Nina Milne – Marooned With The Millionaire (страница 3)

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.’