‘Rubbish!’ But a tinge of discomfort climbed his cheeks. ‘I explained that you had strayed from the brief, but I also made it crystal-clear that you were doing a fantastic job on the wedding article and that I categorically wanted you to continue with that.’
April could hear the hiss of metaphorical steam from her ears. ‘So now you want my thanks?’
‘No.’ All signs of unease had vanished. ‘I simply want you to get on with the agreed article.’
‘I am. But I have come across a separate story about Axel and I have told you I need time to consider what to do about it.’
‘And that’s what you now have. Time. Write the article on the wedding. At the end of that, if you want to pursue the other story you can. There will be nothing I can do about it. But I want to make sure you do really consider the consequences.’ He moved away from the desk, his frustration evident in each stride. ‘I am not asking you to cover up a crime. Even if Brian Sewell is telling the truth, Frederick did nothing wrong; the events of that night were simply a tragedy. One we all have to live with and make the best of.’
The words smote her—extinguished her anger in an ice-cold deluge. She knew oh-so-well how a few minutes could change your entire world. How one decision could have a domino effect you had never intended. But did that make you any less guilty...? April didn’t think so. In which case Frederick should have to face up to what he’d done.
Yet she hadn’t, had she? What jury had judged her? What punishment had she received apart from the life sentence of having to live each and every day without Edward, imagining how it might have been? He would have been six years old. Six years and few months. He’d be at school... He’d...
Stop. That way led nowhere. The clock couldn’t be turned back. Perhaps Frederick wished it could be.
Think.
Hard to do that when once again her body was hyper-alert to the man now standing so tantalisingly close to her. For a moment of insanity she wanted to close the gap between them and throw herself at the bulk of him, lose herself, submerge these roiling thoughts in desire. After all, he had said it himself—his only interest in women was on a physical level. And for years and years April hadn’t felt so much as a semi-spark, a micro-spark of desire for any man.
Get. A. Grip. Think. Objectively.
Marcus met her gaze full-on. ‘I believe it is in Lycander’s best interests for this story not to be pursued. You also have my personal word that Frederick has done nothing wrong.’
‘Your “personal word” is simply an expression of your personal opinion. Many others may not agree. Plus, it’s hard to put much stock in your word.’
Now anger flashed across his face and instinctively she stepped back; fear could still surface after all these years.
His expression morphed into a frown at her involuntary reaction and she forced herself to continue. ‘Going to Kathy was hardly above-board.’
‘I did what I needed to do.’
There was no compromise in his tone, and again she braced herself, waiting for the tide of anger, the bluster, the threats.
Instead he said, ‘I won’t apologise for that. But I am sorry if there was negative fallout for you. I did my best to minimise that.’
For a second she had the feeling that he had surprised himself. Dammit, she almost felt grateful—and that made her even more furious. True, he could have requested she be kicked off the story altogether, but she had still been manipulated and she hated it—it was too reminiscent of her time with Dean, and she would not take it.
But what could she do? Tell Marcus to stuff it? Resign from the wedding article and pursue the other story? The problem with that was that it smacked of cutting her nose off to spite her face. For a start it would be professional idiocy and, truth be told, she still wasn’t sure she even wanted to pursue the story.
What to do? What to
do?
Objectivity still eluded her. Not even a particle of it was to be found as she tried to think. Her story had the power to be the catalyst to topple a throne—and she did need time to decide what to do with it. But, dammit, she wouldn’t just sit back and be manipulated.
‘So you’ve guaranteed that I take time to consider? Fine. But I need something more than time.’
‘Such as?’
Suspicion tinged his voice and her anger resurfaced as he assumed the reason.
‘I won’t be blackmailed.’
The anger swelled, rolled words off her tongue. ‘If you want me to take your word for it that pursuing this story is the morally wrong thing to do, then prove it. Let me shadow you—let me see what Lycander is all about. Show me what Frederick is doing. More than the community centre.’
She took a deep breath. She’d show him blackmail.
‘And I want an exclusive article with you. We could call it The Real Marcus Alrikson. On the record.’