by Nina Milne
Once en route he relaxed slightly—only to realise that relaxation had been premature. The helicopter suddenly jolted—almost as though it had encountered some form of resistance in the clear, cloud-free sky...almost as though something had hit the rotor blade. Another jolt. And another.
Next to him, April gave a small gasp but otherwise remained still. Marcus weighed the options—there was clearly a problem but he wasn’t sure what it was. That meant... ‘I’m turning back. When I land, get down as fast as you can safely and run.’
It seemed unlikely that the aircraft would go up in flames, but he was taking no chances.
She nodded, and admiration touched him at her calmness. Then all his focus was on the helicopter, on getting April to safety. And so, within a scant ninety minutes of leaving, they returned to Eden Island.
April scrambled out of the helicopter and headed away from the helipad at a run. Marcus was right behind her. Once a safe distance away, they stopped and turned to look at the aircraft.
‘What happened?’ she asked breathlessly, her mind scrambling to catch up with events.
‘I’m not sure. My gut reaction is that for some reason the helicopter reacted to the atmosphere in some way—something to do with the incoming storm. That, or it’s malfunctioning for other reasons. Either way, it’s not safe to fly.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We’re stuck here until someone can come out to get us—and that’s obviously not advisable until the storm has come and gone.’
April looked at him, horror-struck, her lips slightly parted, her green eyes wide. ‘So we’re...we’re stranded here? In a storm?’
Fear touched her along with the deep visceral sadness and pain that storms evoked in her. The association of storm and tragedy was interwoven into her very soul; the sound of thunder a portent of remembered doom that brought her a cascade of memories of the day of Edward’s death.
‘There must be something you can do!’
‘Such as what?’
‘Maybe someone could come and get us in a boat?’
Because right now an imminent storm didn’t seem possible—the early evening heat was still intense, the sand baking through the soles of her flip-flops, although the dusky sky did hold a faint scent of rain.
‘There is no way I am risking getting someone out here just because you and I can’t deal with being stuck here together.’
April closed her eyes. Marcus didn’t know about her fear of storms, or the reason why, and she wanted to keep it that way. But it wasn’t only the idea of a potential storm that bothered her right now. It was also his words of earlier. They had hit a whole plethora of nerves, and even now they fizzed around her neural network, evoking anger and hurt and horrible uncertainty.
Had she lost her objectivity? Was she really a writer motivated by her own personal experiences, made bitter and judgemental by her own horrific mistakes? The idea was so uncomfortable she was almost squirming in the sand.
‘Right now,’ Marcus continued, ‘we’d best focus on battening down the hatches in the house before the storm strikes.’
He was right. She was behaving like an idiot when it was time to act like a professional. ‘Sorry. You’re right. Let’s get back to the villa. How long do you think we’ll be stranded here? And how bad do you think it will get?’
‘It depends on when the storm hits and how badly. Best to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.’
‘In that case I’ll check food and supplies. Will the power short out, do you think?’
‘It’s probable, but I think there’s a box of candles in the wardrobe in the bedroom.’
‘I’ll check there first, then sort out food.’
‘Good. I’ll go and make sure the windows and doors are safe.’
As she headed to the bedroom she kept her eyes resolutely away from the bed; that was one item of furniture she would not be using during her enforced sojourn here.
Opening the wardrobe door, she grabbed the box of candles and carried it through to the kitchen. A quick inspection showed a well-stocked freezer and larder, alongside plenty of bottled water. The kitchen boasted a top-of-the-range oven and an all-singing, all-dancing microwave.
Panic began to surface—she was marooned with a man she was insanely attracted to and a storm was about to break. OK... The best thing to do was to keep busy—so what else could she do?
Well, if they were stuck here for more than a night or two without power they would need food...
April considered the options and then set to work, determined to show Marcus that she was a competent, objective, together person.
‘That smells good.’
She looked up as the kitchen door opened.
‘You sound surprised,’ April observed.
‘I thought you were checking supplies, not cooking them.’
‘I figured if the power goes off we won’t be able to heat anything up, and whilst I know we can survive on tinned food I thought it would be a good idea to cook up some food we can eat cold. I’m doing marinated chicken wings, and a rice salad, and I’m cooking up some chickpeas and couscous as well. There’s also caviar and crackers, and some very exotic-looking tinned fruit.’ She paused. ‘How is our security?’
‘This place is thankfully pretty sturdy. I’m a little worried about the windows, but if it comes to it we can move into the larder—it’s contained, and I suspect was made with the idea of a storm shelter in mind. We’ll be all right.’
His air of calm authority gave her some much-needed reassurance.
He gestured to the stove. ‘Can I help? It really does smell amazing.’
‘No. I’m good.’ Cooking was providing her with a semblance of normality. Here in the windowless kitchen it was possible to pretend there was no storm out there. ‘Though, to be honest, it’s a while since I’ve cooked from scratch, so odds are the food may not be that good.’
A small frown creased his brow and she hurried on.
‘Do you cook?’ A deft basting of the chicken wings and she popped them in the oven. ‘I may as well interview you whilst I have the chance.’ Professionally. ‘In a typical day, what do you eat?’
‘Are you sure anyone will be interested in this?’
‘Of course they will. It makes you more human.’
‘OK. In the mornings I have a cup of coffee at home. I get to work and maybe have a brioche or a pastry at my desk. At lunch, it depends where I am—if I’m in the office I’ll make myself a sandwich or a salad; if I’m out I’ll grab something on the run. Then in the evening I have to admit it’s usually a takeaway or a ready meal or something pretty basic. Pasta or an omelette. I snack in between on fruit and nuts, and every year I make a resolution to learn how to cook.’
As if uncomfortable with sharing even that much information with the public, he leant back with a small shake of the head.
‘What about you? Where did you learn to cook like this?’
‘My parents both loved cooking and they made it a family thing. Right from when my sisters and I were little we cooked. The kitchen was the hub of the house and we all loved it.’
Memories came of Rosa, Lauren and herself, all giggling at her father’s daft jokes while her mother was stirring a sauce, of her parents’ amicable bickering over which herb would work best, the well-thumbed recipe books, the scent of garlic sauteing... Happy memories. Memories she’d once wanted to recreate with her own family and now never would.
Stop. Focus.
‘What about your parents? Did they like cooking with you and Elvira?’
‘Cooking was never their forte.’
His voice was casual enough, but she sensed a reserve, a careful vetting of his words.
‘So you didn’t bake with your mum or barbecue with your dad or vice versa?’
‘Nope.’
Ap
ril waited, but that appeared to be it.
‘So, give me a day in your life. You get up, go to work, come home?’
‘Yup. That may sound dull, but because my work is so diverse it really isn’t.’
‘So you don’t get lonely?’
‘Nope.’
‘And you’ve never been tempted to share your life with a partner?’
‘Nope.’
April narrowed her eyes, checked the chicken and regrouped. It had been a while since she’d interviewed someone who quite simply didn’t want to be interviewed. Truth be told she’d never interviewed anyone so reluctant. Perhaps she needed a more open-ended approach.
‘Hypothetically speaking, what sort of woman would tempt you to change your stance?’
‘That woman doesn’t exist—in reality or in La-La Land.’
‘How about you pretend that your life depends upon it and describe your ideal woman?’
‘I can’t. I’m not trying to be difficult—’
‘Much...’ April muttered.
‘But I can’t describe someone I can’t imagine. I like my own company. I don’t have a template for an “ideal woman”. In truth, I can’t imagine living with anyone, sharing my space...’ A small shudder rippled through his body. ‘I told you—I can barely make it through a dinner date.’
‘You must be able to come up with something.’
‘It’s not that easy. You try it—do you have an ideal man? A tick list of attributes?’
The question took her by surprise; none of her interviewees had ever showed any interest in her. ‘This isn’t about me.’
‘I know that, but you want me to do something that is a lot harder than you make it sound.’
‘No. Because I know you are quite capable of coming up with an ideal woman template. Isn’t that what you did for Frederick? Before he met Sunita you believed that Lady Kaitlin Derwent was the ideal woman for Frederick, and presumably you believed that they could make a go of marriage.’
Ha! Her turn to wrong-foot him. But not for long.
He smiled in acknowledgement. ‘The Prince’s relationships are his own concern.’
‘But it is true, isn’t it, that you believed he should make an alliance based on politics, not love?’
‘I agreed with the Prince that as ruler of Lycander he should get married, but I didn’t dictate his choice of bride. The choice has always been Frederick’s to make, as it is he who will be travelling to the altar with her. Though of course in my role as advisor I can offer advice on the political ramifications of his marriage.’
‘And Frederick has chosen to marry Sunita, the woman he loves, rather than a princess or an aristocrat or someone with good connections.’
‘Yes, he has.’
‘If you were Lycander’s ruler would you do the same? Marry for love? Or would you marry for duty?’
‘Well, seeing as I am not in love, and see little prospect of that, I would take the latter course.’
‘You would sacrifice your single life for the sake of duty?’
‘Yes. I suppose I would. But I would make an attempt to minimise the sacrifice—I’d marry someone I liked, who hopefully liked me, and I’d make sure we both had our own space—perhaps even separate houses—and—’
‘Good to know romance isn’t dead.’
‘I’m not romantic.’
‘What about love? Do you believe in love?’
‘Of course. I just don’t believe in it for me. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish happiness for other people. Look at Frederick and Sunita. You interviewed Frederick before he was reunited with Sunita.’
‘Yes, back then he was...shut down, cold, reserved. And now...’
‘Now he is a man transformed by love. For his fiancée and his son. And of course I wish him happiness.’
‘Then why don’t you want that happiness for yourself?’ It didn’t make sense.
‘Because it wouldn’t work for me. My route to happiness is different. In the same way that some people like to play the ukulele and other people wouldn’t know which way up to hold one.’
‘You’re comparing love to playing the ukulele?’
‘Why not? There are people who get a huge amount of joy and happiness from the ukulele, or any other musical instrument, and people like me who have the musical ability and innate talent of a non-performing flea.’
‘You can’t compare the two.’ April frowned. ‘Musical skill is a talent, but the ability to love is universal.’
‘No. Some people find love comes easily to them. For others it is something that, however hard they practice, they simply can’t do. That’s why there are so many break-ups and the divorce rate is on the up. I’d rather accept my own limitations and be happy with them. Love is not for me.’
‘Why not?’ She still didn’t get it—and wasn’t sure she really bought his spiel.
‘Because I don’t have any innate ability for it. I’m not a romantic person—which is exactly why I am not on the market for a relationship. Never have been, never will be.’
‘Never?’
‘Nope. Feel free to check out my romantic history. My slate is clean.’
‘So in thirty years you’ve never been in love, never had a relationship, never been out with anyone?’
‘Well, it depends if you count Rita Gillam when I was fifteen—I went out with her for about three weeks and then she dumped me because I wasn’t “suitable boyfriend material”. By which she meant I didn’t spend my money on chocolates or roses and I preferred to spend most of my spare time poring over motorbike magazines. Then there was Laura Hollsworth—I think we lasted four weeks before she figured I didn’t come up to scratch. If memory serves me right, I wanted to go and see an action film and she wanted to see a girlie weepie. I suggested we toss a coin to decide and that was it—I was toast.
‘Since then there has been a similar theme—the general consensus is that I’m not a good long-term bet. And I think that’s fair enough. I love my job, I love my life, and I don’t have the time or inclination or anything to offer a woman except very short term physical gratification. My current arrangements work. Low-maintenance, mutual pleasure, no risk.’
‘No family?’
The words came with an effort and she knew they were infused with a bleakness she had not meant to transmit. They were a reminder of all her own one-time hopes and aspirations. Yet it was a question she had to ask—part of the interview process.
‘What about kids?’ she persisted.
For a moment an image of Edward crowded her brain, and she wondered how Marcus could willingly forgo the joy of having a child.
‘I’ve accepted that isn’t my path. I don’t want a relationship, and that means I can’t have children. It wouldn’t be fair on anyone—most importantly the child.’
His voice was matter-of-fact and yet she was convinced there was a strand of wistfulness in it, an elusive something she couldn’t put her finger on. Daft—she must be imagining it.
The oven beeped, and she definitely didn’t imagine the relief on Marcus’s face.
‘Excellent,’ he said as he sprang to his feet. ‘I’m looking forward to this.’
‘Really—don’t get your hopes up too high. I haven’t cooked in a while—cordon bleu it won’t be.’
A faint frown creased his brow again. ‘I’ll set the table.’
CHAPTER NINE
MARCUS WATCHED AS April busied herself serving the food. She had completely put him through the wringer with her attempts to extract information he’d rather not have divulged. He could see the quote now: All the real Marcus Alrikson can offer a woman is short-term physical gratification! Disastrous.
But right now that wasn’t what bothered him most; he felt a sense of injustice. Somehow April had gleaned a whole load of information about him, yet managed to vou
chsafe absolutely nothing about herself. Article or not, that didn’t seem fair.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘I know you said you don’t want a family, but what’s your take on relationships?’
‘I don’t have a take—because I’m not interested in a relationship of any sort.’ She walked over to the table and placed the platter of food in the middle.
‘So you don’t date at all?’
‘Why is that such a surprise to a man who loathes dates?’
‘Because I may not date but, as we’ve ascertained, I do still enter short-term affairs.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ Gesturing at the food, she added, ‘Help yourself.’
Without further ado he sampled the chicken and closed his eyes. ‘April, this is truly wonderful.’
She cut a sliver of chicken and tasted it, her brow creased as she concentrated. ‘Perhaps a bit too much lemon—or maybe I could have cooked it a little less time—’
‘Stop.’ Marcus realised what else had been bugging him. ‘Every time I say something nice about you, you reject the compliment. It’s as if you’re waiting for the “but”. This food is delicious. Period.’
April stared at him for a long moment. ‘Maybe I’m modest.’
‘Maybe—but it seems to me that you don’t actually believe the compliments. You can’t see that the food is lovely, that you looked beautiful in that dress last night.’
‘I... I...’ She paused, looked down at her plate.
‘You need to believe in yourself. That’s what I tell Gemma and Blake and all those teenagers. They have to believe in themselves and their own unique talents.’
It was one of the most important skills that he wanted to teach those teenagers in Lycander’s poverty stricken areas.
‘I do believe in myself.’ Her voice sounded hesitant, but then she frowned, as though annoyed with herself. ‘And I believe in my chicken.’
