MAX HEARD OUT his legal advisor, then drummed his fingers on the polished surface of his mahogany desk. Forcing a sale would indeed be time-consuming, and he wanted to take possession without delay—before summer was over. Which meant getting Ellen Mountford to drop her objections.
He gave a rasp of exasperation, swivelling moodily in his leather chair, his dark eyes baleful. There had been no good news from Pauline Mountford, and he strongly suspected there would not be. If Ellen was as entrenched in her hostile view of her stepmother as she seemed to be, then Pauline was doubtless the last person capable of changing her stepdaughter’s mind.
But he might be able to.
An idea was forming in his head—he could feel it. An idea to make her want to sell up.
Chloe Mountford’s voice echoed in his memory. ‘She never goes anywhere—she just buries herself here all year round!’
His eyes glinted. Maybe that was the key that would start to unlock the problem.
Impulsively he summoned his PA. ‘Tell me, have I got any particularly glitzy social events coming up soon here in London?’ he asked her.
Five minutes later he had his answer—and had made his decision. He sat back in his chair, long legs extended, a smile of satisfaction playing around his mouth. Oh, yes, he’d made his decision, all right. And Ellen herself had given him the way to convince her of it.
That mention she’d made of her surprising involvement in a charity for giving city children a countryside holiday under canvas. That would do nicely. Very nicely. His plan would help him lever Ellen Mountford out of his way—he was sure of it.
And as he settled down to work again, in a much better frame of mind, he became aware that he was sure of something else as well. That, of all things, he was looking forward to seeing her again—and making an end, once and for all, to all that nonsense of hers about looking the unappealing way she did.
I’ve seen her real body—her goddess body!—and now I want to see her face look just as good as her figure.
The smile played around his mouth once more, and the gleam in his eyes was speculative. Anticipatory.
And for a moment—just a moment—the prospect of finding a way to remove Ellen Mountford’s objections to selling him the house he wanted to buy was not uppermost in his mind.
How good could she look? How good could she really look?
The glint came into his eye again. He wanted to find out.
* * *
Ellen turned off the ignition and got out. Her car needed a service, but she couldn’t afford it. Her salary was wiped out simply paying for the essentials at Haughton—from council tax to electricity bills—and, of course, for the inessentials. Such as the weekly deliveries of hothouse flowers from the local florist, and Pauline and Chloe’s regular visits to the local county town for their endless hair and beauty appointments. Their other extravagances—replenishing their wardrobes, their lavish social life and their foreign jaunts to luxury destinations and five-star hotels—were all funded by the stripping out of anything of value still left in the house, from paintings to objets d’art.
She hefted out a pile of schoolbooks, becoming aware of the sound of a vehicle approaching along the drive. As the sleek, powerful car turned into the courtyard dismay flooded through her. She’d hoped so much that Max Vasilikos had decided to buy somewhere else and abandoned his attentions to Haughton. Pauline and Chloe had finally lapsed into giving her the silent treatment, after having harangued her repeatedly about her stubbornness in refusing to do what they wanted her to do. Now they had taken themselves off again on yet another pricey jaunt, to a five-star hotel in Marbella while Ellen was just about to begin her school holidays.
Their departure had given Ellen cause for hope that Max Vasilikos had withdrawn his offer—in vain, it seemed. She watched him approach with a sinking heart—and also a quite different reaction that she tried to quash and failed utterly to do so. She gulped silently as he walked up to her, his handmade suit sheathing his powerful frame like a smooth, sleek glove. The dark eyes in his strong-featured face were levelled down at her. She felt her pulse leap.
It’s just because I don’t want him here. I don’t want him going on at me to sell Haughton to him!
That was the reason for the sudden quickening of her breathing—the only reason she told herself urgently. The only reason she would allow...could possibly allow—
‘Good afternoon, Miss Mountford,’ he said. His voice was deep, and there was a hint of a curve at the corner of his sculpted mouth.
‘What are you doing back here again?’ she demanded. It was safer to sound antagonistic. Much safer.
Safer than standing here gazing gormlessly at him in all his incredible masculinity and gorgeousness. Feeling my heart thumping like an idiot and going red as a beetroot again!
Her hostile demand met with no bristling. Just the opposite. ‘I wanted to see the rhododendrons,’ Max returned blandly. ‘They are indeed magnificent.’ He paused, smiling his courteous social smile. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ he said.
She glowered at him from behind her spectacles, her thick eyebrows forming that monobrow as she did so, and she was once again, he noted with displeasure, wearing the unspeakable baggy tracksuit that totally concealed her glorious body. Mentally, he earmarked it for the bonfire.
‘Would it stop you if I didn’t?’ she glowered again.
‘I doubt it,’ he said, and then reached forward to remove half of the tottering tower of schoolbooks from her arms. ‘After you,’ he said, nodding at the kitchen door.
She cast him a burning look, refusing to say thank you for relieving her of much of her burden, and stomped indoors, dumping her load on the kitchen table. He deposited his share next to it.
‘I hope you don’t have to get all these marked for tomorrow,’ he observed.
She shook her head. ‘By the start of next term,’ she said shortly.
‘You’ve broken up?’ enquired Max in a conversational tone. He knew perfectly well she had, as he’d had her term dates checked, and had timed his visit here accordingly.
‘Today,’ she said. She looked across at him. He seemed taller than ever in the kitchen, large though the space was. But then, she knew a man like Max Vasilikos could effortlessly dominate any space he occupied. ‘You’ve wasted your journey,’ she said bluntly. ‘Pauline and Chloe left for Marbella yesterday.’
‘Did they?’ he returned carelessly. ‘I’m not here to see them.’
Ellen lifted her eyes to him, glaring. ‘Mr Vasilikos, please don’t go on at me any more! Can’t you just accept I don’t want to sell Haughton?’
‘I’m not here to talk about Haughton. I’m here to help your charity.’
Astonishment showed in her face and he went on smoothly.
‘I’m confident I can increase your funding, enabling you to run camps more frequently. A national children’s charity I support—for advantageous tax reasons—takes on new projects regularly. Yours I’m sure would be ideal for it.’
She was staring at him with an expression of extreme suspicion. ‘Why would you do that?’ she demanded. ‘Do you think it will change my mind about not selling Haughton?’
‘Of course not,’ he returned equably. ‘My only concern is the deprived children. Is that not yours, too?’ he countered, with precise gentleness and a bland look in his eye.
She took a breath. ‘Well, if you can get us more funding we won’t say no,’ she managed to get out. There was something about the way he was casting a long look at her that threatened to bring the colour rushing to her cheeks.
‘Good,’ Max said. Then blithely went on. ‘The thing is, though, you’ll need to come up to London with me today—make a personal presentation. Time is very short—they have to spend the last of this year’s money before the end of the financial year coming up.’
He was hustling her, he knew, and it was deliberate—he wanted to give her no excuse to get out of this.
‘What?’ Consternation filled Ellen’s voice. ‘Impossible!’
‘No, it’s quite all right—it won’t inconvenience me at all,’ said Max in a smooth voice, deliberately misunderstanding the cause of her objection. He glanced at his watch. ‘You go off and get ready while I take another stroll around the gardens—admire those rhododendrons!’ He smiled at her, completely ignoring the fact that her mouth was opening to object yet again. ‘I’ll give you twenty minutes,’ he said blandly, and was gone.
Ellen stared after him, open-mouthed. Consternation was tumbling around inside her—shot through with aftershock. Slowly she gathered her composure back, by dint of piling her marking neatly into class rows. Did Max Vasilikos really imagine she’d waltz off with him to London for the day, to pitch for more funding for her camping project?
More money would be really helpful right now. We could double the numbers at the half-term session—buy more tents and sleeping bags. Run another week in the summer holidays...
The problem was, though, she thought, as she descended to earth with a bump, that in order to get her hands on the funding she’d have to sit next to Max Vasilikos all the way to London, enclosed in his car. Would she be a captive audience for his determination to wrest Haughton from her?
But the reverse will be true, too. If he goes on at me, then he’ll also have to listen to me telling him I’m never going to agree to sell. Never!
Yes, that was the way to think—and not about the way the image of Max Vasilikos, seen again now in all its devastating reality, was busy burning itself into her retinas and making her heart beat faster. Because what possible point was there in her pulse quickening? If even ordinary men looked right past her, wanting only to look at Chloe, then to a man like Max Vasilikos, who romanced film stars, she must be completely invisible.
In a way, that actually made it easier. Easier for her to change into something more suitable for London—the well-worn dark grey suit and white blouse that she donned for parents’ evenings and school functions, and sturdy, comfortable lace-ups, before confining her unruly hair into a lumpy bun—and then heading back out into the courtyard.
Max Vasilikos was already behind the wheel of his monstrous beast of a car, and he leant across to open the passenger door. She got into the low-slung seat awkwardly, feeling suddenly that despite being invisible to him, as she knew she was, he was very, very visible to her.
And very close.
With a shake of her head, to clear her stupid thoughts, she fastened her seat belt as he set off with a throaty growl of the engine. Oh, Lord, was she insane to head off with him like this? All the way to London in the all too close confines of his car? She sat back tensely, fingers clutching the handbag in her lap.
‘So, tell me more about this charity of yours,’ Max invited as he turned out of the drive on to the narrow country lane beyond. He wanted to set her at ease, not have her sitting there tense as a board.
Gratefully Ellen answered, explaining how she and a fellow teacher had started it two years ago. She also told him about their hopes for expansion, which more funding would definitely enable.
Max continued to ask questions that drew her out more, and as she talked he could see she was gradually starting to relax. The enthusiasm he’d seen so briefly over lunch the other day was coming through again, and she was becoming animated as she spoke. He moved the subject on from the practicalities of the venture to some of its underlying issues.
‘How do you find the children respond to the camping?’ he asked.
‘Usually very well,’ she replied. ‘They all have to do chores, share the work, and most discover grit and strength in themselves—a determination to achieve goals that will, we hope, enable them to transfer those lessons to their future and make something of themselves, despite their disadvantaged and often troubled backgrounds.’
She became aware that Max was looking at her, a revealing expression on his face.
‘Reminds me of myself,’ he said. ‘When my mother died I had to make my own way in the world—and it definitely took grit and strength and determination. Starting with nothing and building myself up from scratch.’
She glanced at him curiously. ‘You weren’t born to all this, then?’ she asked, indicating the luxury car they were sitting in.
He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘I worked five years on building sites to make enough to buy a ruin that I then spent two years restoring myself and selling on. I took the profit to do the same again and again, until I’d bootstrapped my way up to where I am now,’ he told her. His sideways glance was caustic, but there was a trace of mordant humour in it. ‘Does that improve your opinion of me at all?’ he posed.
She swallowed. She would have to give him his due—anything else would be unfair, however unwelcome he was in her life. ‘I respect you for all the hard work you’ve obviously had to put in to make yourself rich. My only objection to you, Mr Vasilikos, is that you want to buy Haughton and I don’t want to sell it to you.’
Belatedly she realised that she herself had brought the subject back to what she did not want to discuss—selling her home. But to her relief he did not respond in kind.
‘Tell me, how old were you when your mother died?’ he asked instead.
Her eyes widened and she stared at him, wondering why he was asking such a personal, intrusive question. Then something he’d said chimed in her head. ‘When my mother died...’
‘Fifteen,’ she answered. ‘She was killed in a head-on car crash.’
‘I was the same age when mine died,’ Max said.
His voice was neutral, but it did not deceive Ellen.
‘She died of lung disease.’ There was a slight pause. ‘It’s not a good age to lose a parent,’ he said.
‘When is?’ returned Ellen quietly. It was strange to think of this man, from so utterly different a world from her, having that same tragedy in her life as she did. To think that they, who were so utterly, glaringly unalike, had that in common.
‘Indeed.’
He was silent a moment, manoeuvring the car effortlessly around a tight bend, accelerating out of it. When he spoke again it was to return to the subject of the charity and what financial constraints further funding might alleviate.
Ellen was relieved—talking about such deeply felt emotional issues with this man was...strange. Yet even though he’d changed the subject, reverted to his smooth, urbane social manner, she felt a curious sense of having somehow touched a chord in him, drawn by the mutual personal tragedy in their lives.
They joined the motorway soon after, and Max could let the car really rip, cruising down the fast lane as if merely out for a stroll. His mind cruised too. Ellen Mountford was definitely losing that excruciating self-consciousness that had dominated her reaction to him up till now, and he was glad of it. It helped that they could talk without looking at each other, and that he had the road to focus on. It seemed to take some of the pressure off her. But there was more to it than that, he was aware. That oh-so-brief mention of his mother—and hers—had been like a flicker of real communication between them. Something that could not have happened between two mere social acquaintances.
He frowned. Do I want that? Do I want any real communication with her? Why should I? She is merely someone standing in the way of what I am determined to achieve—ownership of a house I want to live in myself. And bringing her up to London is merely the means to that end. Nothing more than that.
His expression lightened. Of course there was one other reason for bringing Ellen Mountford to London with him. He was all too conscious of that too.
I want to see what she can really look like—when she makes the most of herself instead of the least!
And he would want to know that, he realised, even if she’d had absolutely nothing to do with blocking his way to the house he wanted to possess. Curiosity was mounting within him about Ellen Mountford for herself—not for her house. Across his retinas flickered the recalled image of her in her running gear, showing off that fantastic figure. Which was more than could be said for what she was wearing now—it was no better than the tracksuit. A heavy, badly cut suit and the same ill-fitting white blouse, and those ugly lace-up shoes, which were doing absolutely nothing for her.
A smile flickered about his mouth. What he had in mind for her to wear tonight was quite different...
He dragged his thoughts away and went back into making easy-going conversation with her, taking the opportunity of their passing Windsor Castle to ask something about the British Royal Family. She answered readily enough, and he asked another question to keep her talking.
It dawned on him that she wasn’t actually shy at all. Away from her stepmother and stepsister she was noticeably more voluble. Animation lifted her features, lighting up her tawny eyes even behind the concealing lenses of her unflattering glasses, and helping to detract from that damn monobrow of hers which made her look as if she was always frowning. Now that he was seeing her again, he realised, it was clear that actually she didn’t look nearly as morosely forbidding as she had when in the company of her stepmother and sister.
So, if she wasn’t shy, why the total lack of personal grooming? Why look as dire as she did, considering that she could look so much better?
The question circled in his head as they approached London and headed for the West End, eventually drawing up at his hotel in Piccadilly. His passenger looked at him in surprise.
‘I thought we were going to the charity’s headquarters,’ she said, ‘so I can make my pitch for funding?’
Max smiled at her. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, getting out of the car.
A doorman was opening her door, and as she got out, seeing Max toss the keys to the valet parker, Ellen was suddenly conscious of her plain, dowdy appearance. Utterly unworthy of such a smart hotel—or for keeping company with a man like Max.
‘This way,’ he said blandly, ushering her inside and guiding her across the swish lobby towards a bank of lifts.
They whooshed upwards, and when they emerged she saw with a frown that they were on the penthouse floor and Max was leading her into one of the suites. She gazed around, confused, taking in the lavish decor of a vast lounge and huge windows overlooking St James’s Park. Max was speaking.
‘I have not been entirely comprehensive in what I’ve told you,’ he said, his voice bland. He quirked one eyebrow. ‘You don’t make your pitch now—you make it tonight.’ His smile deepened. ‘At the ball.’
Ellen stared. ‘Ball?’ she echoed blankly.
‘Yes,’ said Max, in that same smooth, urbane manner. ‘The annual fundraising ball the charity always holds at this hotel. You’ll be sitting on my table, and so will one of the charity’s directors. You can have a little chat then, tell him about the camping holidays and what funds you need to expand them.’
Ellen felt the floor disappear from under her. ‘I cannot go to a ball!’ she said. The man was mad—completely mad!
‘Ah, well,’ said Max, his voice as smooth as cream, his smile as rich as butter, ‘in that I have to say you are quite, quite mistaken.’