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Their departure had given Ellen cause for hope that Max Vasilikos had withdrawn his offer—in vain, it seemed.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 y
ou 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.