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Yet that desire was quite clearly not on the man’s wish list—his expression always neutral with a veer towards grim.
So what was he doing here?
Clearly her meeting with his sister Elvira had rattled his cage.
Excellent.
‘I’ll be right down.’
Grabbing her oversized bag, she spared one glance at her reflection as she headed to t
he door. Good thing she always dressed ‘business casual’, and her wardrobe choices were simple. Today she’d opted for slim-leg trousers, a tucked-in shirt and a blazer. Sensible flat shoes. There was no need to do anything to her dark auburn hair; her chosen style was short, sleek and easy to maintain.
So she was ready to face whatever Marcus might throw at her—and she had no doubt there would be something. Marcus Alrikson was anti-press, and if he was here that meant his feathers had been seriously ruffled.
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?’
