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.