‘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 happen
ed 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.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ELLEN TOOK A BREATH. Or tried to. There didn’t seem to be any breath left in her body because her lungs seemed to be caught in a vice. Horror drenched her—horror at the very thought of being paraded at a ball with Max Vasilikos. Her mortification would be exquisite, unbearable—hideous! As hideous as her appearance would be. She felt the colour drain from her cheeks and there was a sick feeling in her stomach.
Max was continuing to speak, still in that same blandly smooth way. ‘If you’re worried because you have nothing to wear, don’t be. I’ll have some suitable gowns delivered and you can make your choice. We’ll have lunch first, and then afterwards I’ll leave you in the hands of the stylists I’ve booked—it’s all arranged. Now...’ His tone changed and he walked to the house phone on the desk at the side of the room. ‘Time for that lunch. Would you like a preprandial drink? You look somewhat pale.’
In fact she looked like a dish of curds and whey, he decided, and without waiting for an answer crossed to the drinks cabinet and found a bottle of sherry, pouring her a generous measure.