A Cinderella for the Greek

by Julia James

  In the deep pocket of her robe she could feel the weight of the jewellery she’d worn last night, which she would hand back to Max as she must, however reluctantly...

  A stab of anger bit at her, hardening her resolve. Her expression changed as she made her decision. Max saw it and was glad.

  * * *

  He was even more glad, later that afternoon, when she emerged from the changing room of one of the most upmarket fashion houses, finally looking the way her natural looks deserved.

  It hadn’t been completely plain sailing—she’d balked as they’d walked in, a look of near panic on her face, and he’d had to steer her firmly towards the serried racks of clothes.

  ‘I don’t think there’ll be anything to fit me!’ she’d said nervously, her eyes casting about at the stick-thin customers who all seemed to be Chloe clones.

  Doubt had suddenly assailed her. She’d been wearing, perforce, the dowdy old-fashioned suit she’d worn yesterday, and there, surrounded by elegance and fashion, she’d felt her fragile new-found confidence waver. Panic had bitten at her throat.

  They’re all looking at me—wondering what on earth a lumpy frump like me is doing here! Wanting me to get out, to stop inflicting myself on their eyesight!

  The old, painful, mortifying self-consciousness had come back, drowning her, trying to send a tide of humiliated colour back into her face. The urge to run out of the shop, to take herself off to the station, to rush back down to Haughton, seeking its refuge, hiding there in solitude, safe from condemning eyes, had almost overpowered her.

  Then Max had spoken, ignoring her protestation. ‘This will suit you,’ he’d said decisively, reaching for a knee-length dress in warm caramel, soft jersey with a draped neckline. ‘And these.’

  He’d taken a teal-blue dress and a tailored jacket off the rack. He’d handed them to her and then started sorting through the trousers, pulling out a black pair and a chestnut-brown pair, before picking up a couple of cashmere sweaters. He’d guided her to the changing rooms.

  ‘In you go,’ he’d said, and he’d given her the rest of the clothes and a gentle push. He’d had no intention of letting those chains start winding themselves around her mind again.

  As she had headed, still reluctantly but obediently, into the changing rooms he’d beckoned to a sales assistant, giving her a particularly engaging smile. ‘We’re going to need a lot more clothes,’ he’d said, nodding at Ellen’s back.

  The sales assistant had cast an expert eye over her, taking in the tight, ill-fitting suit. ‘Definitely.’ She had nodded and glided off, returning with a large selection of separates, plus shoes, belts and some costume jewellery.

  With a smile at Max, who’d settled himself comfortably into one of the leather chairs conveniently placed nearby for attendant males, complete with magazines about cars and fitness to while away their time while they waited for their womenfolk, she had whisked them into the changing room.

  It had taken quite some time for Ellen to emerge...

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘TELL ME,’ MAX SAID, ‘how are you with helicopters?’

  Ellen stared. ‘Helicopters?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got one on standby,’ he informed her. ‘There’s a property out in the Chilterns I want to take a quick look at, and a helicopter is the fastest way.’

  ‘I’ve never been in one,’ Ellen said.

  Max grinned. ‘Great—a new experience. You’ll love it.’

  He bore her off towards the kerb, where his car was hovering. He wasn’t giving her a chance to object, just as he hadn’t given her a chance to run out of that fashion house. When she’d finally emerged from the changing room he’d wanted to punch the air, like he had the night before. And now she had looked—fantastic!

  Straw-coloured trousers neatly hugged her trim hips, and a casual cashmere sweater in oatmeal superbly moulded her generous breasts. A long jacket and a swish leather handbag completed the outfit.

  Behind her came the sales assistant, with more clothes, and they all totted up to a good half-dozen or more capacious carrier bags.

  His driver climbed out of the car to put the bags in the boot as Max helped Ellen into the back of the car.

  She was in a daze—no doubt about it. She’d handed over her credit card, wincing at the huge total, but then tightening her mouth in defiance. Another watercolour would have to be sold—but this time she would get the benefit of it.

  And it was money well spent—she’d seen that the moment she’d taken in her reflection, seeing not frumpy, lumpy Elephant Ellen but a tall, good-looking, athletic, fashionably dressed woman who could stride through the world with assurance and poise. It was a good feeling—a brilliant feeling!

  A bubble of happiness rose in her, as if she’d just drunk a glass of champagne. She was going to enjoy this—enjoy everything! Including the novelty of a ride in a helicopter.

  Her eyes widened in excitement as the noisy machine rose into the air, skating high above the River Thames. London became increasingly miniature, and then was left behind as the countryside approached. She gazed spellbound as they flew, then circled over the property Max wanted to assess.

  It was another large country house, Victorian gothic in style, and far larger than Haughton. Only then did a shadow cross her eyes, for it reminded her of the danger to her home. Oh, he could buy anywhere he liked—so why insist on buying the one place in the world she so desperately loved?

  Conflicting emotions swirled in her. Max had been so good to her, and even though she knew why he was doing it, it did not detract from the gift he had given her.

  I will always, always be grateful to him.

  * * *

  It was a gratitude she voiced yet again that evening, as they dined in the Michelin-starred restaurant at the hotel.

  ‘All I’ve done, Ellen,’ he said, and smiled, ‘is show you what was always there—that’s all. You’ve always been like this—but you hid it. And now you don’t any more. It’s as simple as that.’

  His eyes washed over her, liking what they saw. She was wearing the teal-blue dress he’d instinctively known would suit her, and it did—much to his satisfaction—and her hair was loosely gathered into a chignon at the back of her head. Her make-up—another purchase that day—was not as striking as it had been for the ball, but it gave her smoky eyes and long lashes and a soft, tender mouth...

  He dragged his gaze away, returning to his study of the wine list. The arrival of the sommelier diverted him some more, and when he was done with his discussion and selection he turned back—to find Ellen looking around the dining room and getting the attention from male diners that she well deserved. He was glad to see it—it would do her good.

  All the same, he reached out to touch her arm, with an atavistic instinct to show the other males she was spoken for.

  Her gaze came back to him. ‘So, will you buy that place you looked at this afternoon?’ she asked.

  As she’d glanced around the room she’d become conscious that she was being looked at by other men, and whilst it had given her a little thrill of confidence in her new appearance it had also, with her not being used to it, been somewhat disconcerting. She was grateful to have Max with her. He seemed...reassuring.

  How odd that Max Vasilikos should seem reassuring to me—yet it’s true.

  A thought flickered through her mind. Could this man who had wrought this seismic revolution within her, with whom she’d spent the most amazing twenty-four hours in her life and still counting, really be the same man who was threatening Haughton, threatening to wrest from her all that she held most dear? It was hard to think of it.

  ‘Maybe.’ He was answering her now. ‘Of course I’ll need to look over it in person. But it ticks a lot of boxes. It’s on at a good price, I like the look of it and it’s close to London.’

  ‘Much closer than Haughton!’ she heard herself say quickly.

  Max’s eyes veiled. ‘Haughton is quite different,’ he said. ‘I have...other pla
ns for it.’

  ‘If you manage to buy it!’ Ellen riposted, her chin going up.

  But even as she spoke she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to talk about Haughton, about how he wanted to buy it. For now—just for now—she only wanted to enjoy the present, this wonderful time with him. Nothing more than that. All the difficult, painful stuff could be left to one side. For now at least.

  He gave a guarded smile. ‘As you say,’ he murmured, offering nothing more than that.

  The sommelier returned with his choice of wine and he busied himself sampling it, nodding his approval.

  He glanced across at Ellen. ‘So,’ he said, ‘did you enjoy the helicopter ride?’

  ‘It was amazing!’ she exclaimed. ‘A completely new experience.’

  His long lashes dipped over his dark eyes. ‘Well, new experiences are what you should be having, Ellen. Lots and lots of amazing new experiences!’

  Was there a subtext to what he was saying? He was conscious of it. He was determined for her to have experiences with him... But he also wanted to indicate to her how her life could, and would, open up once she was free—not just of the chains that had made her think herself plain and unattractive, but of those that bound her to a house that had become a weapon against her stepmother and stepsister.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, taking the subject further, ‘when were you last abroad?’

  She thought. ‘Um... I took a school team to the Netherlands in the autumn term,’ she recollected. ‘And I did a field trip to Iceland with some sixth-formers—that was extraordinary. The geology and geography is breathtaking!’

  Skilfully Max drew her out, and then equally skilfully drew her into contemplating where in the world she might yet like to go, exchanging his own views and experiences with her as their food arrived and they started on their meal.

  An idea was forming in his head, but it would be premature to voice it now. He could sound her out, however, in general...

  ‘And what about sun, sea and sand—tropical beaches and all that?’ he ventured. ‘Or did you do all that as a child in holidays with your parents?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, my mother preferred cultural destinations—so I’ve been to places like Florence and Paris and so on. Done all the museums and art galleries. I’m not sure I’d like to go back to those places again,’ she said. ‘They’d have sad memories for me now.’ A shadowed look permeated her expression.

  He nodded in sympathy. ‘I’ve never gone back to where I was raised except once. And that,’ he said, ‘was to buy out the taverna my mother once slaved away in. I bought it, and now run it as a place to train unemployed young men—of which Greece now sadly has all too many—in useful skills.’

  She looked at him. ‘Would you never live in Greece again? Never settle there?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve let it go, Ellen. Cut my ties to a painful past and made a new life for myself. A better life by far! One I’d never known I’d dreamed of until I started to make the dream come true.’ His eyes rested on her, his expression intent, challenging. ‘Maybe, Ellen, it’s time for you to do the same. Make a new life for yourself. Think about the future instead of clinging to a past that is gone.’

  He’d spoken deliberately. It had to be said, after all. For her own sake as well as his.

  She needs to be free—free of her chains. Free to move on. She needs to see the truth of that.

  But a mutinous look had closed down her face and her eyes dropped, refusing to meet his gaze. ‘This isn’t a subject for discussion,’ she said tersely. ‘I don’t want to sell you Haughton and that’s that.’

  Inside her head thoughts were teeming. She was immediately wary, reminding herself just who this man was and why he was interested in her, in spending time with her.

  He’s a stranger who wants to buy your home—and he’ll use any means to get it. Including all this that he’s doing for you now. Oh, he may have given you a priceless gift, freeing you from what that witch Chloe did for so long, but don’t think it’s for your sake he’s done it—it’s for his. That’s why he’s done it.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the waiter approaching with their dessert and was glad of the diversion.

  For a moment Max went on gazing at her, fulminating. Her constant obdurate stonewalling was frustrating. Then, with an intake of breath, he let it go. He’d made his point—he would let it be. He hoped she would take it on board internally, even if she did not accept it yet. Besides, he thought as he rested his gaze on her closed face as she doggedly focussed on her food, he wanted to dismiss the subject himself. He didn’t want to think about the house she was refusing to sell, or her convoluted reasons for that. No, what he wanted to think about right now was something far more immediate.

  The effect that she was having on his libido.

  He’d been resolutely repressing it all day, but now, sitting opposite her, with her newly revealed beauty playing havoc with his senses, he knew without a doubt what he wanted to happen between them.

  Even if she didn’t own a single brick of the house I want to buy from her I’d still be doing this—still be spending the day with her, the evening with her.

  And the night too...?

  His eyes drifted over her face, visually caressing the curve of her cheek, the length of her lashes, the sweep of her hair, the lush, inviting richness of her mouth whose sweetness he had tasted so tormentingly as he’d bade her goodnight. He tore his gaze away, only for it to slip downwards, to see how the soft material of her dress shaped and pulled across the generous swell of her breasts, and into his head leapt the memory of how they had danced last night, her body so intimately close to his. He wanted to feel her in his arms again, closer and closer still...

  He reached for his glass of wine, started to speak again to take his mind back into safer territory for the moment. Besides, he wanted to remove that fixed, closed look on her face. Wanted to see it soften again, become animated with interest and engagement with him. Wanted to see her smile at him again.

  ‘So, tell me,’ he opened decisively, ‘this eco-resort of mine in the Caribbean—do you think it’s the kind of place that would appeal to someone keen on an active holiday?’

  It was a deliberate trail—something to catch her attention, make her look at him, take her away from that dark mental interior where she brooded on her father’s resented second marriage. It seemed to work, for she lifted her head, blinking for a moment.

  ‘What sort of activities will there be?’ she asked.

  Max waved a hand expansively. ‘Well, water sports, definitely. Nothing motorised—that would be out of keeping—but sailing, windsurfing, kayaking...that sort of thing. Snorkelling and scuba diving, of course—the reef is notable, and I’m hiring a marine ecologist to advise me on the best way to preserve and nurture it. All the sports will have to be outdoors, but to be honest there probably isn’t room for a tennis court. Plus it would require a hard surface—again, out of keeping. We’d run beach volleyball maybe,’ he finished.

  He found himself on the receiving end of an old-fashioned look. ‘Well, that would be popular as a spectator sport—for the male guests, certainly,’ she commented drily.

  Max’s riposte was immediate. ‘It would be popular with me if you were taking part, even more certainly.’

  The sweep of his long lashes over his revealing glance gave him the satisfaction of seeing her dip her gaze as his compliment registered. He followed through seamlessly.

  ‘So, does it tempt you to come out and check over the place yourself? Try everything out before the first guests arrive later in the season?’

  Ellen stared at him. ‘Go to the Caribbean?’ she said, as if he’d suggested a jaunt to Mars.

  Max lifted a hand nonchalantly. ‘Why not? You’ve got time before term starts again, haven’t you? Plenty of time to cross the Atlantic.’

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Gave a slight shake of her head as if that was all she could manage. He let it g
o. He’d planted the idea—he would harvest it later. When the time was right.

  He started to talk about coral reef conservation. It was as good a subject to pass the time as any. He was enjoying the meal, enjoying spending this convivial time with her—no doubt about that. And there was even less doubt that he was looking forward to what he wanted to happen afterwards...

  * * *

  The elevator, when they walked into it some time later, seemed too small, too empty. And as it whooshed them up to the top floor of the hotel Ellen could feel her stomach dropping away. But it was not just from the effect of the lift. No, it was caused by the man she was sharing it with.

  He stood a few feet away from her and gave her a quick smile as the doors opened, waiting for her to emerge. The soft, deep carpet of the penthouse-level corridor muffled all sound. It was completely deserted. A strange sensation of electricity started to run in her veins, along her nerve fibres, just as it had throughout dinner, in little jolts and quivers, every time she’d let her eyes rest on him.

  Inside the suite, only a table lamp was lit, creating an atmosphere that was...intimate.

  ‘Nightcap?’ Max asked, strolling towards the drinks cabinet.

  For a second—just a second—Ellen heard in her head the answer that she could give—should give. Thank you, but no. It’s been a long day. I really must turn in. But instead she heard her voice saying, ‘Lovely.’

  She walked to the sofa. She could feel her heart thumping in heavy slugs, feel that electric current setting off again, humming through her veins. Carefully she lowered herself down, deliberately kicking off her shoes, tucking her legs under her and resting her elbow on the sofa’s arm. A moment later Max was placing a small measure of liqueur on the coffee table in front of the sofa and then lowering himself on to the far end, his free hand cupping a cognac glass. It was a large sofa, but it suddenly felt very, very small.

  She took a tiny sip of the sweet, orange-scented fiery liquid—no more than a sip, for it was strong, she knew, and she’d already drunk wine at dinner. A supreme sense of self-consciousness filled her—but not like anything she’d ever known before. This was nothing like the embarrassingly awkward consciousness of her ungainly body, her unlovely appearance that she was so bitterly used to feeling.