Love Islands: Secret Escapes
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‘After lunch,’ said Pauline Mountford, ‘I’m sure you would like to see the gardens here. It’s a little early in the season as yet, but in a week or two the rhododendrons along the drive will start their annual show,’ she told him smilingly. ‘They are a blaze of colour!’
‘Rhododendrons...’ Max mused, more for something to say than anything else. ‘Rose tree—that’s the literal translation from the Greek.’
‘How fascinating!’ said Chloe. ‘Do they come from Greece, then?’
‘No. They come from the Himalayas.’ Her stepsister’s contradiction was immediate. ‘The Victorians introduced them to England. Unfortunately they’ve taken over in some places, where they are invasive pests. ‘
Max saw her eyes flicker to Pauline and her daughter, her expression back to stony again.
Chloe, though, continued as if her stepsister had not spoken. ‘And then a little later on in early summer we have the azaleas—they are absolutely gorgeous when they are fully out in May. Masses and masses of them! Mummy had the most beautiful walk created, that winds right through their midst—’
There was an abrupt clatter of silverware from her stepsister.
‘No, she did not. The azalea walk has been there far longer. It was my mother who created it!’
The glare from behind Ellen Mountford’s spectacle lenses was like a dagger, skewering the hapless Chloe as Max turned his head abruptly at the brusque interjection. Then his hostess’s stepdaughter scraped back her chair and got to her feet.
‘If you’ve all finished—?’ she said, and started to grab at the plates and pile them on the tray on the sideboard. She marched out with them.
As she disappeared Pauline Mountford gave a resigned sigh. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I do apologise for that.’ She glanced at her daughter, who promptly took up the cue.
‘Ellen can be so very...sensitive,’ she murmured sadly. ‘I should have known better.’ She gave a little sigh of regret.
‘We do our best,’ her mother confirmed with another sad sigh. ‘But, well...’ She trailed off and gave a little shake of her head.
It was tricky, Max allowed, for his hostess and her daughter to have to smooth over the prickly behaviour of their step-relation, in which he was not interested, so he moved the conversation back to the topic he was interested in, asking how far Haughton was from the sea.
Chloe Mountford was just telling him that it would make an ideal base for Cowes Week, if sailing was an interest of his, when her stepsister made another entrance, bearing another tray weighed down with a large apple pie, a jug of custard and a bowl of cream, which she set down on the table heavily. She did not resume her place.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she announced shortly. ‘Coffee will be in the drawing room.’
Then she was gone, disappearing back through the service door.
* * *
‘So, Mr Vasilikos, what do you make of Haughton?’
Pauline Mountford’s enquiry was perfectly phrased, and accompanied by a charming smile. She was sitting in a graceful pose on the sofa in the drawing room, where they had repaired for the coffee that Ellen Mountford had so tersely informed them would be awaiting them.
Max had been the only one to partake of the apple pie—no surprise—but he was glad he had. It had been delicious—sweet pastry made with a very light touch indeed, and juicy apples spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. Whoever had made it could certainly cook.
Had the graceless Ellen made it? If so, then whatever her lack of beauty she could certainly boast of one key asset to draw a man to her side. His thoughts ran on. But perhaps being a good cook was not to her personal advantage—not if she overindulged in her own creations.
He gave a little shake of his head. There he was, thinking about that woman again. Why? She was nothing to him, and would remain so. He relaxed back a fraction in his seat. His hostess was clearly fishing for whether he wanted to buy this place or not. Well, why not give her his good news right now? He’d made his decision—and every passing moment only confirmed it. It might have been a decision made on impulse, but it was a strong impulse—the strongest he’d ever had—and he was used to making decisions on the spot. His instinct had never failed him yet—and it would not fail him now.
‘Charming,’ he said decisively, stretching out his legs towards the fire in a fashion that was already proprietorial. ‘I believe...’ he bestowed a smile on her ‘...that we will be able to reach an agreement in the region of your asking price—which is a realistic one—subject, of course, to the usual considerations of purchase: a full structural survey and so forth.’
He saw her eyes light up, and from the corner of his eye he was sure that her daughter’s had done the same.
‘Oh, that is excellent!’ came Pauline’s gracious response.
‘Marvellous!’ echoed her daughter.
Enthusiasm was in her voice. And relief too—Max could detect that.
It did not surprise him. Being forced to live here with the perpetually prickly Ellen could hardly be comfortable. He did not blame either mother or daughter for being eager to make new lives for themselves. Or even, he allowed, for having preferred to be abroad this last year. Hadn’t he himself hightailed it from his stepfather’s taverna the moment his poor mother had been finally laid to rest?
He pulled his mind away again. He did not want to remember his miserable childhood and downtrodden mother. Nor was he interested in the tense convolutions of the Mountford family either.
He set down his empty cup. ‘Before I leave,’ he said, ‘I’ll take a look around the gardens and the outbuildings to the rear. No, don’t get up—’ This to Chloe, who had started to stand. He smiled. ‘My footwear is more suitable for the outdoors than yours,’ he explained, glancing at her stylish high heels and not adding that he preferred to keep his own pace, and would rather not have her endless panegyrics about the charms of a property he had already decided would be his.
Though it was only prudent to check out the areas he had not yet seen, he did not envisage there being anything so dreadful as to make him change his mind.
He strode from the room, and as he shut the door behind him he heard animated conversation break out behind him. To his ears it sounded...jubilant. Well, his own mood was just as buoyant. Satisfaction filled him, and a warm, proprietorial sense of well-being. He glanced around the hallway—soon to be his hallway.
He paused in his stride. A family had lived here for generations. Emotion kicked in him. It was an emotion he had never felt before, and one that startled him with its presence—shocked him even more with his certainty about it. The words were in his head, shaping themselves, taking hold. Taking root.
And now it will be my home—for my family.
The family of his own that he’d never had...the family he would have.
A pang stabbed at him. If his poor mother had survived longer how he would have loved to bring her here—make a home for her here, safe from the harshness of her life, cosseting her in the luxury he could now afford to bestow upon her.
But I’ll do that for your grandchildren—give them the happy upbringing you could not give me—and I’ll feel you smile and be glad! I’ve come a long way—a long, long way—and now I’ve found the place I want to call my home. I’ll find the right woman for me and bring her here.
Who that woman would be he didn’t know, but she was out there somewhere. He just had to find her. Find her and bring her here.
Home.
He started to walk forward again, heading for the baize door that led through to the back section of the house. He would check it out, then go out into the courtyard area, take a look at the outbuildings before making his way around to the gardens and exploring them.
He was just walking down the passageway towards the back door when a voice from the open doorway to what he could see was a large stone-flagged kitchen stopped him.
‘Mr Vasilikos! I need to speak to you!’
He halted, turning his head. Ellen Mountford was standing there and her face was stony. Very stony indeed. Annoyance tensed him. He did not want this. He wanted to get outside and complete his inspection of the place.
‘What about?’ he replied with steely politeness.
‘It’s very important.’
She backed away, indicating that he should step into the kitchen.
Impatiently Max strode in, taking in an impression of a large room with old-fashioned wooden cupboards, a long scrubbed wooden table, a flagstone floor and a vast old-fashioned range cooker along one wall. The warmth from the oven enveloped him, and there was, he realised, a cosy, comfortable, lived-in feel to the space. No top interior designer had been let loose in here, that was for sure—and he was glad of it.
He turned his attention to Ellen Mountford. She’d taken up a position on the far side of the kitchen table and her hands were pressed down over the back of a chair. Tension was in every line of her body, and her expression was both stony and determined.
He frowned. Now what?
‘There’s something you have to know!’
The words burst from her, and he realised with a deepening of his frown that she was in a state of extreme agitation and nervousness.
He levelled his gaze at her. She seemed to be steeling herself after her dramatic outburst. ‘And that is...?’ he prompted.
He watched her take a gulping breath. Her cheeks seemed pale now—as pale as chalk. Not a trace of the colour that had so unflatteringly rushed there whenever he’d looked at her before.
‘Mr Vasilikos, there’s no easy way to tell you this, and for that I’m sorry, but you’ve had a completely wasted journey. Whatever my stepmother has led you to believe, Haughton is not for sale. And it never will be!’
CHAPTER THREE
MAX STILLED. THEN deliberately he let his gaze rest on her. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, and he made no effort to make his voice sound anything less than the way he intended it to sound—quelling—‘you might like to explain what you mean by that.’
Ellen swallowed, had to force herself to speak. To say what she had to say. ‘I own a third of Haughton and I have no wish to sell.’
Somehow she’d got the words out—but her heart was thumping like a hammer inside her. Ever since she’d rushed from the dining room, emotions storming, she’d been trying to nerve herself to find Max Vasilikos, get him away from Pauline and Chloe and tell him what she had to tell him. And now she’d done it—and he was not, it was obvious, taking it kindly.
His expression had steeled, and the dark brows were snapping together now. For a moment Ellen quailed. Up till now Max Vasilikos had, she realised belatedly, been playing the role of courteous, amenable guest. Now he was very different. A tough, powerful businessman who was hearing something he did not want to hear.
As she’d delivered her bombshell something had flickered in Max’s mind at what she’d said, but it wasn’t relevant for the moment.
His gaze rested on her. ‘Why not?’
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.
Something that was partly a shriek of shock, partly a gasp of air escaped from Ellen. She stared, aghast—Max Vasilikos was the last person she wanted to see!
The emotional stress of the day, the agitation from having had to commandeer him and tell him she would never agree to sell her share of Haughton, had overset her so much that the moment he’d closed the back door behind him she’d headed upstairs to change into her running gear. She’d had to get out of the house. Had to work off the stress and tension and the biting anxiety. A long, hard run would help.
She’d set off on the long route, down the drive and looping back through the woods, then into a field and back into the grounds, taking a breather by the folly before setting off around the lake, hoping against hope that by the time she got back to the house he and his flash car would have gone.
Instead here he was, appearing in front of her out of nowhere like the demon king in a pantomime!
A demon king in whose eyes was an expression that sent a wave of excruciating colour flooding through her.
She was agonisingly aware of her skimpy, revealing attire. Mercilessly revealing her muscular body. She lifted her chin, desperately fighting back her reaction. She would not be put out of countenance by him seeing her like this any more than she had been when he’d seen her plonked beside Chloe, and the dreadful contrast she’d made to her stepsister. It was a comparison that was hitting him again—she could see it as his eyes swept over her appraisingly.
‘I could see you were totally different from Chloe—but not like this!’ he exclaimed. ‘You couldn’t be more unalike—even sharing a surname, you’d never be taken for sisters in a thousand years.’
He shook his head in disbelief. Missing completely the sudden look of pain at his words in her eyes. Then he was speaking again.
‘I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be delaying you. Your muscles will seize up.’ He started to walk forward in the direction of the house, his pace rapid, with long strides. ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘keep going—but slow down to a jog so we can talk.’
He moved to one side of the path. She started up again, conscious that her heart was pounding far more quickly than the exertion of her run required. She found herself blinking. The casual cruelty of what he’d just said reverberated in her, but she must not let it show. With an effort, and still burningly conscious of her skimpy attire and perspiring body, of her hair held back only by a wide sweatband, of being bereft of the glasses she’d been wearing over lunch, she loped beside him.
‘What about?’ she returned. The thought came to her that maybe she could use this wretched encounter to convince him that there really was no point in his staying any longer—that buying Haughton was off the menu for him.
‘I’m making an offer for this place,’ he said, glancing at her. ‘It will be near the asking price...’ He trailed off.
Dismay lanced through her. ‘I still don’t want to sell my share,’ she replied grittily.
‘Your third...’ Max didn’t take his eyes from her ‘...will be well over a million pounds...’
‘I don’t care what it is. Mr Vasilikos—please understand—my share is not for sale at any price. I don’t want to sell.’
‘Why not?’ His brows snapped together.
‘What do you mean, why not?’ she riposted. ‘My reasons are my own—I don’t want to sell.’ She turned her face, making herself look at him. ‘That’s all there is to it. And I’ll make it as hard as I possibly can for you to complete a sale. I’ll fight it to the bitter end!’
Vehemence broke through in her voice and she could see it register with him. His eyebrows rose, and she knew he was about to say something—but she didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to do anything but get away from him. Get back to the house, the sanctuary of her bedroom. Throw herself down on the bed and weep and weep. For what she feared most in the world would come true if this man went through with his threat!
She couldn’t bear it—she just couldn’t. She couldn’t bear to lose her home. The place she loved most in all the world. She couldn’t bear it.
With a burst of speed she shot forward, leaving him behind. Leaving behind Max Vasilikos, the man who wanted to wrench her home from her.
As he watched her power forward, accelerating away, Max let her go. But when she disappeared from sight across the lawns that crossed the front of the house his thoughts were full.