by Julia James
And not eat so much...
Because as they settled into lunch it was clear to Max that he and Ellen Mountford were the only ones tucking in. That was a shame, because the roast chicken was delicious—the traditional ‘Sunday lunch’ that the English loved so much and did so well. But neither Pauline Mountford nor her daughter did anything more than pick at their food.
Max found himself annoyed. Didn’t they realise that being too thin was as undesirable as the opposite? His eyes flickered to Ellen Mountford again. Was she overweight? Her blouse might be straining over her arms, but her jawline was firm, and there was no jowliness or softening under the chin.
She must have noticed him glancing at her, for suddenly he saw again that tide of unlovely colour washing up into her face. That most certainly did nothing for her. He drew his glance away. Why was he thinking about how to improve the appearance of Ellen Mountford? She was of no interest to him—how could she possibly be?
‘What are your plans for the contents of the house?’ he asked his hostess. ‘Will you take the paintings with you when you sell?’
A sound that might have been a choke came from Ellen Mountford, and Max’s eyes flicked back to her. The red tide had vanished, and now there was the same tightness in her face as he’d seen when her stepmother had mentioned her bereavement.
‘Very possibly not,’ Pauline Mountford was answering him. ‘They do rather go with the house, do you not think? Of course,’ she added pointedly, ‘they would all need to be independently valued.’
Max’s eyes swept the walls. He had no objection to having the artwork—or, indeed, any of the original furniture. The pieces that had been acquired via the interior designer were, however, dispensable. His gaze rested on an empty space on the wall behind Chloe Mountford, where the wallpaper was slightly darker.
‘Sold,’ said Ellen Mountford tersely. The look on her face had tightened some more.
Chloe Mountford gave a little laugh. ‘It was a gruesome still life of a dead stag. Mummy and I hated it!’
Max gave a polite smile, but his gaze was on Chloe’s stepsister. She didn’t seem pleased about the loss of the dead stag painting. Then his attention was recalled by his hostess.
‘Do tell us, Mr Vasilikos, where will you be off to next? Your work must take you all over the world, I imagine.’ She smiled encouragingly at him as she sipped at her wine.
‘The Caribbean,’ he replied. ‘I am developing a resort there on one of the lesser known islands.’
Chloe’s pale blue eyes lit up. ‘I adore the Caribbean!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘Mummy and I spent Christmas in Barbados last winter. We stayed at Sunset Bay, of course. There really isn’t anything to compare, is there?’ she invited, after naming the most prestigious resort on the island.
‘It’s superb in what it does,’ Max agreed. The famous high-profile hotel was nothing like the resort he was developing, and the remote island was nothing like fashionable Barbados.
‘Do tell us more,’ invited Chloe. ‘When will the grand opening be? I’m sure Mummy and I would love to be amongst the very first guests.’
Max could see Ellen Mountford’s expression hardening yet again with clear displeasure. He wondered at it. Out of nowhere, memory shafted like an arrow. His stepfather had been perpetually displeased by anything he’d ever said—so much that he’d learnt to keep his mouth shut when his stepfather was around.
He dragged his mind away from the unhappy memory, back to the present. ‘Its style will be very different from Sunset Bay,’ he said. ‘The idea is for it to be highly eco-friendly, focussing on being self-sustaining. Rainwater showers and no air conditioning,’ he elucidated, with a slight smile.
‘Oh, dear...’ Pauline shook her head regretfully. ‘I don’t think that would suit me. Too much heat is very trying, I find.’
‘It won’t be for everyone, I agree,’ Max acknowledged tactfully. He turned towards Ellen. ‘What do you think—would it attract you? Wood-built lodges open to the fresh air and meals cooked on open fires in the evenings?’ He found himself unexpectedly wanting to draw her into the conversation, to hear her views. They would be different from her hothouse stepsister’s, he was sure.
‘Sounds like glamping,’ she blurted in her abrupt manner.
Max’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Glamping?’ he echoed, mystified.
‘Glamorous camping. I believe that’s the contraction it’s for,’ she elucidated shortly. ‘Upmarket camping for people who like the idea of going back to nature but not the primitive reality of it.’
Max gave a wry smile. ‘Hmm...that might be a good description for my resort,’ he acknowledged.
A tinkling laugh came from Chloe. ‘I’d say “glamorous camping” is a contradiction in terms! It would be luxury for Ellen, though—she runs camps for London kids. A million miles from upmarket. Totally basic.’
She gave a dramatic shudder, and Max heard the note of dismissal in her voice.
‘Adventure breaks,’ Ellen said shortly. ‘The children enjoy it. They think it’s exciting. Some of them have never been into the countryside.’
‘Ellen’s “good works”!’ Pauline said lightly. ‘I’m sure it’s very uplifting.’
‘And muddy!’ trilled Chloe with a little laugh, and sought to catch Max’s eye to get his agreement.
But Max’s attention was on Ellen. It was unexpected to hear that she ran such breaks for deprived inner-city children, given her own privileged background. He realised that he was paying her more attention.
‘Do you hold them here?’ he asked interestedly.
If so, it was something he might keep on with—adding it to the extensive list of charitable enterprises that were his personal payback for the good fortune that had enabled him to attain the wealth he had.
‘They’re held at my school, nearby. We set up camp on the playing fields,’ came the answer. ‘That way the children can use the sports pavilion, including the showers, and have use of the swimming pool as well. So they get the fun of camping, plus the run of the facilities of a private school.’
As she spoke for the first time Max saw something light up in Ellen Mountford’s eyes, changing her expression. Instead of the stony, closed look that alternated only with the tomato-red flaring of her cheeks when he paid her attention there was actually some animation, some enthusiasm. It made a significant difference to her features, he realised with surprise. They seemed lighter, somehow, less heavy, and not even those wretched spectacles could hide that.
Then, as if aware of his regard, he saw her face close down again and she grabbed at her wine glass, that telltale colour washing up into her face, destroying the transformation he’d started to glimpse. For some reason it annoyed him. He opened his mouth to make a reply, to ask another question, see whether he could get back that momentary animation, draw her out again. But his hostess was speaking now, and he had to turn his attention to her.
‘After lunch,’ said Pauline Mountford, ‘I’m sure you would like to see the gardens here. It’s a little early in the season as yet, but in a week or two the rhododendrons along the drive will start their annual show,’ she told him smilingly. ‘They are a blaze of colour!’
‘Rhododendrons...’ Max mused, more for something to say than anything else. ‘Rose tree—that’s the literal translation from the Greek.’
‘How fascinating!’ said Chloe. ‘Do they come from Greece, then?’
‘No. They come from the Himalayas.’ Her stepsister’s contradiction was immediate. ‘The Victorians introduced them to England. Unfortunately they’ve taken over in some places, where they are invasive pests. ‘
Max saw her eyes flicker to Pauline and her daughter, her expression back to stony again.
Chloe, though, continued as if her stepsister had not spoken. ‘And then a little later on in early summer we have the azaleas—they are absolutely gorgeous when they are fully out in May. Masses and masses of them! Mummy had the most beautiful walk created, that winds r
ight through their midst—’
There was an abrupt clatter of silverware from her stepsister.
‘No, she did not. The azalea walk has been there far longer. It was my mother who created it!’
The glare from behind Ellen Mountford’s spectacle lenses was like a dagger, skewering the hapless Chloe as Max turned his head abruptly at the brusque interjection. Then his hostess’s stepdaughter scraped back her chair and got to her feet.
‘If you’ve all finished—?’ she said, and started to grab at the plates and pile them on the tray on the sideboard. She marched out with them.
As she disappeared Pauline Mountford gave a resigned sigh. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I do apologise for that.’ She glanced at her daughter, who promptly took up the cue.
‘Ellen can be so very...sensitive,’ she murmured sadly. ‘I should have known better.’ She gave a little sigh of regret.
‘We do our best,’ her mother confirmed with another sad sigh. ‘But, well...’ She trailed off and gave a little shake of her head.
It was tricky, Max allowed, for his hostess and her daughter to have to smooth over the prickly behaviour of their step-relation, in which he was not interested, so he moved the conversation back to the topic he was interested in, asking how far Haughton was from the sea.
Chloe Mountford was just telling him that it would make an ideal base for Cowes Week, if sailing was an interest of his, when her stepsister made another entrance, bearing another tray weighed down with a large apple pie, a jug of custard and a bowl of cream, which she set down on the table heavily. She did not resume her place.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she announced shortly. ‘Coffee will be in the drawing room.’
Then she was gone, disappearing back through the service door.
* * *
‘So, Mr Vasilikos, what do you make of Haughton?’
Pauline Mountford’s enquiry was perfectly phrased, and accompanied by a charming smile. She was sitting in a graceful pose on the sofa in the drawing room, where they had repaired for the coffee that Ellen Mountford had so tersely informed them would be awaiting them.
Max had been the only one to partake of the apple pie—no surprise—but he was glad he had. It had been delicious—sweet pastry made with a very light touch indeed, and juicy apples spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. Whoever had made it could certainly cook.
Had the graceless Ellen made it? If so, then whatever her lack of beauty she could certainly boast of one key asset to draw a man to her side. His thoughts ran on. But perhaps being a good cook was not to her personal advantage—not if she overindulged in her own creations.
He gave a little shake of his head. There he was, thinking about that woman again. Why? She was nothing to him, and would remain so. He relaxed back a fraction in his seat. His hostess was clearly fishing for whether he wanted to buy this place or not. Well, why not give her his good news right now? He’d made his decision—and every passing moment only confirmed it. It might have been a decision made on impulse, but it was a strong impulse—the strongest he’d ever had—and he was used to making decisions on the spot. His instinct had never failed him yet—and it would not fail him now.
‘Charming,’ he said decisively, stretching out his legs towards the fire in a fashion that was already proprietorial. ‘I believe...’ he bestowed a smile on her ‘...that we will be able to reach an agreement in the region of your asking price—which is a realistic one—subject, of course, to the usual considerations of purchase: a full structural survey and so forth.’
He saw her eyes light up, and from the corner of his eye he was sure that her daughter’s had done the same.
‘Oh, that is excellent!’ came Pauline’s gracious response.
‘Marvellous!’ echoed her daughter.
Enthusiasm was in her voice. And relief too—Max could detect that.
It did not surprise him. Being forced to live here with the perpetually prickly Ellen could hardly be comfortable. He did not blame either mother or daughter for being eager to make new lives for themselves. Or even, he allowed, for having preferred to be abroad this last year. Hadn’t he himself hightailed it from his stepfather’s taverna the moment his poor mother had been finally laid to rest?
He pulled his mind away again. He did not want to remember his miserable childhood and downtrodden mother. Nor was he interested in the tense convolutions of the Mountford family either.
He set down his empty cup. ‘Before I leave,’ he said, ‘I’ll take a look around the gardens and the outbuildings to the rear. No, don’t get up—’ This to Chloe, who had started to stand. He smiled. ‘My footwear is more suitable for the outdoors than yours,’ he explained, glancing at her stylish high heels and not adding that he preferred to keep his own pace, and would rather not have her endless panegyrics about the charms of a property he had already decided would be his.
Though it was only prudent to check out the areas he had not yet seen, he did not envisage there being anything so dreadful as to make him change his mind.
He strode from the room, and as he shut the door behind him he heard animated conversation break out behind him. To his ears it sounded...jubilant. Well, his own mood was just as buoyant. Satisfaction filled him, and a warm, proprietorial sense of well-being. He glanced around the hallway—soon to be his hallway.
He paused in his stride. A family had lived here for generations. Emotion kicked in him. It was an emotion he had never felt before, and one that startled him with its presence—shocked him even more with his certainty about it. The words were in his head, shaping themselves, taking hold. Taking root.
And now it will be my home—for my family.
The family of his own that he’d never had...the family he would have.
A pang stabbed at him. If his poor mother had survived longer how he would have loved to bring her here—make a home for her here, safe from the harshness of her life, cosseting her in the luxury he could now afford to bestow upon her.
But I’ll do that for your grandchildren—give them the happy upbringing you could not give me—and I’ll feel you smile and be glad! I’ve come a long way—a long, long way—and now I’ve found the place I want to call my home. I’ll find the right woman for me and bring her here.
Who that woman would be he didn’t know, but she was out there somewhere. He just had to find her. Find her and bring her here.
Home.
He started to walk forward again, heading for the baize door that led through to the back section of the house. He would check it out, then go out into the courtyard area, take a look at the outbuildings before making his way around to the gardens and exploring them.
He was just walking down the passageway towards the back door when a voice from the open doorway to what he could see was a large stone-flagged kitchen stopped him.
‘Mr Vasilikos! I need to speak to you!’
He halted, turning his head. Ellen Mountford was standing there and her face was stony. Very stony indeed. Annoyance tensed him. He did not want this. He wanted to get outside and complete his inspection of the place.
‘What about?’ he replied with steely politeness.
‘It’s very important.’
She backed away, indicating that he should step into the kitchen.
Impatiently Max strode in, taking in an impression of a large room with old-fashioned wooden cupboards, a long scrubbed wooden table, a flagstone floor and a vast old-fashioned range cooker along one wall. The warmth from the oven enveloped him, and there was, he realised, a cosy, comfortable, lived-in feel to the space. No top interior designer had been let loose in here, that was for sure—and he was glad of it.
He turned his attention to Ellen Mountford. She’d taken up a position on the far side of the kitchen table and her hands were pressed down over the back of a chair. Tension was in every line of her body, and her expression was both stony and determined.
He frowned. Now what?
‘There’s something you have to kno
w!’
The words burst from her, and he realised with a deepening of his frown that she was in a state of extreme agitation and nervousness.
He levelled his gaze at her. She seemed to be steeling herself after her dramatic outburst. ‘And that is...?’ he prompted.
He watched her take a gulping breath. Her cheeks seemed pale now—as pale as chalk. Not a trace of the colour that had so unflatteringly rushed there whenever he’d looked at her before.
‘Mr Vasilikos, there’s no easy way to tell you this, and for that I’m sorry, but you’ve had a completely wasted journey. Whatever my stepmother has led you to believe, Haughton is not for sale. And it never will be!’
CHAPTER THREE
MAX STILLED. THEN deliberately he let his gaze rest on her. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, and he made no effort to make his voice sound anything less than the way he intended it to sound—quelling—‘you might like to explain what you mean by that.’
Ellen swallowed, had to force herself to speak. To say what she had to say. ‘I own a third of Haughton and I have no wish to sell.’
Somehow she’d got the words out—but her heart was thumping like a hammer inside her. Ever since she’d rushed from the dining room, emotions storming, she’d been trying to nerve herself to find Max Vasilikos, get him away from Pauline and Chloe and tell him what she had to tell him. And now she’d done it—and he was not, it was obvious, taking it kindly.
His expression had steeled, and the dark brows were snapping together now. For a moment Ellen quailed. Up till now Max Vasilikos had, she realised belatedly, been playing the role of courteous, amenable guest. Now he was very different. A tough, powerful businessman who was hearing something he did not want to hear.
As she’d delivered her bombshell something had flickered in Max’s mind at what she’d said, but it wasn’t relevant for the moment.
His gaze rested on her. ‘Why not?’
He saw her swallow again.
‘What relevance does that question have?’
Max’s expression changed. A moment ago it had looked formidable. Now there was a cynical cast to it. ‘Perhaps you are holding out for a higher price,’ he said.