Prince of the Press: A Powerplay Novella by Selena Laurence

Author:Selena Laurence [Laurence, Selena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C.P. Writes, LLC
Published: 2016-03-24T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

He sent the flowers to her house instead of the office, so that Derek wouldn’t know. He’d never had to resort to flowers before. Usually his charm and a few drinks did the trick, but Renee was special, and that meant he had to employ special methods.

The first batch were wildflowers because they reminded him of how she smelled. When he didn’t hear from her for two days after that delivery he tried tulips. He thought they smelled like crap, but they were damned expensive and the florist assured him they were unique and tasteful. When those didn’t get a response he sent roses. Two dozen white roses. Seventy-two hours later he again had heard nothing, and it was pissing him off.

So he went to her house himself.

When the door swung open he found himself facing a frail, but lovely woman with a soft blue silk scarf wrapped around her head and Renee’s warm eyes.

“May I help you?” she asked, looking at him critically.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m wondering if Renee is available?”

“Ah, you must be the one who’s trying to turn my house into a florist’s shop.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle as he scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. He was on his dinner break from work and wearing his usual suit and tie. Amazing how it never bothered him on camera but seemed to be strangling him now.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Marcus Ambrose. Renee works for my brother, Derek.”

“Hmm,” Anne answered, raising an eyebrow. “Renee isn’t here right now, but you’d better come in.”

Marcus nodded solemnly and followed her into the house.

“Have a seat Mr. Ambrose,” Anne said as she strolled into the living room. “Can I get you a bottle of water?”

“No. Thank you, I’m fine.” He looked around the room, its utilitarian décor reminding him of the house he grew up in. His eyes lit on the row of photos on the fireplace mantle, taking in the series of black and white snapshots of Renee and David as children playing at the beach. He smiled as he looked, imagining a younger Renee herding her wild little brother around, keeping him safe in the ocean and trying to stop him from ruining her fancy sand castles.

“They were five and ten when this was taken,” Anne said as she looked over his shoulder. “He followed Renee everywhere. To the point that I couldn’t let her go swimming in the ocean even though she was plenty good at it, because he’d follow her out into the water and he couldn’t swim very well. She never complained, she only said, ‘I’ll take care of him, momma. That’s what sisters are for’.”

He turned and faced her, noticing the fleeting wistfulness that skittered across her face.

She gestured for him to follow her, and moved to sit in a large stuffed armchair that nearly swallowed her slight frame.

Marcus sat on the sofa nearby and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees.

“She’s visiting David at the rehab facility this evening,” Anne told him. “But this is a good opportunity for us to talk.

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