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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.