Читать книгу Marooned With The Millionaire - Nina Milne - Страница 9

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.