Marooned with the Millionaire

‘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?’