A Cinderella for the Greek

‘Mmm...eggs Benedict. My favourite,’ she announced appreciatively.

She took a generous helping and got stuck in. Max was doing likewise—well, he had a big frame to fill, and muscle burned more calories than fat...not that there was a trace of fat about him. He was lean and powerful and devastatingly attractive, and the way the tan of his skin contrasted with the white of his robe, the way there was really quite a lot of chest exposed in the deep vee...

She gulped silently and focussed on her food.

‘No sign of a hangover?’ Max enquired. She didn’t look hungover in the slightest, and she shook her head, making her long wavy tresses resettle on her shoulders and waft around her cheeks. He felt satisfaction go through him. Those stylists had been worth their weight in gold! Even with all the make-up now scrubbed off, the changes they’d made were glaringly noticeable—most of all the taming of her fearsome, frowning monobrow.

She wasn’t frowning now at all. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘All that water you poured into me before I flaked out did the trick!’

‘I told you you’d thank me in the morning,’ he replied with a glint in his eyes.

She made herself look at him, pausing in her eating. ‘I do thank you,’ she said ‘I thank you for...for everything!’

She didn’t have to spell it out. He knew. He smiled at her down the length of the table. Then raised his glass of orange juice to her. ‘To the new you, Ellen—and may

the old one be banished for good!

He took a draught of the juice, setting down the glass. ‘Now,’ he opened, sounding businesslike, ‘what we need to get done today is sorting out your wardrobe. Fabulous though you look in Edwardian costume, it’s not for every day,’ he finished lightly, with another smile. ‘So, when we’ve eaten it’ll be time to go shopping.’

A troubled look shadowed her face. ‘I really need to go home,’ she said.

Max raised his eyebrows. ‘What for? It’s not term-time—’

‘Yes, but... Well... I really ought to...’

He gave an airy wave of his hand. No way was Ellen going to beetle off back to Haughton and bury herself there again! Not yet—not by a long way! He hadn’t done with her...

Deep in his abdomen he felt an oh-so-masculine response kick in. He’d had to relinquish her last night—anything else would have been inexcusable—but the impulse he’d experienced then, the overriding rush of desire, had in no way been attenuated. His mind was made up—the long, sleepless, frustrated hours of the night he’d just spent had given him conviction of that.

A romance is exactly what she needs. It will show her how wonderful life can be if she just emerges from her shell, tastes all that life can offer now that she knows how beautiful she is. She can start to shed the burden of bitter resentment, knowing that her deep, dark, disturbing jealousy and envy of her stepsister is quite unnecessary.

And with that burden of resentment lifted—well, then she wouldn’t need to keep trying to thwart Pauline and Chloe by refusing to sell her share of Haughton. Wouldn’t need to keep trying to punish Pauline for marrying her father and Chloe for having the beauty she thought she herself was denied.

‘So,’ he said decisively, ‘it’s all settled. There’s absolutely no call for you to head off straight away, so we’ll definitely go shopping.’

She was still looking at him with a troubled expression. She wanted to tell him that even if she didn’t actually need to go back home today shopping for clothes was the last thing she could afford. Her salary was wiped out paying for her living expenses and Pauline and Chloe’s extravagances! But even as she thought it she felt rebellion stir. If they could fund their lavish lifestyle by selling off paintings from Haughton, well, so could she!

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.