Marooned With The Millionaire

‘Boxing?’ April tried to keep the disapproval from her voice.

‘Yes. Training is a great way to let off steam. There’s a whole lot of illegal boxing that goes on in the streets—the kind that can actually kill. I want this to be somewhere kids can come and pursue boxing safely.’

‘But it’s dangerous and violent and...’

‘It’s a sport. One that requires discipline and dedication. Danger and violence is on the streets.’

‘So, do you box?’

‘Yes.’

Heaven help her—because April certainly couldn’t help herself. An image of him stripped down, training with a punch bag, his muscles a testimony to discipline and dedication, shot across her mind.

‘Why?’ she managed, her reporter’s instincts coming to her rescue. ‘What’s the appeal?’

‘I started in my teens.’

His tone was less than forthcoming, and it wasn’t really an answer.

‘In fact it was boxing that started this place off. I set up a fight, offered to take anyone on in a one-on-one. I thought it would give them an incentive to come here.’

April stared at him. ‘And the best incentive you could come up with was to offer yourself up as a target?’ Horror touched her. ‘Couldn’t you have brought someone else in?’

‘I could’ve—but it wouldn’t have been as effective. I wanted to get their attention, show them that I’m more than some flash millionaire politician trying to rule over them. So, yes, I put myself on the line.’

He smiled suddenly and April blinked—the smile transformed his face, lit his dark blue eyes with a glint of amusement, and her toes twitched in her sensible flat navy shoes.

‘Don’t look so aghast. I’m actually pretty good.’

‘Yes, but you were up against fighters who might bend the rules. You could have been seriously hurt.’

She knew they were talking about teenagers, here, but she was pretty sure that a lot of the youths on the streets might be short on years but would be long on experience.

‘It was worth the risk. It got people here. A huge crowd, in fact, who stayed when it was over and listened to what I had to say about what was going to be on offer here. You heard Blake—these people are poor, but they have their pride. Most of them don’t want hand-outs. They wouldn’t have come here otherwise.’

‘What happened?’

‘I won. It was bloody, but the fights were fair. All but one, where the kid pulled a knife and got turfed out—not by me, but by the crowd. Three fights, and at the end they were willing to listen. The next day some of them came back, the day after a few more, and slowly... I think it’s working.’

His voice, the sheer force of his belief and zeal, held her mesmerised. As she looked around the ring she could picture the scene, hear the drip of blood on the canvas, the silence and the cheers of the crowds, the aura of grit and the focus of the fighters. Most of all she could see Marcus—a man willing quite literally to fight for his beliefs, to endure pain in order to win victory for others.

The idea took her breath away, made her feel a little light-headed even as she wondered why. What drove him to this? Grief over his best friend? A need to propel Axel’s vision into reality? Perhaps, but she thought there must be more to it. Whatever it was, she was damn sure he wouldn’t tell her.

‘I think it’s working too,’ she agreed. ‘Those kids are all thinking, and they all care one way or another. And they are all here.’

She followed him down another long corridor towards the unmistakable scent of food and the sizzle of onions and chips.

‘I’ll show you the canteen and then we’ll be on our way,’ Marcus said.

They entered a spacious room, complete with wooden tables and benches, one of which was being polished by a young girl April reckoned couldn’t be much older than seventeen.

‘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.