Nina Milne – Marooned With The Millionaire (страница 7)

‘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.