymously, outside of Lycander.

‘I can’t really see the point.’

Her eyebrows arched. ‘Most people would disagree. It’s a chance to get to know someone, work out if you’re compatible...’

‘I don’t need to have dinner with someone to work out compatibility.’

Pink tinged her cheeks and suddenly awareness swept in on the summer breeze, heightening his senses, illuminating the green of the leaves, the glitter of the cutlery in the sunshine, and urging him to step forward and show her exactly how well matched he knew they would be.

She hauled in an audible breath. ‘I wasn’t talking about physical compatibility. I meant...overall compatibility—whether you actually like the other person, have something in common with them.’

‘Nope—still not relevant.’

‘So you are only interested in the physical side of things?’

‘Yes.’

‘At least you’re honest.’

Was it his imagination or did she actually look intrigued rather than critical or outraged? Belatedly his radar kicked in. April was a reporter—of course she was intrigued. She was probably converting his words into some sort of headline right now. Lycander’s Lothario says, ‘Let’s get physical!’

Note to whatever brain cells he had left: this woman is an adversary.

‘Yes.’ He gestured to the table. ‘Anyway, we seem to be off track. Now we’ve established that this isn’t a date I think we should get started.’

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