Marooned with the Millionaire

by Nina Milne

  ‘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 h
ad 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.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  But to his escalating annoyance it wasn’t as easy as all that. Even as he busied himself with the pouring of wine, the choice of food, he knew the simple movements were overhung with an insidious curiosity as to what it would be like if this were a date. Would they clink their glasses in a toast to each other? Accidentally entangle their feet under the table? Pop morsels of food into each other’s mouths?

  For an instant his gaze lingered on the lushness of her lips and he wondered if he was losing his grasp on sanity. Not once in his life had he felt the temptation to feed a woman a morsel of pâté on sourdough bread, and he sure as heck wasn’t starting now.

  Time to get back on track and recall that this was emphatically not a date, or anything resembling it. It was a negotiation table. ‘So. To business. I’ll keep it simple. Will you drop the story?’

  Her body tensed as if in acknowledgment of the fact that they were now down to brass tacks—that the interlude, whatever it had meant, was over.

  ‘It’s not that straightforward.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Frederick is a good ruler and he needs time—he needs to be given a chance, exactly as the majority of those teenagers you met yesterday believe.’

  ‘They also said they would only believe in the monarchy if it wasn’t founded on a lie.’ April shook her head, looked down at her plate and spread more pâté onto a slice of bread, as if to distract herself. ‘But if what Brian Sewell told me is true then Frederick’s ascent to the throne is based on a lie. So I have a solution. I’ll tell you what he said, and if you tell me he is lying I’ll drop the story.’

  April sipped her wine and then met his gaze full-on. Her directness brooked no quarter.

  ‘Frederick should have been in the car the night Axel died. He bailed out from that function to go and party and Axel took his place—even though Axel pretended it was all his idea.’