A Cinderella For The Greek

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.

Ellen’s lips pressed together. ‘I don’t wish to sell Haughton—and I shan’t.’

He looked at her for a moment. He looked neither quelling nor cynical. He seemed to be studying her, but she suddenly had the feeling that he’d retreated behind a mask.

‘You do realise, do you not, that as only part-owner of this property if any of the other part-owners wish to sell they have the legal right to force such a sale?’

There was no colour in her face. Her cheekbones had whitened. Something moved in her eyes. Some deep emotion. He saw her jaw tense, her knuckles whiten over the chair-back.

‘That would take months. I’d drag it out as long as I could. No purchaser would want that kind of costly delay.’

She would make that delay as long as possible, fight as hard as possible. I won’t roll over and give in!

She felt sick with tension. Max Vasilikos’s gaze rested on her implacably. Then, abruptly, his expression changed. His long lashes dipped down over his deep, dark and entirely inscrutable eyes.

‘Well, be that as it may, Miss Mountford, I intend to view the rest of the property while I am here.’

She saw his glance go around the kitchen again, in an approving fashion.

‘This is very pleasing,’ he said. ‘It’s been left in its original state and is all the better for it.’

Ellen blinked. To go from defying him to agreeing with him confused her completely. ‘My stepmother wasn’t interested in doing up the kitchen quarters,’ she said.

Max’s eyes glinted. ‘A lucky escape, then,’ he said dryly.

There was a distinctly conspiratorial note to his voice, and Ellen’s confusion deepened.

‘You don’t like the decor in the main house?’ she heard herself saying, astonished. Surely property developers loved that full-blown interior-designed look?

Max smiled. ‘Taste is subjective, and your stepmother’s tastes are not mine. I prefer something less...contrived.’

‘She’s had it photographed for a posh interiors magazine!’ Ellen exclaimed derisively, before she could stop herself.

‘Yes, it would be ideal for such a publication,’ he returned lightly. ‘Tell me, is there anything left of the original furnishings and furniture?’

A bleak, empty look filled Ellen’s face. ‘Some of it was put up in the attics,’ she said.

Any antiques or objets d’art of value that Pauline had not cared for had been sold—like the painting from the dining room and others she’d needed to dispose of so she and Chloe could go jaunting off on their expensive holidays.

‘That’s good to hear.’ He nodded, making a mental note to have the attic contents checked at some point. There were art valuations to get done, too, before the final sales contract was signed.

For signed it would be. His eyes rested now on the female who was so obdurately standing in the way of his intentions. Whatever her reasons, he would set them aside. Somehow she would be brought to heel. In all his years of negotiation, one thing he’d learnt for sure—there was always a way to get a deal signed and sealed. Always.

He wanted this place. Wanted it badly. More than he had ever thought to want any property... He wanted to make a home here.

He smiled again at the woman who thought so unwisely—so futilely!—to balk him of what he wanted. ‘Well, I shall continue on my way, Miss Mountford. I’ll see myself out—’

And he was gone, striding from the kitchen and down to the back door.

Ellen watched him go, her heart thumping heavily still, a feeling of sickness inside her. She heard the back door close as he went out. Words burned in her head, emotions churning.

Please let him leave! Leave and—and never come back!

Let him buy somewhere else—anywhere else. But leave me my home...oh, leave me my home!

* * *

Max stood in the shade of a tall beech tree overlooking the lake and took in the vista. It was good—all good. Everything about this place was good. He’d explored the outbuildings, realised they’d need work, but nothing too much, and mentally designated some of the old stables for his cars. He might keep some as stabling, too. He didn’t ride, but maybe his children would like ponies one day.

He gave a half-laugh. Here he was, imagining children here before he’d even found the woman who would give them to him. Well, he’d have plenty of volunteers, that was for sure—not that he was keen on any of his current acquaintance. And his time with Tyla had been enjoyable, but their ways had parted. No, the woman he would bring here as his bride would be quite, quite different from the self-absorbed, vanity-driven film star bent on storming Hollywood. His chosen bride would be someone who would love this place as he would come to love it—love him, love their children...

He shook his head to clear his thoughts—he was running ahead of himself! First he had to buy this place. He frowned. The tripartite ownership structure should have been disclosed to him at the outset, not be delivered by bombshell. His frown deepened.

Well, that was a problem to ponder for later. Right now, he wanted to finish exploring the grounds beyond the formal gardens surrounding the house. He could see that a pathway ran through the long, unmown grass beside the sheltering woodland, around the perimeter of the reed-edged lake. He would walk along it and take a look at what he could see was a little folly on the far side.

My kids would love playing there—and we’d have picnics there in the summer. Maybe barbecues in the evening. Maybe swimming in the lake? I’ll get a pool put in as well, of course—probably indoors, with a glass roof, given the English climate...

His thoughts ran on as he emerged from the shelter of the woodland. Then abruptly they cleared. He stared. There was someone over by the folly, leaning against the stonework. He watched as she straightened, and then set off along the path towards him. She was in running gear, he could see that from this distance, but not who it was. He frowned. If neighbours had got into the habit of using the place as a running track he’d better know about it—

Slowly he walked forward on an interception course. But as the runner approached him he felt the breath leave his body. Incredulity scissored through him.

It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t!

It could not be the sad, overweight, badly dressed frumpy female he’d pitied—impossible for it to be Ellen Mountford. Just impossible.

But it was her.

As the figure drew closer, its long, loping gait effortless and confident, his eyes were nailed to it. Tall, long-legged, with dark hair streaming behind like a flag, and a body...a body that was a total knockout—

It was impossible to tear his stunned gaze from her. From her strong, lithe body, perfectly contoured in a sports bra that moulded generous breasts, exposing not an inch of fat over bare, taut-waisted abs, with matching running shorts that hugged sleek hips, exposing the full length of her honed, toned quads.

Thee mou, she wasn’t fat—she was fit. In both senses of the word! Fit and fabulous!

Every thought about her completely rearranged itself in his head. He could not take his eyes from her. He was in shock—and also something very different from shock. Something that sent the blood surging in his body.

Thanks to the sight of hers...

Greek words escaped his lips. Something about not believing his eyes, his senses, and something that was extreme appreciation of her fantastic physique. Then another thought was uppermost. How did she hide that body from me? At not one single point had there been the slightest indication of what she was hiding—and he hadn’t noticed. Not for a moment, not for an instant! How had she done it?

But he knew—she’d done it by disguising that fantastic, honed, sleek, fit body of hers in those appalling clothes. In that unspeakable purple tracksuit that had turned her into some kind of inflated dummy, and that shapeless, ill-fitting grey skirt and even more shapeless and ill-fitting white blouse whose tightness of sleeve had had nothing whatsoever to do with her arms being fat—but had simply been because her biceps and triceps were honed, compacted muscle. He could see that now, as she approached more closely.

He stepped out from amongst the trees. ‘Hello, there,’ he said.

His greeting was affable, and pleasantly voiced, and it stopped her dead in her tracks as if a concrete block had dropped down in front of her from the sky.